Page 26 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Later that week, Rafe woke up with a horrible cold. He could hardly breathe out of his stuffy nose, it felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper, and he was so tired he wanted to roll over and pass out for a whole week. Or maybe a year.

Instead, he staggered out of bed and down the hall. He passed Mickey, who stood in the kitchen drinking coffee.

Mickey squinted at him. “Are you okay? You look …”

“I’m dying,” Rafe croaked and staggered the rest of the way down the hall to the bathroom he shared with Tanner.

A hot shower made him feel a little better, but it still took way too much energy to wrap a towel around his waist and wobble back to his bedroom.

For a while, he sat on the edge of the bed, head pounding, lightheaded as he tried to convince himself to move.

To do something to get ready for practice.

He finally dragged on sweats and toweled his hair dry again. When he left his bedroom again, he found Mickey, who had been busy. There were all kinds of supplies spread out on the counter like tissues and cold medicine.

“So,” Mickey said, crossing his arms. “You’re sick.”

“How’d you guess?” Rafe asked, then promptly sneezed into his hand.

Mickey pointed at a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Use this.”

Rafe did.

“You’re going to practice?” Mickey asked.

Rafe nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I feel like shit but I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold.” He’d certainly played with worse.

Mickey nodded. “You might have Doctor Pope take a look to be sure.”

“Okay.” He sneezed again, reaching for the sanitizer before Mickey could remind him. He helped himself to a tissue too.

“Instead of coffee, I made you tea with honey and ginger,” Mickey said, holding out a travel mug. “Is your throat sore?”

Rafe nodded and took the drink.

“That’ll help.”

Rafe let Mickey bundle him into a coat, put a hat on his head, and wrap a scarf around his throat. He leaned against the wall, the world swimming a little as Mickey helped him put on his shoes.

In the hallway, he stumbled getting into the elevator, and Mickey let out a huff and tucked an arm through his to steady him.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe croaked, blowing his nose again. He felt especially guilty about this after the conversation they’d had the other day. He didn’t want to hurt Mickey or lead him on or any of that.

He also felt the draw to be closer to him, to lean against him, to let Mickey take care of him.

But every time he thought about it, thought about what dating Mickey would be like, he froze, remembering the way it had felt when Logan’s door had swung open to reveal him in nothing but a pair of unbuttoned pants and Kelsey wearing one of Logan’s shirts hanging half off her shoulder.

Worst of all, it had been the blue and white striped shirt Logan had worn on the first real date he and Rafe went out on, once they were officially together.

Rafe had stood there, staring dumbly at them, his world crumbling around him as the wind whipped up and Logan put an arm around Kelsey to keep her warm.

There had been no one to keep Rafe warm. Just a cold trudge back to his SUV and tears on his cheeks on the drive home, his fist still smarting from where he’d punched the steering wheel.

Now, as Mickey steered Rafe out of the elevator and through the lobby, he remembered the way the locker room had felt after Logan had stood up and told the team he and Rafe were no longer dating.

Things hadn’t worked out and he was seeing someone new, but it was no big deal, and they were both adults about it and it wouldn’t impact the team.

Rafe had sat there, unable to look at Logan or anyone else on the team because he’d been breaking inside and he didn’t want to be an adult about it. He wanted to go back in time to when Logan loved him and saw a future with him and …

He’d wound up in the equipment room, while his friend Zach—who worked for Minnesota as an assistant equipment manager—crouched beside him and awkwardly patted Rafe’s shoulder as he cried hot, angry tears about it all.

And Zach had been a great friend, but Rafe missed having a person .

And the stupid thing was, Rafe KNEW Mickey could be that person. He knew it as surely as he knew he was hurting Mickey by saying no.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” he whispered as he let Mickey tuck him into the passenger seat of his car.

Mickey shrugged. “That’s what friends do.”

Rafe wasn’t so sure. Logan had pretty much stayed away when Rafe got sick last year and he’d been his fucking boyfriend then, but well, look how that had turned out.

