Page 51 of The Goalie in Room 1

He chuckled. That under-the-breath laugh. The one he reserved for when he didn’t seem to want others to know he found something funny. The one I loved.

“How’d it go?”

A scoff. “Yeah, you don’t get any info until you open your eyes.”

“Doc. Please.”

He sighed. “Perfect.”

That opened my eyes. They were still fuzzy, but clearing as I pressed myself up. My arm shook with weakness. “Perfect perfect?” I asked.

He settled me against the pillows and replied, “Lie back before you start puking again.”

“Doc, c’mon,” I complained as he tucked the blankets around me again. “Stop being a nursemaid. Tell me.”

“Yes, Cash. Perfect perfect. The repair went beautifully,” he said, sitting on a stool next to the bed I lay on.

Relief left on a loud exhale. “So it worked?”

“Cash…” He paused. “You know I can’t guarantee a return to play.”

“Please, Doc,” I begged. I needed him to tell me the possibility was there.

“If everything goes as well as the repair went, you have a shot. A small one. That’s all I’ll say.”

I groaned, nodding. “I’ll take it, Doc. I’ll take it.”

I took a couple of deep breaths and settled into the shitty mattress and flat-ass pillow under me while the effects of the anesthesia and whatever else they’d doped me up with cleared my system. The fogginess in my brain and the heaviness of my limbs eased. Somewhat. If somewhat was a tiny fraction of nothing.

Even with it buried under bracing, a cold-therapy wrap, and bandages, the sight of my knee made me want to hurl. Apparently I’d done that already today if Thad told the truth. And based on the bad taste in my mouth, he had.

“Can I get some water?” I asked.

He got up, patted my foot, and said, “Be right back,” before walking out to the nurse’s station. He returned moments later with a large cup of ice and a spoon, along with a bottle of water and a ginger ale.

“Ice first,” he said, giving me a look when I opened my mouth to protest.

Running my fingers over my lips, I zipped my mouth shut.

“Brat,” he said with a growl, holding out the cup of ice until I took it from him. After a bite, I lowered the cup and looked at the water.

He shook his head. “When, and I don’t mean after one bite of ice, you’ve managed to hold down the ice and not puke all over yourself, me, Michael, and whatever nurse came in to help clean you up, then and only then will we progress to something more.”

He looked dead serious, so I nodded, waiting until he gave the go-ahead to take another bite of ice. “So…I’m assuming the sleepy-time meds and I didn’t get along well if I came out of surgery puking.”

“And that was after you took an extremely long nap.”

Glancing around for a clock, I asked, “What time is it?”

“Almost five. Keep that ice down and show the recovery room staff you’re not going to croak if they discharge you, and I’ll help you blow this joint.”

“Blow this joint?” I asked, then lowered my voice and said, “I’d prefer it if you blew something else, Doc. Or let me do the blowing.”

He shook his head with a soft smile. He could act as unaffected as he wanted, but I knew better. The flush that climbed from under his scrub top to his neck gave away how much I affected him. As did his subtle shift of weight from one leg to the other. If he thought it hid the effect my words had on his cock, he was sorely mistaken. His rising excitement was on prominent display.

Unfortunately, even if he agreed to my suggestions, I couldn’t. My dick stayed soft as a pillow. But a decent pillow, not like the one under my head that did a fucking amazing job of imitating a damn rock.

Ice chips turned to ginger ale, and the weirdness in my stomach lessened as the minutes ticked by. Thad stayed by my side through it all.