Page 18

"Okay, the eight pack is totally real."

James Adler

The next morning, I feel like a man who just slammed his head at full speed against the boards. Fitting.

I shift in my bed and grab the bottle of painkillers, washing them down with water.

Even if they’ll take a while to kick in, I already feel a bit better as Elizabeth’s glittering smile flashes through my mind.

She volunteered to take care of me, made sure I had everything I needed.

I even heard her coming in to check on me during the night.

It was hard not to when she knocked ove r the vase I have in the corridor.

Movement by the door catches my eye, and I put my glasses on. She’s wearing a beige satin pajama set, leaning against the doorframe.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of waking up and seeing you here,” I say, feeling a smile stretching across my face.

She rolls her eyes. “I guess now we can definitely rule out brain damage.”

I chuckle, which only increases the sharp pain in my nose. “Thanks for last night. For being here.”

She shrugs, trying to appear casual. “You needed someone to look after you, and my living situation is up in the air. It made sense, that’s all.”

“So, this nurse fantasy is really not going to happen, huh?”

She bellows out a laugh. “I’m afraid not. Thank you for defending my honor, though. It wasn’t necessary, but—”

“It was absolutely necessary. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.” I bolt upright, then clutch my forehead, the throbbing pain making me wince.

“Are you all right?”

I nod, adjusting my glasses painfully. “What’s the damage? Is my moneymaker ruined?”

She crosses her arms, then grimac es. “You might want to count on something else to pay those bills. This face is—”

Panic rushes through me as my eyes fly wide. I hop out of bed, rushing toward the mirror at the other end of my room, Elizabeth giggling in the doorway.

When I catch a glimpse of my face, I sigh. I don’t look great, but it’s not that bad, either. Beneath the dressing over my nose, I can see a bruise that will probably change colors ten times before going back to normal.

“You’re mean,” I scold, turning to her. “I’m already a wounded man.”

She muffles her laughter, the sound making everything better. “Come on, wounded man. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I also get a side of ice pack for my nose?” I say with a grin. “It hurts like the dickens.”

“That can be arranged.”

I follow her through the hallway, and this whole thing feels surreal. Elizabeth is here, in my apartment, and we’re joking around naturally. In a way, I always knew it was possible, that she just needed to get to know me, but it still seems out of this world.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks. “I didn’t hear you scream, but . . .”

“Are you serious?” I stop, a hand on my hip. “I yelled and yelled for you. No one heard me. I think you need to retake that nursing test.”

Her eyes widen in horror. “What? No. I barely even slept. I came to check on you every two hours. I—you’re messing with me!

” she says, giving me a pointed look. “You’re unbelievable.

” She playfully pushes me, and I laugh, catching her hand.

It’s soft, and it feels so right to have it back in mine.

We held hands a few times yesterday, the memory still vivid, but somehow, it still feels like the first time.

“Seriously, though. Thanks for checking on me.”

She swallows hard, glancing at our joined hands. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”

She doesn’t know it, but no one has ever really taken care of me other than my grandma, and having Elizabeth here means the world to me.

Beth Bowen

Okay, the eight pack is totally real. How is that even possible?

I avert my gaze, not wanting to stare, but I suddenly wish he played field hockey or any other field sport so I could watch his firm chest and rock-hard abs for extended periods.

I knew hockey players were fit—I’ve lived with one, after all—but James’ body is a work of art. Every muscle is sculpted to perfection.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and I shake myself back into focus.

“Absolutely. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Um. I don’t know, but I’m starving. I don’t suppose you can whip us up some of your to-die-for muffins right now?” he asks, shooting me a goofy smile.

I chuckle. “Depending on what ingredients you have, I could make something, but it’s going to take a while.”

“I’ve got all day. Actually, I have several of them.” A shadow falls over his face before he smiles back at me.

“I’m sorry you can’t play,” I say, opening the fridge.

“It’s all right.” He adjusts his glasses on his nose as best as he can over the bandage. “With a nurse like you, I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

I turn around, shaking my head. “Where do you keep your dry ingredients? Flour, sugar, et cetera. Do you have a pantry?”

He gestures behind me with his chin. “The door right there.”

I open it, and holy moly, this thing is huge. The room probably runs the entire length of the kitchen, lined with fully-stocked floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“By the way,” he calls out fr om the kitchen, “I was thinking maybe you could stay for a while.”

I drop the pack of flour I was holding, and the powder goes flying everywhere, blinding me. I cough, trying to wet my dusted throat.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sounding closer. I spin around to see him standing in the doorway.

“It just fell out of my hands. But I’ll clean it up. Do you have a Handvac?”

“Don’t move. I’ll go get it.”

Thank goodness for the flour whitening my whole face, because I’m probably as red as a red velvet cupcake.

He comes back with the handheld vacuum and kneels down, but I hold my hand up.

“No way. It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

He cocks his head to the side. His mouth opens to protest, but I grab the Handvac.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re a wounded man, remember?”

Chuckling, he stands up and leans against the shelf while I vacuum the floor.

“So, I don’t know if you heard what I said before you floured my pantry,” he begins when I turn off the vacuum. And even through the flour dust lingering in the air, his piercing blue eyes still have the same effect on me.

“Um, no?” I peep out, regrett ing it instantly.

He grins, seeing right through my lie.

