Page 100 of Lucky 22

“Ella Rose, please,” he says tightly. “It’s been a roughday, okay?” He looks miserable, and I feel like if I say anything, it’ll belike kicking a puppy.

And that isn’t acceptable.

He looks up at me, and I know he can tell I’m trying to holdmy tongue. His expression softens.

“Something smells good,” he says in a weak attempt atchanging the subject. “Is that fried chicken?”

“Of course, it is. You said you were craving it,” I say withonly a hint of annoyance. “I actually listen to the things you say, and youknow I’ll do anything to make your day better.”

After a long and not-so-quiet huff of frustration, he looksat me. “Whatever it is you feel you need to say, please say it.”

Ugh. Please say it. Please say it? Obviously, heknows I’m mad, and he’s politely asking me to let loose everything that’s on mymind? Well…

I straighten, cross my arms, and stare at him, looking rightinto those cute puppy-dog eyes.

Darn it.

“Am I a bully?” I demand, but there’s very little heatbehind the words.

“What?”

Nodding, I repeat the question. “Am I a bully? Do you feellike I bully you?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“Just answer the question, Christian.”

“No. I don’t think you’re a bully.”

“Oh.”

Frowning, he asks, “Why do you think you’re a bully?”

“Because that’s how you make me feel!” I practically shoutwith annoyance, my arms loudly dropping to my sides. “You come in here, clearlyhurt and in pain, and you lie to my face about it.”

“I don’t want you to worry, that’s all,” he says quietly.

“Well, here’s a newsflash. I’m going to worry. Every time Isee you wince, I worry. When you limp, I worry. When I see you barely able towalk, I worry. So please save us both the trouble and just be honest.” I sitbeside him, taking one of his hands in mine.

And yes, he winces.

“Why are you still pushing yourself? It’s early in theseason. You’re clearly still dealing with issues from last season’s injuries,even after all the physical therapy. We need to get you to some other doctors.Ones who don’t work for the team and will actually help get you better ratherthan tell you you’re okay so they can send you right back onto the field.”

“The doctors take my injuries seriously,” he counterspatiently. “They understand that some injuries just take more time to heal.”

“And yet they’re not telling the trainers or the coaches toput you on the injured list for a little while.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t want to be put on the list.”

“Yeah. I get that loud and clear. But if the entire stafflistened to the doctors and took that decision away from you, then maybe youwouldn’t be feeling like this.”

“I’m getting older, that’s all. I’ll feel better after agood night’s sleep.” He kisses my hand. “Can we please just have a nice dinnerand relax?”

It’s like talking to a wall, and I know I’m not going to winthis battle.

At least, not right now.

“Fine. I’m going to go and finish cooking. Dinner should beready in about fifteen minutes.” I move to stand, but he’s still holding myhand, stopping me from moving away.