Page 100 of The Goalie in Room 1

“You can stop analyzing my gait anytime, Daddy.”

Fuck me. Every time he said that word, I wanted to smother him in care and affection. And I just as badly wanted to fuck him until he was a crying, snot-faced mess begging to come.

“No,” I said once I felt more in control of my reaction to him. His brows climbed, and I smiled. “I’m enjoying this.”

“It’s creepy as fuck, Doc,” he said, popping open the microwave when the reminder ding sounded.

I turned to face him, my hip resting against the island. “You’ve spent months trying to get me to stare at your ass.”

“Ass. Not gait, Doc.”

“I can appreciate both.”

Cash barked out a laugh.

There.

Fuck, I’d missed that.

“How long did you put this in for?” he asked, holding up the food he pulled out of the microwave.

I shrugged.

“It’s dry. Like so dry it looks like you tried to make jerky.” He tossed it out and said, “You’re not eating that. You cooked it so long you’d need to soak it for a month to be able to chew it.”

He leaned the crutch against the island and pulled out his phone, tapping some buttons, then said, “Food’s ordered.”

I nodded, then noticed how he was standing. Looking down again, I stated, “Brace got unlocked too.”

He nodded, bending his knee slightly. Not much, but enough. Warmth spread through my chest.

“That’s good.”

“Good?” His face screwed up. “That’s it? Where’s my cautiously encouraged speech? The lecture about how this doesn’t mean I’m ready to strap on skates tomorrow? Maybe a PowerPoint?”

“I can prepare one.”

“Of course you can.”

“I’ll add graphics.”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish,” I muttered. The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I went still, and so did Cash. His eyes locked with mine, and Christmas Eve flashed through my head.

My bedroom.

His face when he caught me.

Then his bedroom.

His hand.

His cock.

Seven fucking weeks after surgery and somehow the two of us had managed to turn mutual masturbation—separately, thank Christ—into some sort of fucked-up holiday tradition.