Page 30

When Leah is at work, I practise going up and down the stairs. I can almost make it to our apartment. Her apartment. Secretly, I was happy she insisted I stay with her. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

It was an easy transition—she, Levi, and I all meshing together. If she’d let me help out more instead of treating me like I’m also a toddler, it would be a pretty perfect situation. Idyllic.

Almost daily, Leah pokes and prods me and the brace. Her brows furrow in concentration, and it takes everything in me to not brush away the loose strands of hair falling into her face.

It’s taken a lot of restraint not to kiss her again, not to insist she stop avoiding me. Avoiding someone you’re living in close quarters with is an impressive feat. She doesn’t avoid me in the literal sense—we talk and she takes care of Levi and, begrudgingly, I even let her take care of me.

But she’s distant, physically and emotionally. I know she’s been running with Paige three times a week, and I’m jealous, even though it was my idea. I miss our morning runs where the quiet between us was comfortable and not full of this tension .

Thanks to my hip, kissing her has been off the table anyway. There’s no way I’d be able to kiss her again without going further, and my current injury does not allow for that kind of ... activity. Doctor’s orders.

Not that I’d try anything now with the way she avoids eye contact, and when she touches me, it’s either notably scientific or because I need help. She removes herself almost immediately. I need to get out of her apartment, but the elevator in my building still hasn’t been fixed.

I’m going to lose my mind if I can’t get some space from the tension. I don’t even know how to bring it up. I tried once, but Leah insisted she heard Levi, and I didn’t believe it for one second.

Panting and out of breath on the last set of stairs for today, I pick up my buzzing phone.

I answer, seeing Mateo’s name on the screen. “Hey.”

He sighs in response.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

“Don’t push yourself too hard or I’ll tell Leah.”

“Bastard,” I grumble, sitting on the top step, catching my breath and stretching out my sore hip.

“I’m serious, Julien, we need you back in net,” he chides.

He ignores my scoff. The team has been doing relatively fine. McKay is a good goalie, and he subs for me even if I’m in tip-top shape. Of course, I’m better, but he’s holding his own.

I watch every single game with bated breath. It would be more stressful if it wasn’t for Leah. It’s the only time she sits with me on the couch, likely picking up on my need for her presence. She even holds my hand sometimes, especially when we’re losing. I feel like a dick when I hope my team loses just so I can be close to a woman.

But when the game ends, she removes herself. What’s going on? I should ask again. I need to for my own sanity.

I let Mateo prattle on about the protocol for my healing, something I’ve heard a thousand times. Passing physiotherapy school would be easy with the amount of knowledge I’ve absorbed over the past few months. Much like it always does, my mind drifts to Leah.

This morning she seemed extra anxious before she went into work.

It wasn’t a running morning, but I knew she planned to hit the weights since she had her gym bag with her when she left. Paige has been forcing her to do some strength training once a week. Leah glared at me when I accidentally agreed out loud with Paige’s orders.

Mateo finally finishes his lecture and hangs up. That had to be a record. When I check my watch, I panic. Shit, it’s almost five o’clock—she’ll be home any minute. I’m about to move to head back to the apartment when her voice carries up the stairwell.

“No, of course not,” she says. There’s a pause. She must be on the phone.

I know I should leave, I know it, but I can’t make myself move.

She sighs. “Yeah, Paige, I know. What am I supposed to do?”

Pause.

“It’s not like I can ask him,” she says, exhaustion coating her words.

Is she talking about me? There’s a deafening pause, and when Leah speaks again, she’s so much closer. Do I want her to be talking about me? The thought that she could be talking about another man makes me bristle.

“I’m not going to put myself in a position where I’m forcing someone to choose me.” There’s an edge to her voice I’ve rarely heard before.

“That’s up to Julien,” she says.

She is talking about me. Relief sweeps through me, followed swiftly by trepidation at potentially being caught eavesdropping. I can’t gather what the conversation is about at all, but she’s on the stairs underneath me now. There is no possible way I’ll be able to move fast enough to not get caught.

Sure enough, she rounds the corner and almost drops her phone, her eyes going wide. Hopefully it doesn’t look like I’m bracing myself for her wrath.

“I have to go,” she breathes.

Her eyes narrow, and I watch with trepidation the moment she recovers from the surprise and takes me in, noting my gym shorts, sweaty skin, and lack of brace. A frown mars her beautiful face.

“What are you doing?”

“S-Sitting on the stairs.”

She glares. “Why are you sweaty?”

I shrug. I’m not going to lie, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when I tell her I’ve been doing this every day.

Assessing the stairwell and then me, she asks carefully, “How many flights did you do?”

I swallow, not sure how to handle this. Apparently I don’t need to .

“You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. You should’ve asked me or had someone do the stairs with you if you’re too stubborn to stick to the protocol Mateo has laid out.”

I let it slide that she’s also terrible at asking for help. Or accepting it.

“Mateo knows.”

“Bastard,” she hisses. I have to hide my smile. I just called Mateo the same.

It’s then I notice she’s carrying a large bag.

“What’s that?”

“If you’d been waiting in the apartment, you would’ve found out, but now I’m not sure if you even need it.” She looks down at the stairs again. “How many did you do?” she asks again, more contemplative this time.

“All of them.”

She lets out a breath, nodding, calculating and recalculating in her head. It’s an expression I’ve seen many times before. She’s gone into Dr. Harrison mode as she assesses me.

“Stand up,” she orders.

Wincing, I bring myself to my feet, using the railing for support. There’s a flash of concern on her face before she’s back to being angry.

“And you call me stubborn,” she says under her breath. “Can you make it back to the apartment?”

When I move my legs, I can’t disguise my sharp inhale from the pain. I’m in so much shit. She surprises me, though, coming to help me move farther away from the stairs .

“Where does it hurt?” she asks. I gesture to the outside of my hip and around the front. She nods like that’s what she was expecting, putting her bag down.

Avoiding my eyes, she asks, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

My mind whirls. Yes. Please fucking touch me—touch me everywhere. Of course, I don’t say that out loud, opting to nod instead. I suck in a breath when she places her hand on the outside of my thigh and begins kneading the muscles. The pain is deep but holy shit that feels good.

She continues her massage, one hand on the front of my hip flexor and the other on my glutes. I have to close my eyes and breathe in and out through my nose. My body reacts to merely the sight of her, but her touch? Fuck. It’s becoming apparent how much this is affecting me, but if she notices (and how could she not) she doesn’t say anything.

“Better?” Her eyes are guarded, hands still in precarious places on my body.

I can only nod, which I regret immediately because she takes her hands away. I want to yank her back and drown in her.

She reaches to grab her bag, opening it and pulling out a brace.

“Is that—”

“Yes, it’s just the prototype though,” she answers before I can ask.

It resembles the awful brace I already have, but there’s a stabilizing bar on the front of the brace as well. She doesn’t ask before starting to attach it to me. When her arms come around me, I have to help her since she can’t quite reach .

She’s practically hugging me, my hands grazing hers when I take the straps from her and secure the belt myself. Is it just me or does she linger a little longer than necessary?

Probably just me.

Then she’s on her knees in front of me and holy fuck I might pass out. There’s no blood left in my brain. I attempt to angle myself away from her, but her hands stop me from moving. My loose gym shorts are no longer loose.

She helps guide the cuff up my leg and then hooks in the stabilizing bars, cinching and pulling until it’s where she wants it, still saying nothing about the raging erection I’m sporting.

There’s literally no possible way she’s not aware of me.