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“Not much, probably. I got a lot of shit going on.”
This from the man who spent most of his time looking out his apartment window.
“Oh, well, then good luck with all that.”
I left him and made my way up the stairs to the 2ndfloor landing and opened the apartment door. Dropping my stuff by the door, I made a beeline for the bathroom.
With my back to the mirror, I used my phone so I could get a good view of what I was dealing with as I lowered my leggings and took in the bruise that was forming on my right butt cheek.
Man, that was nasty. Swollen, purple and black, with those red spider veins. That was a solid slap shot. Initiated at Novek’s suggestion.
Dillon was right – Novek was going to be a problem.
Oh, well, nothing to do but ice it down and call it my first official hockey injury.
My phone beeped with a text. It was from a number, not a contact.
1-888-209-7788: How bad is it?
Maybe if he hadn’t told me that he’d already gotten my number, I might have been surprised. Or maybe I could have dismissed the text entirely because it was an unknown number. But I knew who it was and I updated his contact information.
Liv: I told you I’m fine.
Dillon: That’s not what I asked.
There was no way I should let him get away with this. No way he could Mister Tough Guy on the ice and blithely skate away and now be all concerned for me.
Feeling a little cheeky, I used the mirror and the camera on my phone to get the perfect angle. Once again bearing my butt cheek, I snapped a picture and sent it to him.
Liv: Kiss this.
Liv: PHOTO.
Dillon: Did you just send me a naked picture of yourself?
Liv: I sent you a pic of a bruise so you’ll get off my case and stop asking if I’m okay.
Dillon: I need context. Show me the other cheek.
I bit back my smile. This guy.
Liv: Go away.
I waited for him to reply. But there was nothing.
No sense in getting disappointed. I took a hot shower and used an Ace bandage to wrap an ice pack around my ass.
An hour later, I was trying to get comfortable on my uncomfortable couch with my uncomfortable ass when there was a hard knock on my door. I’m not going to say I knew who it was just by the sound of his knock, but my heart pounded just a little harder.
Dillon.
I opened the door to find him flashing his dimples with hands full of plastic bags.
“Oh my God, Dillon! You can’t keep coming here!”
“I know,” he said. “But it was like my car was on autopilot. Do you want me to leave?”
No. I didn’t want him to leave, which was part of the problem.