“Well, I was thinking you could stay for a while,” he repeats. “You know, since you don’t have a place to stay, and I have this big kitchen that would be so happy to welcome you.”

I chuckle, feeling a blush coating my cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Aw, come on. I’m not that bad. Plus, without hockey in my life, I could use the company.”

I bite my lip, sweeping the last specks of flour off the floor. I felt like an intruder while staying with Marissa and Aaron, and this place is really nice—not to mention bigger. And anyway, I should find a place of my own soon enough. “Okay, thanks for offering. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“No need,” he says, flashing his devastating smile. “I like having you here.”

I bring my eyes back to my task, trying to cool myself down, but being next to shirtless James, and with him acting so thoughtful and sexy, I doubt this furnace will be cooling anytime soon.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asks.

I frown in confusion.

“For the muffins, I mean.”

A smile breaks onto my face. “M en. Always thinking with their stomachs.”

He chuckles, and we both return to the kitchen.

“Actually, I can make some chocolate chip brownies, if that works? Not exactly a healthy breakfast, but I think you deserve it after yesterday.”

“Yes, please. I’ll go put on a shirt.”

Part of me is disappointed, but it’s probably for the best if we don’t want to set this gorgeous kitchen on fire. I grab a bowl and prep all the ingredients as sunlight filters through the window, hitting his collection of trophies on the shelves and making them shimmer.

“That’s a lot of trophies,” I say when he comes back. “I’ll have to take a closer look later.”

“Yeah,” he says, drumming his fingers on the marble counter. “Well, those aren’t the actual trophies. They’re replicas they get us.”

“You won two last June, right? Apparently, you put on quite a performance.”

He smiles. “I did. The Maurice Richard and the Hart Memorial trophy.”

“Let me guess,” I tease, pouring my wet ingredients into the bowl. “Goofiest and cockiest player.”

He flashes a big grin. “Nailed it. Can I help you?” he asks, watching as I stir.

“You’re not supposed to do an ything.”

“Please.” He gives me a pleading look I’d dare anyone to resist. “I need to do something .”

“Fine.” I cave. “Can you mix the dry ingredients? The sugar, cocoa powder, flour, and chocolate chips.”

“Sure thing.” He bends down, grabbing another bowl from the cupboard.

“Oh, and salt. Just a pinch.”

He nods, adding the ingredients and stirring them carefully.

“By the way, I was kidding,” I say. “About the trophies. I know the dedication and sacrifice your sport demands. You deserve them.”

The corner of his lips pulls up. “Thanks.”

“So, what were they for, anyway?”

He grins. “Curious, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.” I shrug. “I only know about the Stanley Cup—having sipped champagne from it in June helped—oh, and the Prince of Wales one.”

“That’s a start,” he says with a smirk. “Well, the others are awarded to players for recognition in specific areas of the game. Like sportsmanship, best defenseman, best goalie, that kind of thing.”

“So, you got Best Winger?”

He bursts out a laugh. “Gosh. T hat just made me even more hungry. No, we don’t have any winger-specific trophies. The Maurice Richard is for Top Scorer, and the Hart Memorial for Most Valuable to the Team.”

I glance at him over the mixing bowl. “Wow. That’s pretty impressive. You must be proud.”

“Thanks. I never thought I’d catch your attention by displaying my stats and trophies.”

I chuckle. “Frankly, neither did I, but I’m glad you’re getting recognition for your efforts. I see how hard you work.”

He arches his eyebrows. “Same goes for you and the Best Coffee in Brooklyn award.”

“I guess, yeah,” I say with a smile, adding the contents of my bowl into his. “That was a nice surprise. We take extra care selecting our beans, and the place we found in Venezuela to buy direct from is amazing.”

“What time are you working today?” he asks, then looks at the bowl with a confused frown. “Wait, what am I supposed to do with this now?”

“Just keep mixing. I’ll find a baking pan and some parchment paper.”

“Top drawer on the left for the paper. Bottom drawer on the right for the baking pan.”

“Got it,” I say, cutting the paper and placing it on the pan. “Oh, and Marissa is opening, so I can go in later. After we eat, I’ll take a shower and head out. Unless you need me.”

“No, no. Please, go on with your day. I don’t want you to feel stuck here because of me.

But I’ll walk you to work, if that’s okay?

I could use some fresh air. After that, I have no idea,” he jokes.

“I haven’t had this much free time in a while, and Doc said no exercising for at least a week, so . . .”

“Might not be such a brilliant idea to eat brownies for breakfast, then,” I tease, and he belts out a laugh, tapping his chest.

“ Crab . I didn’t think of that.”

That makes me laugh. “Why do you always swear like that?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Well, most guys are so foul-mouthed, especially hockey players, and you’re all, ‘oh crab’ and ‘son of a biscuit.’”

He joins in my laughter. “I don’t know. It’s more fun, you know? Plus, I hang out at the nursing home way too much.”

“Makes sense,” I say with a nod. I kind of like it, actually.

It’s refreshing to see a guy mindful of his words, not to mention it fits his goofy personality.

“All right, let’s spread this batter on the paper,” I say, grabbing a spatula.

He pours the batter, and I spread it evenly.

The smell of chocolate and sugar fills my nostrils, promising a delicious breakfast.

“Dang, I think I gained ten pounds just by looking at it.”

I shake my head, then lick the spatula. I keep the thought to myself, but I think James could eat an entire pan of brownies every day for a week, and those abs would still be there. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.