“Right, I know that. That’s why I picked the plan. But how do you like the taste?” I scooped some ice into a plastic bag before wrapping it up in a dish towel. When I turned to hand it to Kean, he was just settling onto the stool at the kitchen island.
“Taste doesn’t matter much to me.” He reached over the counter and plucked the ice pack out of my hands, gently resting it on his head and wincing when it made contact. “If it serves its purpose, it’s fine.”
I bit my tongue to keep from calling him lame. But really, who had all this money and didn’t splurge on nice food every now and again?
If it was any other player, I’d think it was just an on-season thing. But I knew without a shadow of a doubt that wasn’t the case with Kean. He kept up a strict routineall year.
“Go ahead and say it.”
My head popped up. “What?”
“Say it. Everybody else on the team does, too.”
“Say what?”
“That I eat like a dog. That I take shit too seriously. Take your pick.” Kean rested his cheek on the counter and cradled his head with his hands.
“I wouldn’t say you eat like a dog,” I said softly, trying to fight the urge to laugh. “Your meal plan has at least three options. Most people only feed their dogs one type of kibble.”
It was a bad joke, with not much thought put into it, but it did something I never expected.
It made Kean laugh.
The sound was strained, rough like he wasn’t used to making it. But it was genuine.
Genuine and followed immediately by a painful groan.
“Don’t make me laugh, Kodi. It hurts.”
That made me giggle. For all his tough, ‘I’m fine’ bullshit, he really did seem like such a baby in this moment.
And something about the way he said my name, muffled by his arms, made me feel soft. Too soft to tease him for being a bit of a baby. So I settled for pulling out the ibuprofen as slowly as possible so it didn’t make as much noise.
“Take these,” I said, sliding two pills over before turning to get him some water. By the time I turned back, he’d already taken them. I clicked my tongue. “I’m pretty sure it’s bad for you to swallow pills without water.”
“Well, you still think you should keep someone with a head injury awake, so I’m not taking your medical advice.”
My jaw dropped. Was Kean being sassy with me? Maybe he really did have a concussion. Or …
“What do you normally do after a game?”
“Mmm. Shower then bed.”
Right, sleep deprived does make more sense than concussion.
“You don’t normally eat?”
“Nah, it’s easier to just crash after a game.”
He set his head back down on the counter and I let him be, busying myself by making him a peanut butter sandwich, because of course Kean didn’t have any jelly in the fridge.
“Do you not go out to celebrate your wins? I bet Brooker wouldloveto take you out to a club.”
“Brooker’s an asshole.”
“Is he your least favorite teammate?” I didn’t bother fighting my grin; getting sleepy Kean to talk was too fun to bother.
“Yeah.”