But Rafe was too tired to argue so he sipped his tea on the ride to HCI and let himself be marched to Doctor Pope’s office.

“Well,” Dr. Pope said with a frown, after he’d examined Rafe and asked about his symptoms. “It looks like an upper respiratory infection. So far, it seems to mostly be your sinuses and ears impacted, but keep an eye out and let me know if you start coughing up any gunk. With your balance impacted and a low-grade fever now, we’ll definitely keep you out of the game tonight as a precaution. ”

Rafe made a weak noise of protest. “I can play ?—”

“And get the rest of the team sick?” Dr. Pope asked with a snort.

“No thank you. We don’t need a highly communicable infection spreading through the whole team.

There’s a particularly virulent strain of this going around at the moment, so there’s no reason to risk it.

We have other guys who can fill in and this isn’t a make-or-break game, by any means. ”

“True.” Rafe deflated.

“So, you’re going to go home and get some sleep,” Dr. Pope said. “Isolate as much as possible. Wash your hands thoroughly. Sanitize. You know the drill.”

Rafe sighed. “Okay.”

Mickey glanced at his phone. “I think I have time to get you back home before practice.”

“Oh, you live together?” Dr. Pope asked with another frown.

Mickey cleared his throat. “Rafe and Tanner and I share an apartment, yeah.”

He grimaced. “Well, hopefully neither of you will catch it.”

“I think Tanner might already be sick,” Mickey said slowly. “He’s been sneezing a lot in the past few days. I didn’t think anything of it because he’s been well otherwise but …”

A tired look crossed Dr. Pope’s face. “Good to know.”

With a few more words of advice, Dr. Pope let them go.

Rafe let Mickey haul him back to the apartment and tuck him into bed.

He feebly protested when Mickey set up his nightstand with everything he would need and even placed his laptop beside the bed in case he wanted to watch something, but the care felt nice and he was too tired to do it himself.

“Should I bring back chicken soup for lunch?” Mickey asked when he was done.

Rafe glanced up, his tone hopeful. “The kind in the can with the stars in it?”

Mickey gave him a faint smile. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Rafe said. “That’s what my mom always gave me.”

“Then that’s what I’ll bring home,” Mickey promised. He pressed his hand to Rafe’s forehead, and it felt cool and soothing. “Now rest .”

His tone was firm, so Rafe closed his eyes and did what he was told.

Rafe was out cold when Mickey returned to the apartment after practice.

He was snoring a little because of his stuffy nose and his hair was sweaty and curling a little on his forehead. He hadn’t shaved this morning, so his beard was especially thick and dark.

Mickey resisted the urge to touch him again. Rafe had pushed up into the touch earlier and …

Mickey bit off a curse. No . He wasn’t going there.

Mickey straightened the blankets and used a fresh tissue to clean up the used ones that hadn’t quite made it into the trash can while he was gone, then slathered himself in sanitizer.

“How’s he doing?” Tanner asked with a frown when he returned to the living room. He seemed to be pretty much over whatever he’d had a few days ago.

“Sleeping,” Mickey said.

“That’s good.” A guilty look crossed Tanner’s face. “I didn’t mean to make him sick.”

“No one thinks you did,” Mickey said with a soft laugh. “It might help if you didn’t swap spit with half of Boston but …”

Tanner scowled and chucked a pillow at him. It landed at Mickey’s feet.

“Think I should wake him up to eat?” Mickey asked, tossing the pillow back onto the couch, out of Tanner’s immediate reach.

“Nah, let him sleep. I’m sure that’ll help more than anything.”

But Rafe seemed to get worse throughout the day, tossing and turning and throwing off the covers to reveal he wore nothing but boxer briefs underneath.

Mickey was too worried to even enjoy the view. Instead, he pressed cool cloths to Rafe’s forehead and wiped his face and chest when it got too sweaty.

But Mickey had a game that night so he drove to the Hawk’s Nest and did his best to shut everything out of his mind except for trying to play with a call-up who definitely wasn’t Rafe.

