Page 43 of Offside

He came against my tongue, his hand tightening in my hair. I swallowed what I could, my hand bringing him the rest of the way. I watched the tension leave his body one hard breath at a time. When I moved back up the bed, Declan pulled me into another kiss.

My right shoulder ached. It still stopped where it had before the game. The brace pressed across my chest. None of that had been repaired by this.

But I was more comfortable in my body than I had been in months. Declan lay on his back beside me, and I rested my left forearm across his stomach.

"Stay," I said again.

16

Declan

I woke up because Bishop was no longer in bed. For one disorienting second, the empty space beside me felt familiar; a room I had chosen. But he was gone before we could decide what this meant.

Then a cabinet closed in the kitchen. I lay still and listened while the water ran, the coffee maker clicked, and a spoon struck ceramic.

My clothes were folded over the chair instead of scattered across the floor. Bishop had put his own jeans on, but his shirt remained at the foot of the bed. The elastic support still crossed his chest. He'd slept with his right arm arranged against a pillow, and sometime during the night he'd turned close enough that his left knee rested behind mine. I'd woken twice and felt him there. The third time I woke, he'd gotten up first and made coffee.

I dressed and followed the sound.

Bishop stood at the kitchen counter in jeans and bare feet. Morning light reached across the floor. He'd cleared the cold sleeve, support packaging, and last night's unopened mail from one side of the counter. In the space where they'd been, he'd put out two mugs. One was black and large enough to serve soup in. The other was dark green and smaller. It looked new.

He turned when I entered. "Morning."

"You made coffee before I found all my clothes."

Neither of us moved for a moment. I'd slept with him. I'd put my mouth on him and let him put his on me. The fact had occupied my body all night. In daylight, what I noticed first was the empty section of counter he'd made for me.

"Coffee?" he asked, lifting the pot in his left hand.

"Sure. Please."

"How do you take it?" Bishop kept the pot raised.

"You don't already know how I take my coffee?" I teased.

"Seen your travel mug. Never seen you fill it," Bishop said.

"A little milk, no sugar—and no commentary about either."

He poured coffee into the green mug, opened the refrigerator, and added milk without guessing at the amount. He held it out to me.

"That mug looks new," I said.

"I've had it for two years. It came with the black one."

"It looks like you kept the unused half of the set for two years," I said, taking the warm mug in both hands.

"It's a mug, Pryce. Mugs don't expire if you ignore them."

The use of my last name in his kitchen felt so familiar it made me smile into my coffee. Bishop poured his own and leaned one hip against the counter. The right arm stayed supported and low. He didn't ask me whether it looked worse this morning.

"Your appointment with Zoe is still at ten this morning?" I asked.

"Yeah. Reyes sees me afterward if anything's changed."

"Good."

"One question." He drank from the black mug.