Page 67 of The Goalie in Room 1

Half a beat I waited, then lowered the…my leg—I corrected, trying to retrain my brain to include it as part of who Cash Benjamin was—without letting it fall.

“Perfect,” he said, with that big-ass toothpaste-commercial smile making the word hit somewhere deeper than it should have.

Perfect.

My surgery had been perfect. Thad said the same while I was too drugged and sick to understand what it might mean. In the weeks since, I’d strived to drag the word out of him again and again. He’d apparently removed it from his vocabulary, and that made me want to do something impressive to please him. Or drop to my knees and suck his dick.

“That’s two.”

“Yes, three complete, perfect sets.”

I smiled, rolled up, looping my arms around my bent left leg. “And that’s three.”

“What are you going on about?” he asked, holding out my water bottle while gulping from his own.

“Blowjobs,” I said when he lowered the bottle.

His face turned red as he coughed and sputtered and called me a menace and a troublemaker. I smirked, rolled onto my back, lifted my braced leg from the floor, rolled onto my left foot, and stood.

“What the flying fuck was that? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Thad asked, grabbing hold of me.

My hands found his shoulders, while mine shrugged. “A pistol squat,” I said, leaning over to grab my crutches. “No, definitely not. I plan to deliver on the blow jobs. And get a few of my own in return.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that anymore, okay?”

I sighed and nodded. “Yes, Doc.” His eyes bugged, and I giggled at how comical he looked. “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“So…the sets, the progression…are you happy?” I asked, moving to the couch to stretch out, knowing he’d want to check my leg.

Something flickered across Thad’s face before Dr. Vale buried it. “Cautiously encouraged.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughed and sat beside me on the couch. “How does it feel?” he asked.

I smirked. “Like I just did thirty-one straight-leg raises.”

“Thirty.” He reached for the straps of my brace. “Pain?”

“Two,” I replied. The knee hurt. It always fucking hurt, but I played elite-level hockey for well over a decade. I knew pain. Sometimes I welcomed it because it made me feel alive.

“Cash.”

I rolled my eyes. “Two and a half.”

His fingers stopped against the first strap.

I let him wait a second. “Three. Maybe.”

“Sharp, aching, or burning?”

“Mostly tight. A little achy around the front. Nothing inside the joint.”

“And before you started?”

“A one.”