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The dull soreness I felt while the doctor was here morphs into a throbbing discomfort, only now it’s not just my ankle but my head that aches in rhythm with my beating pulse. That couldn’t have gone any worse.
“Cut you?” I gasp when an angry voice pierces the silence. “They’re going to cut you?”
Tripp. I forgot he was here.
“It sounds like they could, but Coach doesn’t think they will.”
“He doesn’t think…? You’re like, the star of the team. They’d really let you go over a sprained ankle?” He paces back and forth, an uncharacteristic look of disgust on his face. “What kind of organization is this? Players get hurt all the time, is this how they treat you when it happens?”
“When you get injured on the ice, no. When you get injured off it…” I realize too late Tripp will do the whole blaming himself thing as those words sink in.
“Ohmigod.” He sinks onto the couch. “I cost you your spot on the team.”
“No, you didn’t. I just told you it won’t come to that.” I’m not sure why since I'm worried about being cut myself, but convincing Tripp that won’t happen somehow makes me feel better.
“But you told the doctor to send you the bill. That doesn’t mean you’re off the team?” He props his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands as if the room is spinning and that will stop it.
“It means the team won’t cover my expenses for injuries I incur on my personal time.”
He looks up at me, open-mouthed “Wow. Even my insurance covers me when I’m not working and I’m just a lowly artist.”
“I’m sure my insurance will cover it, it just won’t be free like it is if I get hurt during a game or while I’m training.”
“Still sounds shitty if you ask me.” His offended look is back, which makes my heart do this strange little flutter.
“It’s a business, and I’m a commodity.”
“That’s a very Thor thing to say.”
I cock my head to the side. “It is?”
“He downplays saving people because that’s his job. You’re downplaying your value because hockey is a business. Same thing, really. Speaking of heroes… You injured yourself trying to save an imaginary dog from an imaginary coyote?” The sly sparkle is back in his eye.
“The dog isn’t imaginary. It lives next door.”
“Uh, huh. You should’ve said you were running on the treadmill and the power went out. I bet they’d have considered that ‘training.’” He punctuates that with air quotes.
“I’ll use that excuse next time.” I bite back a smile, my first since getting hurt.
“Next time? Are you crazy? There will be no more funny business where you could get hurt. I’m not going to be responsible for you getting cut from the team.”
“You aren’t responsible now. We’ve been through this.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “You need a bodysuit made out of bubble wrap. That way if you fall over there’s no damage, just a cool sound. Ooh…” He looks at me with wide eyes that are a little too green with mischief. “If you wear it while we’re fucking, we could make some pretty cool music. Can’t you hear it? Pop, pop, pop, moan. Pop, pop, grunt. I’d listen to that all day long. I’d probably get fired for having a perpetual boner, or at the very least I’d make an excellent case for why I should be allowed to work from home. Do you have any recording equipment? I have editing software but not recording equipment. Why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I say as I wipe my eyes. “I’m trying not to laugh.”
“You have the same condition I do where you laugh at inappropriate times?” His brows draw together in confusion.
“This is an inappropriate time to laugh?” I blink away the last of my tears.
“Well, I was being serious.”
I honestly can’t tell if that’s true or not, but either way I feel better than I did a few minutes ago. “Thanks for staying. It helps having you here.”
“About that.” He sighs heavily. “You’re going to need help, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
