Page 37

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

CLARA JUNE

A thin sheen of sweat makes my skin slick, and my racing heart makes it hard for me to breathe or think. I stumble down the hall, toward the piercing howl of Tanner’s cry, heavy footfalls behind me. I push open the door and sail across the room, dropping to a crouch at the side of my son’s bed.

He’s sitting up on one elbow, sheets bunched around his waist, his complexion chalky, his eyes wide.

His pillow is dark with sweat, and his sheets, beneath his body, are much the same.

Rawley appears in the doorway, in plaid pajama pants and a Slipknot t-shirt.

His sleep filled eyes come to mine. I nod toward the switch on the wall.

“Hit the fan. Bring us some water, and more Advil,” I tell him slowly, garnering a nod before he flips the switch and disappears down the hall.

I do my best to stay calm. As the parent, I decide the mood of the situation, and I also decide how much we are collectively in fear.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, assessing and calming.

I look at Tanner, who is writhing within his range of motion, groaning, teeth gritted.

I press my hand to his forehead, and try to get a feel for his body temperature.

He’s warm, and the room is warm, and I’m warm, so I don’t know.

I shake my head. “I don’t know if you have a fever.

” It occurs to me just then that in the chaos of it all, I haven’t even asked what’s wrong.

I stroke my hand through his hair, pushing sweat off of his forehead. “Tanner, what’s wrong?”

Dean sits on the foot of the bed, and Tanner’s eyes do a double take. He’s not shocked to see Dean—he’s relieved. “It hurts, Coach. It hurts so bad. I can’t—I can’t,” his lips seal shut as he winces, riding out a wave of pain, evident by the way his face drains all lingering traces of color.

Over the top of his comforter, Dean grips Tanner’s foot and gives it a squeeze. “Deep breath in and slow breath out, gimme three, come on, T, let’s relax and figure this out.”

My son opens his eyes, making contact with his coach. A moment later, he nods, then pulls a long breath in through his nostrils. Dean counts one as Rawley returns, putting a cold compress on his brother’s head. I didn’t even ask for it, but we needed it .

“Thank you, Rawl.” I take the water and Advil from him, too, and set it next to Tanner on the night table.

“Is he okay?” Rawl asks as Dean counts off the third and final breath.

I shrug. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“I need to go to the ER,” Tanner moans, unable to relax despite Dean’s breathing exercises.

In my mind, I run through the list of bills I haven’t paid, ones that I have paid but are coming up again, and wonder if the hospital has a payment plan for Tanner’s last bill.

Regardless, if he needs to go to the ER, we will go.

I will figure it out, even if it means I live at Goode’s for a year until I make it all up. I will give my son what he needs.

Dean’s voice is assured, calm and damn near relaxed. “Hold on now. Let’s just take a minute, alright?”

Rawley sits in Tanner’s desk chair, and I say a silent prayer that Archie remains asleep, because getting him back down is near impossible. Dean scratches the back of his neck before clamping his hand onto Tanner’s foot again.

“Go ahead and sit up, drink that water your brother brought you, and take those Advil, too.”

Tanner doesn’t argue. He simply nods, and sits up, and takes the pills, finishing the glass of water.

Dean slides down the mattress, and I back up, sitting on the desk next to Rawley as Dean puts pressure on Tanner’s collarbone.

“You had your first practice back. It was grueling. You had PT after. Let’s not assume you’re hurt, or that something is wrong,” Dean says, slowly moving his hand around my son’s chest, to his neck.

He motions for Tanner to lift an arm, and talks to him while maneuvering T into stretches.

“I think you’re discovering the hard part of coming back to the field after an injury.

Seems like that first run on the field and that first hit is gonna be brutal.

” Dean assesses my son’s ability to reach behind himself.

“But it’s the first few nights, when you’re all settled in bed. ”

He looks my way, wearing an easy smile that brings me so much comfort. “He’s okay. I think this is soreness from getting back to the field.” He looks at Tanner, tipping his head to the side, assessing. “Nothing really feels out of place to me. When you focus on the pain, is it radiating or sharp?”

“Radiating,” Tanner answers, earning a nod from Dean.

“Your nerves were compressed as you healed. Limited range of motion makes everything get comfortable, and today, you tested that comfort, and stretched all those nerves out.” He looks between me, Rawley and Tanner. “I think we’re good. But some more ice wouldn’t hurt.”

Rawley gets to his feet. “I’ll get the ice.” He places a hand on top of my shoulder, giving me a sad, half-smile. “Archie’s up.”

I glance at the door where a tired little boy stands in the doorframe, one fist rubbing at his eye, the other clinging to a blanket scrap that belonged first to Rawley, then to Tanner.

“What’s going on?” he asks through a quiet yawn.

“Tanner was just feeling sore from his injury. But he’s okay. Let’s get you back to bed.” I crouch down and lift him into my arms, despite the fatigue of the day, I never miss a moment to hold my baby. After all, he’s my last and sooner than later, he won’t want me to hold him this way.

