I move around him before he can say anything else and grab a roll of Ace wrap from the closet.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
He sits back on the bench, but I don’t miss the smile he’s trying to hide.
I kneel in front of him and set the KT Tape and the Ace bandage next to me on the floor. I hold out my hand, and he hands me the ice pack.
I set it on his knee where I want it and keep it in place with one hand. Then I pick up the Ace wrap and, with my teeth, pull it to unravel it.
I can feel him watching me while I work. Just as I finish, he leans forward and tucks a piece of fallen hair behind my ear, then cups my cheek. His face inches closer, and I can feel his breath on my lips.
“Don’t, Saint.”
“Don’t what?” he asks, looking at my lips.
I put my hand over his on my cheek.
His voice drops lower. “You think I’m the only one doing this?”
I don’t answer because I know the truth. We’re both fighting this.
So, I do the only thing I can control. I pull his hand away, stand, and walk out. Fast.
Behind me, I hear that low laugh of his, like he does when he’s teasing me.
He knows exactly what he did. He knows how close I was to giving in.
But the worst part is … he’s not wrong.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saint
Thirty.
Feels a lot like getting hit by a three-hundred-pound lineman. Not because it hurts, but because it hit fast and didn’t care if I was ready or not.
By six this morning, my phone had been going off with texts from my sister, Presley, and a few of my teammates.
My sister sent a voice memo of her and the kids singing "Happy Birthday". It was cute and made me miss them. I really need to see them before the season gets too crazy.
Brody Vaughn, our tight end, left me a voicemail, singing what is possibly the worst version of “Happy Birthday” ever. I get a threat from Aston Griffith, one of my teammates on the D-line, saying he got me a gag gift that was “technically legal.” I’m half curious, half terrified to see what it is. And then there is a message from Liam, who I’ve become good friends with.
Liam: Dirty Thirty. Don’t forget to stretch before you sneeze.
Then there was Presley's text.
Presley: Happy birthday, old man. Try not to get hurt today. We have plans later.
I huff a laugh, but stare at it probably longer than I should.
Saint: You worried about me, Doc?
Her reply came almost instantly.
Presley: I just don’t want to have to baby you after another injury. Plus, it creates paperwork for me, and you know I hate paperwork.
I laugh.