Mickey rushed through his post-game routine, then hurried home after the Harriers’ win, stopping only to check with Dr. Pope who told him to keep an eye on Rafe’s temperature but as long as it didn’t get over a certain point, there was no need for worry.

Mickey still worried.

On the way home, he stopped at a pharmacy for some more medical supplies.

Rafe was dozing when he got there, and he was grateful he’d grabbed one of the medical laser thermometers so he could check Rafe’s temp without waking him.

It was still under the threshold Dr. Pope had told him to watch out for, so he set the thermometer on the nightstand, then rested a hand on Rafe’s forehead.

He stirred a little, pressing into Mickey’s touch and slurring, “… ’s better when you’re here.”

Helplessly, Mickey whispered, “I’m not going anywhere,” and settled on the bed beside Rafe over the covers to watch over him while he slept, risk of getting sick be damned.

The next morning, Rafe woke feeling like someone had hit him with a truck.

He was bleary-eyed as he blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. Every part of his body ached—worse than after a hit from Crawford—and he felt gross and sweaty.

He shifted, trying to throw back the covers, but someone grunted beside him.

Rafe lifted his head to see Mickey sprawled beside him, fully dressed in his gameday suit except for the jacket, shoes, and belt. He was on top of the covers, his head not even on a pillow, his forehead filled with lines like he was worried, even in his sleep.

Mickey , Rafe thought, a soft bruised feeling in his chest appearing. Mickey was so … Fuck . He’d be the best fucking boyfriend.

Rafe shifted so he leaned against the headboard, staring at Mickey while he slept for a moment.

There was a weird, dry tickle in Rafe’s throat, so he tried to cough into his hand so it wouldn’t wake him. The sound was raspy, and it felt like there was another cough stuck, so he did again, this time deeper and louder.

He winced as Mickey flew upright, muttering something in German, his eyes wild as he looked around.

Rafe opened his mouth to say something, but he coughed again and then it was like his throat closed up and he couldn’t stop. He bent over, lungs going tight.

Mickey kept talking, murmuring something Rafe couldn’t hear or understand as he rubbed Rafe’s back, his hand warm and comforting.

A moment later, the door flew open and Rafe looked up through streaming eyes to see Tanner standing there.

“Dude. Are you okay?” he asked. He wore nothing but boxers and his hair was big and fluffy, the curls all messed up and wild.

Rafe tried to say something, but he couldn’t stop coughing. “Go away ,” he finally choked. “You’re both going to get sick.”

Tanner shrugged and walked farther into the room. “Pretty sure I was the one who got you sick in the first place.”

“Doesn’t explain him,” Rafe managed before another coughing fit took over.

“Yeah, well, he’s in love with you,” Tanner said with a snort.

Mickey made a soft sound, like someone had punched him in the chest.

And Rafe felt like he’d been punched in the chest too, breathless from the words and, well, because it felt like someone was twisting his lungs in their fist and squeezing.

He started coughing again and Mickey sighed and said, “I think we better get you into a hot shower.”

“I don’t”—Rafe had another coughing fit—“I don’t think I can. Too …” He flapped his arm. “Ugh.”

Even sitting up was a lot of work.

When the coughing finally ended, Rafe glanced up to see Tanner and Mickey staring at each other, not saying anything.

“Fine!” Tanner said, throwing up his hands. “C’mon, big guy. I’ll help you shower.”

“Umm,” Rafe said, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand, confused and not sure how to tell Tanner he wasn’t into the idea.

“Dude, my shorts will stay on, and you can handle washing your junk yourself,” Tanner said with a laugh. “I’m just gonna keep you from falling on your fucking face. You’re hot but you’re three hundred percent not into me and I’m cool with that.”

Rafe thought about it. He did feel gross and even with a stuffy nose he could tell he smelled even worse. The steam from the shower would probably help his head and lungs and …

“Okay,” he rasped and staggered out of bed.