Page 60 of The Goalie in Room 1

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you were there when I woke up. It was nice. No one’s ever done that before.”

13

CASH

Two afternoons later, we sat in the living room. Me propped in the corner of the couch, my leg stretched out along the back cushions on an elevated pillow. The other was thrown wide and resting on an ottoman. Thad sat facing me, with a tablet in hand, another lying on the sofa cushion next to him, and his laptop open to an MRI. Whose I couldn’t tell, nor did I care.

My mind was focused elsewhere, and it wasn’t on the massive television that, until Thad turned it on yesterday, had looked like an expensive piece of artwork. No. It wasn’t the television or the nature documentary that caught my interest.

My eyes were glued to the clock across the room. The second the minute and hour hands reached the point I’d been waiting for, I said, “I need a shower.”

Thad responded without even looking up, “No.”

“I wasn’t asking permission.”

“Then why announce it?” he asked.

“Because I need help getting to the bathroom.”

Thad set the tablet aside. “You can’t safely shower alone.”

“I know.”

“You’re still unsteady at random moments, and you’re taking medication that makes it worse. You can’t put weight on that leg, and the dressing has to remain dry. And besides all that, you nearly hit the floor this morning.”

“I did not. I slipped. That’s all.”

“While standing still.”

“Okay, I slipped while standing still. I still need a shower.”

“And that’s what’s called nearly falling.”

My mouth flattened as I swallowed the growl that rumbled at the back of my throat. “I smell like vomit, sweat, hospital, and whatever antiseptic shit you painted half my leg with. I want a shower.”

“We cleaned you up after surgery.”

“Then we need to discuss your definition of clean.”

“I can bring you warm water and washcloths.”

The growl refused to be contained this time. “Dammit, Doc. I want a shower. Not a sponge bath.”

“Then you can wait one more day. Otherwise⁠—”

I perked up and latched onto the word his face said he regretted uttering. “Otherwise? What’s the other option?”

His hands scrubbed his face and carded through his hair, and glee percolated under my skin. This would be good. He did that when he got frustrated and didn’t know how to deal with it. The things you learned about a person when you lived with them and had nothing else to occupy your time.

His expression didn’t change, but the pulse in his throat jumped. It beat frantically and visibly. And when he spoke, I had to strain to hear him. “I help you.”

Holy shit. The image those words conjured caused an immediate issue in my pants. My hands were already in my lap, and I hid my reaction easily, but at the same time, I thanked fuck my dick wasn’t as dead as it had been the day before.

“Help me how?” I asked, ignoring the hopeful tone in my voice.

Looking anywhere but me, he said, “I’ll set up the bathroom with the shower bench, wrap your leg to protect the dressing, and then I’ll stay close enough to keep you from falling.”