Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

LEXI

Riley

Hey. Coach canceled practice. I guess half the team has norovirus after our away game last weekend.

Ethan is convinced someone from the hotel staff purposely served us contaminated food because the guys are finally racking up some wins.

The photo he sent of himself puking has made me afraid to ever open a text message again.

I feel fine. It’s probably the universe giving me a karmic break after losing my leg, you know? Why make me barf for hours on end when it already took my limb?

Do you still want to meet for our session?

Lex?

* * *

Riley

Haven’t heard from you in a day, which isn’t like you.

If you need anything, I’m free.

* * *

Riley

Okay. Two days. I’m officially worried.

If I don’t hear from you by this afternoon, I’m taking a page out of Maverick’s playbook and breaking down your apartment door.

C’mon, Lexi baby. Let me know you’re okay.

* * *

It hurts to open my eyes.

I groan and try to sit up in bed, but my head is pounding. My entire body aches, and it feels like the contents of my stomach are sitting somewhere in my throat.

“Fuck.” I fumble for my phone and check the time. It’s past nine, and if I want to make it to Riley’s session and avoid heavy traffic, I need to get my ass out of my apartment right now.

Except… the thought of moving farther than the confines of my bed makes me want to cry.

I cover my mouth and swallow down the taste of vomit. There’s no way I can drag myself to the arena, and whatever I’m battling might be contagious. Squinting at my bright phone screen, I wince as I open my text thread with Riley. There are half a dozen blue boxes that make it seem like he’s having a conversation with himself, and I type out a shaky message to him.

Me

Hey. Going to have to reschedule. Sick. Dying. Cannot function.

I don’t bother to wait for a response. I click off my phone and toss it somewhere on the mattress, groaning when I pull the covers over my head. My eyes are heavy, and I try to will myself to go back to sleep.

I doze in increments, but it’s fitful. One minute, I’m burning up from the inside out. The next, I’m freezing cold. I’m shivering and reaching over the edge of the bed to grab the sweatshirt that’s in a ball on the floor, desperate for another layer to burrow into. I exhale when I pull it over my head, the relief instantaneous. The warmth moves from my shoulders down to my toes, and for the first time in hours, my body starts to relax.

Until the remnants of what I last ate rumble in my stomach and end up all over my sheets.

“Shit,” I whisper.

My eyes prick with tears. The smell is revolting, the sight of it even worse, and I throw up a second time.

This is a new low in my life. It’s worse than all the times I’ve been hungover from drinking or done the walk of shame after a mediocre night at someone’s house, because I’m all alone. There’s no one around to help me clean up the mess I’ve made, and I feel so fucking pathetic.

Mustering all the strength I have—which is teetering toward nonexistent peppered with the delirious sense of exhaustion—I climb out of my bed and look at my mattress. Taking a breath that feels like I’m at mile twenty-two of a marathon, I pull off the sheets. I throw them in a pile in the corner, utterly ashamed.

I’ll sleep on the mattress. Or against the wall. I don’t care. I’m so tired, so fucking worn out that the knock on my apartment door makes me burst into tears.

It’s too far away, and I don’t know who could be here. The girls wouldn’t stop by without calling, and when a second knock comes, I drag myself through my bedroom and down the hall, ready to scream at the person on the other side.

“I’m not interested,” I manage to get out. “Please go away.”

“It’s me, Lex,” a muffled voice responds. “Can you please open the door?”

I stand on my toes and peer through the peephole, confused when I see Riley on the other side. I fumble with the lock and turn the knob, having to lean against the doorframe so I don’t topple over.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“I’ve been texting you for two days.”

“Two days? What are you talking about?”

His eyes roam over my sweatshirt and I glance down, blushing when I realize I’m wearing the hoodie he gave me that night on Maverick and Emmy’s terrace at team dinner. His gaze tracks downward to my bare legs and the one sock I have on my left foot, the matching one somewhere else in my apartment.

“It’s Friday,” he says gently, and I shake my head.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“No, sweetheart.” He steps into the foyer and I shuffle back, the term of endearment sparking a swarm of butterflies low in my stomach. “It’s Friday.”

“But I…” I turn and look out the living room window. Sunlight floods across the hardwood floor, and I frown. “I’ve been asleep for two days?”

“Apparently. What’s going on?”

“I feel like I’ve been put through a blender.” I motion for him to come all the way inside then shut the door, locking it behind him. I’m lightheaded all of a sudden. Weak on my feet, and I’m afraid I’m going to collapse. “I might be contagious. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m here now. And I’m staying.” He puts a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I puked all over my bed.” I try to reach for the wall, but Riley is there. Putting my hands on his shoulders and wrapping his arm around my waist. “It might be in my hair. I need to pee. I slept for two days?”

“Norovirus is going around the team, and it sounds like you have the same symptoms. Coach canceled practice, and half the guys have been puking their brains out for days.”

