Page 35 of Saving The Shortstop

“I’m not a baby, you know,” she grumbles, her voice so raspy that I can almost feel the rawness in her throat.

“Then don’t act like one.”

She may be sick, but that doesn’t stop her from rolling her eyes like the brat she is. But finally, she opens her mouth, and I slide the spoon inside.

Once she swallows, I pull it back out, setting it on the tray.

“Was that so hard?” I say, lifting the tray up and setting it onto the nightstand. “Or do you just have to make it that way?”

I’m well aware that I was just hand-feeding a grown-ass woman. One who I’ve always spent more time ribbing than being nice to, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.

“I just don’t feel like eating much,” she says, her voice as nasally as it is raspy. Her nose is red, and under her eyes is puffy. Yet, she’s still prettier than any girl I know at NEU.

“I can’t have my tutor sick. I have an assignment coming up next week,” I toss out, knowing that has nothing to do with why I’m here right now. I’m here because I can’t help myself. But I also don’t want her to get used to this type of treatment. “So cut the shit and try to get better.”

“You know, I think I like you better when you’re a normal asshole,” she says. “Now, you’re still being an asshole but also a pain in the ass.”

I fight back a grin, hating how much I always love her sassy comebacks.

I don’t know what the fuck Noah would think about this either. His best friend, feeding his sister soup and sleeping in bed next to her. I have a feeling he wouldn’t be super pumped about it all …

I reach for the medicine on the tray and grab the Gatorade again before passing them both to her. She eyes them over before weakly taking the gel caps from my hands. She tosses the pills into her mouth before taking a big drink through the straw. Once she’s done, she hands the drink back to me and lifts a brow.

“So … now do I get a popsicle or what?”

Even though watching her lick a popsicle is going to be enough to make me to lose my fucking mind and give me enough spank-bank material to last a good while, I nod.

“I suppose so,” I utter, standing up and grabbing the tray. “I’ll be right back after I take care of my dishes downstairs.” I pause, standing in the doorway and glancing back at her. “Well, your dishes. But, since you helped me score that grade the other day, I guess I’ll wash them,” I add, just to drive home that I’m being nice for that reason only. Even if it’s a lie.

Unfazed and in true Haven form, she lifts her hand and sticks her middle finger up at me. Flashing her an unimpressed look, even though I want to grin, I walk downstairs. Continuing to pathetically care for her, even if it’s wrong.

I keep my eyes on the television for as long as I can. My body is so stiff and rigid that it actually hurts. But if I look over at Haven while she’s deepthroating that popsicle, other things will be stiff, and that’s going to make me look like a fucking weirdo.

Since she’s sick, I let her pick the movie, and of course, she chose the chick flick Sweet Home Alabama because it’s one of her favorites. It’s corny as fuck and dumb as hell, but I knew when I told her to pick one, I was going to get hit with either this or something with Kate Hudson in it. Because for as long as I’ve known her, that’s what she’d have on the television when I went to her house for family shit or to hang out with Noah.

“How many times have you seen this awful movie?” I ask, knowing it’s not that bad, I just like pissing her off.

“Enough for you to know that it’s my favorite and if you call it awful again, I’ll kick you directly in the balls.”

I dare to look her way, and finally, she’s done with her popsicle and tosses the stick across the room, landing it perfectly in the tiny trash bin. Before she gets a chance to relax back in the bed, she starts coughing again. If her stomach wasn’t already as flat and sculpted as they come, it would be after she was done with this sickness, that’s for fucking sure.

Instinctively, I sit up, rubbing my hand across her back gently. We may have known each other since I was eleven and she was twelve, but we’ve never been this type of close. Sure, we kissed once, and another time, she calmed me down when I was pissed, holding onto me tightly, but we’ve never had the type of friendship to lay in bed together or rub each other’s backs.

Until now.

“My God, I’m so fucking sick of coughing,” she says, half a whine, half a growl. “My abs hurt so bad.”

I don’t know what it is that makes me feel bad for her, but I do. I’ve lived through much worse than a damn cough and fever. And in those times, I didn’t have anyone to help me feel better either. Maybe that’s why I’m so fixated on helping her right now. Because up until I was adopted, I didn’t have anyone to rub my back or make me soup when I was sick. My adoptive parents have showed me what it’s like to care for someone because they cared for me. Now, here I am, passing those skills onto Haven—out of all people.

“Come here,” I murmur. Putting my arms around her, I gently pull her to my chest.

Her body tenses, but only for a split second before she’s practically melting into me. I sit up slightly, keeping myself at a bit of an angle and holding her back against me with her head resting just below my chin.

It’s too far. It’s too close and too intimate. Yet here I am, arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly as her body shakes each time she coughs.

The closer I get to her, the more I push the boundaries—confusing us both. But fuck, I can’t force myself to get out of this bed and walk out of this room like I know I should.

Instead, I just hold her. I hold her, and I hope that when tomorrow comes, she doesn’t hold any of this over my head.