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When Stef comes back in with the ice pack, he doesn’t even blink an eye at me face-planting the couch.
I don’t move. I can’t. Not now I’ve found a position that is a step down from searing agony.
I can feel him hovering over me. “Where does it hurt?” He asks.
“Shoulder, right one.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates before applying the pack and as soon as he does, I wince so sharply I nearly come off the couch.
“Sorry! I’m sorry.”
“No, do it!”
I’m shouting single syllables at him like a caveman. But he listens and presses the pack to my shoulder again. This time I just about manage to stop myself from flopping around like a fish and he holds it there while wave after wave of nausea hits me before passing.
The ice and the pain killers I took after the game start to do their magic and I’m overcome with relief as the pain starts to subside.
“Better?”
It’s only now I’m not in agony that I notice how close he is. I’m lying with my right shoulder closest to the cushions, so Stef has to spread his arm all the way across my back to reach it. It means the warmth of his body is hovering over me. The smell of his aftershave and shampoo. He wears a kinda spicy aftershave, and his shampoo has strong hints of coconut that follow him everywhere he goes.
When I open my eyes, he’s right there. The light from the overhead bulb shining through the fair strands of hair around his face. The soft brown hairs growing above his top lip. The beginning of rougher hairs on his chin.
“Thank you.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “What happened?”
“It was a shut-out.”
I can tell by his expression he doesn’t know what that means.
“We lost four goals to nothing.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
I wanna tell him it’s alright. It happens. But it’s not alright. And I don’t care that it happens. It shouldn’t happen to me. I shouldn’t have let it happen.
A ball of frustration hits me right in the gut and the back of my eyes sting with the threat of tears.Fuck, you’re gonna cry in front of him, really?
I grit my teeth and hold it in. But then he strokes my hair. He fuckingstrokes my hair!
My eyes fly open and I glare at him. Or at least, I mean to glare at him.
“Sorry.” He says, pulling his hand away. “I was just trying to…” he trails off. Maybe he doesn’t know what he was trying to do?
“You were trying to comfort me.”
He blinks. Long lashes batting over big brown eyes. “Yeah.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I clear my throat and shuffle, dislodging his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m good now, thanks.”