“They can join the club. It’s horrific. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” I pause and swallow down another taste of vomit. “Except the person who started this outbreak.”

“Let’s get you feeling better, and that starts with peeing. I’ll help you to the bathroom.”

“That goes wildly out of the scope of things you need to do for me. In fact, watching me pee will for sure make me unattractive to you, so maybe you should leave. I like your dick.”

“I didn’t say I was going to let you use my hands to pee in.” He laughs. “I’m just helping you get from point A to point B.”

“Riley. I’m?—”

“Fully capable of handling things by yourself. I know that. But guess what? Accepting help doesn’t make you weak, okay? It just means for a few minutes, someone else can help carry the load. And you’ve been carrying the load for me for months. Share the burden with me just this once.”

“Okay,” I whisper, because he’s right. I’m so tired from doing everything on my own, and a helping hand sounds nice for once. “But only if you don’t judge me.”

“I’ve been in locker rooms with disgusting men for years. I can guarantee I’ve seen and heard a lot worse than you engaging in normal bodily functions.”

He doesn’t give me another chance to argue, instead leading me to the bathroom, helping me sit on the toilet, then waiting outside the door. I finish and shuffle over to the sink to wash my hands, blinking at my reflection in the mirror and hardly recognizing myself.

I look like I belong in a horror movie. My skin is pale. My hair is a knotted mess and there’s dried vomit in the corner of my mouth. I sniff, utterly disgusted.

“How are we doing?” Riley asks through the cracked door.

“Better,” I rasp out.

“Good.” He nudges his way back inside and glances at me. “What’s wrong?”

“I look like a troll who lives under a bridge.”

“Have you seen a lot of trolls?”

“No.” I sniff again, but I also want to laugh. “Never.”

“I have, and you’re way cuter.”

“You think so?”

“Ah, Lexi baby. I know so.” Riley points at the vanity to my left. “Where do you keep your hairbrushes? A secret closet with all your other womanly products?”

“I don’t have that many products.” My hand shakes as I pull open a drawer and grab a brush. “Here.”

“Close the lid and sit on the toilet for me. I’m going to brush your hair, get you cleaned up in the shower, switch your sheets, then make you some soup. You’re dehydrated, and you need to get some nutrients in your body.”

“I can?—”

“Do it yourself? I know you can. But here’s the thing, Lexi. I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m not going to be able to eat. I’m not going to be able to do anything except wonder if you’re okay and taken care of. Put me out of my misery and let me do it for you .”

His words are sharp, punctuated. I sit on the toilet, my back to him. It’s my acceptance of his offer, a hesitant transfer of power I so rarely relinquish. I can feel his relief through his exhale, and the second the bristles of the brush run through my hair, the tears fall again.

“Do you have a lot of experience brushing a woman’s hair?” I ask.

“You’re the first. How am I doing?”

“Really well. You’re a natural.”

Riley is gentle. He doesn’t yank on the knots but takes his time, working in sections until he can run his fingers through the dirty strands without causing me any pain. When he finishes, he turns on the shower, his hand under the water until he’s satisfied with the temperature.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, and I scramble to reach for him. Now that he’s here, I don’t want him out of my sight. “You okay?”

“Can you stay?” I croak. “Please?”

I’ve never relied on a man before for anything. Every part of me wants to scream at him to leave. The push for separation and creating emotional distance is embedded in my DNA, so why am I so determined to keep him around?

“Of course. I can’t get in there with you. My prosthetic isn’t waterproof, but I’ll be right here, okay?”

“It’s not?” I frown, never considering the logistics. “How do you shower?”

“I take baths. I have a shower stool. They make other prosthetics that can get wet, but mine’s too high-tech to submerge,” Riley explains.

“Ah. That makes sense.” I take off the sweatshirt and the T-shirt underneath it. I shimmy out of my underwear and get rid of the single sock. When I’m naked, I look up at him and find him watching me. “What’s wrong?”

“You wear my sweatshirt around the house.”

“Oh.” My toes nudge the discarded hoodie. It still smells like him, the trace of his soap and cologne clinging to the cotton like it doesn’t want to leave. “It’s comfortable. And it was the first thing I could find to put on so I could warm up.”

“Have you worn it before today?”

Almost every night, because the fabric is soft and well-loved through years of wear, and it always feels like he’s hugging me when I put it on. But I shrug at his question, too embarrassed to tell the truth.

Here’s Lexi Armstrong, the former queen of independence who is turning into a damn sap.

How the hell do I make it stop?

“Once or twice,” I say, and I’m certain he can see right through me.

Riley hums but doesn’t say anything else. He holds my hand while he helps me into the shower and stays close like he promised. After I’m clean and my skin is almost raw from the hot water, he wraps me in a fluffy towel and deposits me on the living room sofa. He adds a blanket around my shoulders and another over my legs, and the last thing I remember before I fall asleep is his lips pressing a kiss to my forehead and feeling so unbelievably content.