I sift my fingers through the back of his head as I peer down at Tanner. “I’ll come check on you after I get him back down, okay?”

He nods, looking between me and Dean. “I think I’m okay.” He grabs Archie’s foot. “Night, dude.”

“Night, Tanner.”

Forty three minutes later, Archie is finally asleep and I’m quietly tugging the door closed to his room when I pause, overhearing what I know is meant to be a private conversation.

“He does?” Dean asks Rawley.

“Yeah, he says lots of good things about you,” Rawley replies.

I peek around the corner and see Rawley and Dean standing in front of the TV, Dean's hands shoved in his jean pockets, Rawley’s arms folded over his chest.

“I didn’t know you asked Jake about me,” Dean adds, and the conversation begins to make a little more sense.

Rawley meets Dean’s eyes, head held up, shoulders back. “My mom’s never dated anyone, or liked anyone, or like, moved onto someone. Like, ever.”

Dean stays quiet.

“I can tell she likes you a lot. Like, a lot,” he adds, making my cheeks flame with embarrassment.

Another part of me swoons at how perceptive and conscientious my son is being.

“So I asked Jake about you, because I’m the oldest, you know?

I gotta look out for her. I can’t let her fall for someone who is gonna hurt her.

” There’s an unspoken us in his eyes when he looks up at Dean, like he’s protecting me but himself and his brothers, too.

My eyes burn with unshed tears of adoration for my sometimes difficult but always sweet son .

Dean outstretches his hand, and Rawley takes it. They shake as Dean says, “You have my word, man to man, I have nothing but good intentions for your mama.”

Mama.

It’s not the first time he’s used that term for me. Sometimes Archie calls me mama. But when Dean says it, when Dean uses that term, it lights me up. Makes me wonder how it’d sound being poured into my ear, straight from those full lips, while he hovers over me, hard, ready to sink inside.

“Alright, then,” Rawley says before turning on his heel to disappear into his room.

I quietly move through the kitchen, and meet Dean in the living room, where he’s standing next to the couch, waiting for me. His smile makes my chest tight.

“Thank you for handling that so well. I was ready to take him to the ER,” I admit, realizing my messy bun fell out in the commotion.

I push hair off my face, tucking it behind my ears as I find the remote for the TV and shut it off.

Darkness engulfs the room, except for the glow of moonlight from the large window on the wall.

Just enough moon to highlight his profile, to see his arms outstretched for me.

I close the distance, and press myself into him, sighing with great relief when his arms wrap around me. “No problem. He’s just sore. He’s gonna be okay. The pain was just scary, because he’s never been hurt before, right?”

I nod against him, sucking up the woodsy, amber scent. “Right. Never even so much as a stitch.”

Dean’s palm skirts up my spine, then down again, coming to rest on the small of my back. His other hand finds its way there, too, and he tugs me against him casually.

He feels so good. Being against him, with him, in his arms—everything feels so good.

My body hums, my pulse skips, my mouth goes dry but my pussy goes wet.

My panties and thighs are damp and sticky, and the coil of desire low in my belly pulses, tightening, making me aware of how much I want Dean McAllister.

How right it feels to be pressed against him, to be in the arms of a good man.

“Clara June, he’s okay,” Dean says, as I sink my nails into his shoulder blades, gripping at him like he’s trying to get away.

“I know, thank you, thank you so much,” I murmur, aware that he’s gently swaying us in the moonlight, inside my cozy little living room, my boys sleeping down the hall.

He pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my hairline, hot and sizzling.

The kiss is tender and sweet, but as his muscular chest heaves against me, his large hands keeping my groin held tight to his, the conversation in the hall with Rawley rips through my mind, Dean’s hands folding the towel make an appearance too.

Then his tongue sliding against mine, the way we made out for twenty minutes, breathing hard, squeezing our joined hands when things got hot because it’s all we could do—all of it rushes behind my eyes as he holds me close and reassures me that everything is okay.

And then, after years of concern that it would never happen, that I was broken and would forever be broken, it happens .

Without touch.

Without grinding.

Without friction.

Without nudity or porn.

Without moaning or kink.

My hands slide around his bulging biceps to grip at his shirt, clenching fistfuls of fabric as I crash my forehead to his sternum. “Oh my god,” I whisper, my entire body trembling as I pull my legs together, trying to absorb or slow some of the thrashing desire exploding in my veins .

“Clara June?” he questions softly, running his hands up and down my back as I gasp and choke, trying to hide my face in his chest as I come, and come hard.

When the tail end of my orgasm has waned, and I’m able to pull my face from his chest and look up at him in the dark living room, I find his knowing eyes already watching me.

“I—” I don’t know what to say. He bends down and steals a kiss from my lips. “Goodnight, Clara June. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Then he goes, and I stand with my back to the front door, and find myself smiling in the dark.