Page 34 of Saving The Shortstop

My stomach feels like it’s literally chewing itself from the inside out, but I know we don’t have shit here that I’d want to eat right now. There’s no way I’m eating steak or grilled chicken. And hell no to protein pasta too.

“Yeah, there’s not a lot here,” I rasp. “Maybe we have ice cream?”

Slowly, he slides from the bed and walks to the end, looking at me.

“I’ll make you some chicken and rice soup,” he says, stretching his arms behind him and rolling his shoulders. “Your bed isn’t very comfortable. It’s too fucking soft.”

“I like my bed,” I whisper, because that’s all I can do. “And I hate to break it to you, but we don’t have soup here.”

His expression remains unchanged as he steps back, closer to the door. “Yeah, you do,” he mutters. “I’ll be back in a few.”

And before I can question anything, he opens the door and walks into the hallway. And even though part of me wants to check my phone and get a little bit of scrolling in, I find myself rolling over and dozing off once again.

The lamp in the corner of my bedroom flips on, and even though it’s not the bright light of my ceiling fan, it’s still a little too much for my liking. Slowly, I rub my eyes and sit up in bed to find Dallas walking toward me holding a breakfast tray with an arrangement of food on it.

“Where in the world did you find that?” I say, my voice low and gruff. I didn’t know we even had one of those trays, but here he is … coming in clutch with it.

He sets the tray down on my nightstand, balancing it just right so that it doesn’t tip before he reaches for the pillows, stacking them behind me. “I found it in the closet downstairs,” he says, matter-of-factly, before he pushes the bulky comforter out of the way, pulling just my throw blanket over me.

I relax back, shifting slightly against the pillows until I’m comfortable. He grabs the tray, slowly setting it onto my lap. I gaze down at the arrayment of food, knowing it’s all the things I usually like when I’m sick. The chicken and rice soup is in a cozy little bowl that Harley usually eats her cereal out of. There’s a fresh Gatorade beside it with a straw poking out of the top and a handful of saltines stacked on a tiny plate beside the bowl.

And beside the Gatorade is more medicine and a few cough drops. I don’t know when Dallas Rivers became such a caregiver, but I’ll admit that I’m thankful he didn’t show me this side of him sooner.

I mean … I was obsessed enough with the asshole side. I can’t imagine if this guy made an appearance in my boy-crazy teenage days.

“This is … really nice of you, D,” I whisper, lifting the spoon. But before I even have time to scoop it into the bowl, a coughing fit is triggered, and as I practically bark my lungs out, he leans forward, holding the tray steady.

Keeping one hand on the tray, he lifts the Gatorade, bringing the straw to my lips. “Take a drink, Short.” When I open my mouth, closing my lips around the straw and sucking down the blue liquid, I catch his eyes on my lips for a split second, but quickly, he looks downward. “You sound like shit.”

It’s almost as if he needs to add in one of those comments to make sure I know that he really isn’t that nice of a guy. But the thing is, I think he is a nice guy. He just chooses to hide it.

Taking another drink, I swallow before clearing my throat to rid it of the tickling sensation. Food doesn’t sound that good, but I know I need to eat. So, once he sets the bottle back down and lets go of my tray, I pick up the spoon and force some soup into my growling stomach, appreciating Dallas’s thoughtfulness more than anything else.

DALLAS

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m here, taking care of a girl I know I can never have, yet I can’t stop. For the entire time we’ve known each other, I’ve done things for her—from a distance. And in a way she’d never uncover because I’ve always known that if I show her my cards, if she finds out that I actually care way more about her than she ever believed, she’d expect more out of me than I could ever give her. Being an asshole has always been the better choice because then … she doesn’t expect shit.

Only now, I’m complicating everything. Doing things that lead her to believe that I’m the guy who cares. Earning myself more of those looks from her that I’ve always done my best to avoid.

That look … the one where she stares at me like I’m worthy … it’s my kryptonite. Or maybe it’s like a drug. Because once she looked at me like that the first time, I’ve had a hard time trying to stop myself from getting more.

“I’m done,” she says, stifling a cough, trying her best to keep it inside.

She ate a few bites of the soup and one saltine. It’s not enough for her to get her strength back, and I also don’t think that it’s good to take medicine on a nearly-empty stomach.

As she starts to lift the tray up, I put a hand on it to keep it there.

“Eat a few more bites, Short,” I utter, keeping my eyes on hers. “You won’t get better if you don’t eat.”

“But it tastes like nothing,” she whines pathetically. “Everything tastes like literally nothing.”

“Well then, it shouldn’t be hard to choke down a few more bites.” I shrug. “Better that it tastes like nothing than tasting like shit.”

I’m usually the guy who stays away from germs with a ten-foot pole. I never want to risk getting sick because losing a few days of training isn’t good. Yet here I am, in this germ-infested room. Not only that, but now, I’m literally reaching for the spoon she was just touching.

Picking it up, I lift it to her lips slowly. Her eyes swirl with hesitation—and also a bit of surprise and maybe even curiosity. Hopefully she doesn’t get used to this. It’s only because she’s sick.

“Open,” I command, and I swear her eyes narrow the slightest bit, shooting me a glare. “No popsicle if you don’t eat first,” I say, my voice deep and even.