Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
When I return, he's flipping through channels on the remote, but as soon as I hand him the water, he sets it down and smiles at me, like nothing makes him happier than a glass of tap water delivered by a woman in wrinkled orange scrubs.
"Thanks, Sunshine," he says. His voice is back to normal, and his lips are definitely no longer Muppet-shaped. If anything, he looks better than he did this morning.
I narrow my eyes. "You're not supposed to look this perky after a trip to the ER."
He tips his head back and laughs. "Would you be mad if I said I may have been exaggerating a little bit for the last hour or so?"
"Yes, actually. I've been texting fifteen people to update them on your condition all day. If you're not at death's door, I'm going to smother you with one of your fancy pillows."
His grin widens. "Who have you been texting?"
I instantly regret saying anything. "Liz, obviously. Coach, because if you croaked and I didn't inform him, I'd get blacklisted from every team in Illinois. Sandra, because she keeps a spreadsheet of every player injury, and I don't want to be the one to ruin her data. And half of your teammates, because I figured ignoring them would only result in them showing up in the ER."
He makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. "Good call. We definitely didn't need them around. And you're the only reason Sandra's head hasn't exploded. If she fires you, we're all fucked."
I try to hide the flush climbing up my cheeks by focusing on his face, looking for any sign that he's still at risk of keeling over. "How is the itching?" I ask, as clinically as possible.
He shrugs and lifts the hospital gown, exposing a strip of abs that I'd really like to lick. There are a few angry red marks on his ribs, but they're fading fast. I pretend I don't notice the abs, even though my brain immediately creates a familiar slideshow of what the rest of him probably looks like naked.
I've gotten myself off to that self-made slideshow a lot.
"They're fine," he says, pulling the gown down. "The drugs did their job. I just itch a little."
"Don't scratch," I say. "You'll make it worse."
He smirks. "You going to punish me if I do?"
I refuse to answer. Mostly because I might say something I live to regret. Instead, I dig through my bag for the travel-size lotion I always carry and lob it at his head. He catches it one-handed, smirking even harder.
"That's not the kind of punishment I had in mind, but I'll take it," he teases.
If I had the energy, I'd hurl something heavier at him, like a dumbbell, or perhaps the coffee table. He has no idea what his flirting is doing to me. And he's probably too high to even know he's doing it. It's cruel and unusual.
I move to tidy up the living room, because that's what I do when I'm frazzled. I clean. But, aside from the stuff on the coffee table, his apartment is already sparkling. I wonder if he actually lives here, or if he's just squatting. He spends so much time at the arena, he might as well live there.
When I finish refolding the throw blanket for the third time, I glance back at him. He's watching me with that lazy, satisfied-cat expression, one arm draped over the couch, the other hand twirling the lotion tube.
"Are you really okay?" I ask, my voice softer now. "Like, really, really okay?"
He shrugs. "Was never worried."
"You nearly stopped breathing, Trent!"
His smirk is wide and infuriating. "Would've been a pretty good way to go."
I glare at him. "You want your tombstone to read, 'Death by Fudge?'"
"That's a legacy. People would talk about it for years." He gives me a sidelong glance. "Plus, it would've been your fudge. Worth it, Dani."
He's flirting again. And I forget how to breathe for a second. Maybe it's because he's big, handsome, and so far out of my league that he orbits in a different solar system. Or maybe it's because, despite how infuriating he is, he's an incredible guy.
I am so screwed.
I barely manage to function like a human being around him in the safety of the training facility. How am I supposed to do it in the privacy of his luxury living room?
"I'd rather you live to regret eating it," I say.
He shifts, swinging his legs up so his feet land on the ottoman. "Not possible. It was the best fudge I've ever had."
I snort. "You've probably only had, like, three kinds of fudge in your life."
He grins. "And yours is the best. Case closed."
He's laying it on thick, and I'm too tired to tell if it's genuine or just the Benadryl talking. I decide to play it safe and stick to caretaker mode. I probably won't say anything that will make things awkward after the holidays that way. Probably.