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It wasthe freaking knocking that finally made me roll out of bed.
Iwas goingto kill whoever was on the other side of the door. Okay, maybe not kill but seriously maim.
The factthat my feet were dragging behind me at ten o’clock in the morning was the first example of how horrible I felt. Though I knew better, I wasn’t actively stretching any of my muscles, which explained why I felt even worse than the day before.
“Coming!” I barked out when the knocking became even more obnoxious.
Murder. Screw it. Maybe I could get away with a crime of passion.
When I lookedthrough the peephole that my dad had installed the minute after he’d finished helping me move in, I thought about slapping myself in the face to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
“Coach?” I asked as I unlocked the top lock and then the bottom, pulling the door
open just a crack.
His big Germanface stared at me through the slit. “Rey is fine. Let me in.”
He wouldlike being called Rey—king in Spanish.
Ilet him in.
Only after Iopened the door, did I think about the fact that I’d just rolled out of bed a second earlier. My hair must have resembled something out of John Frieda’s worst nightmare and my face… puffy. It was definitely puffy and drool-stained, definitely. “I just got up,” I explained weakly, watching him lock the door once he was inside.
“Ican tell.” Those brown-green eyes gazed at my face for a second, straying a little lower briefly, before finally taking a look around my small living room. “I called you,” he said absently.
“Iputmy phone on silent after I called Gardner to tell him I wasn’t coming in,” I explained. First, I’d slept like complete crap. A comfortable position to sleep in had eluded me the entire night, I’d been miserable. When my alarm went off at six and I’d rolled over to turn it off, my ribs had told me very calmly that there was no way I was going for a run, much less making it through practice.
Fortunately in thelast four seasons I’d been with the team, I’d missed practice on only one occasion that wasn’t injury related. My grandfather had died, and I’d flown to Argentina for the over-the-top funeral thousands had attended.A country in mourning,a telecaster had called it that night when I’d sat in my hotel room watching the news recap the day. Gardner didn’t even hesitate to tell me to feel better and come back once my mysterious ‘virus’ went away.
Ihated lying, but at least I had promised to visit the doctor and stay in bed.
“Isee.” He took a couple more steps in, his eyes looking to the small kitchen and the counter island where I had two barstools in lieu of a table.
Istifled a yawn. “Are you okay?”
Kulti inspectedme from head to toe, frowning. “I’m fine. I came to make sure you were alive.”
Ihada brief flashback to the night before, when he’d rolled down the window as his car sat idling in the driveway, ordering me to take something for the pain. “I’m fine. I feel like roadkill, but I’m all right.”
“You missed practice. You’re not fine.”
He had an excellent point. “I have a doctor’s appointment at noon, just to make sure nothing is broken.”
His expression darkenedas he walked around me to head into the kitchen. He stopped after taking two steps and looked over his shoulder, his gaze going to my legs. “Do you ever wear pants?”
“No.” I had shorts on, damn it. Plus, this was Houston. No female wore pants in the summer unless they had to.
He looked for a second longer, glanced up at my face, and then continued his journey into the kitchen. “Do you have tea or coffee?”
Ipointed. “Both.”
He madean indiscriminate noise as he searched my kitchen cabinets.
All right. “Well make yourself at home. I’m gonna go shower and put on some pants, I guess.” I might have given him a dirty look at the mention of putting on bottoms, but he wasn’t paying attention. His back was turned.
Thirty minutes later, I was freshly showered, my teeth brushed, my hair… well, up in something that could be considered a bun, deodorant applied, jeans that could have passed for leggings and wearing a real bra on, I made an appearance back in the living area of my garage apartment. Kulti was sitting on the couch, drinking from a black coffee mug with an owl picture on it and watching television.
The factthat the man I’d had on my wall for nearly a decade was sitting on my couch, drinking coffee because he’d come by to check on me, didn’t really hit me much. I wouldn’t say it was normal, but I wasn’t choking up to talk to him or freaking out that I hadn’t dusted in a couple of weeks. It was just… okay. No big deal.
