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Fifteen minutes later, when I get back to the room and have trouble unzipping my coat, it’s possible the bright red skin and numb fingers are trying to tell me I’m an idiot. But I’m too stubborn to concede and ask for help.
“What are you doing over there?” Cruz asks from his desk when I fail to hang my coat up after several minutes.
“Nothing.”
“Then put your shit away and come in. You’re making me nervous, hovering by the door.”
“Why does this make you nervous?”
“Because I can’t see what you’re doing, and I know it’s not nothing.”
I finally get my fingers to work long enough to get my coat off, only to promptly drop my bag when I try to grab it with the hand that’s still petrified. By the time I collect it with my right hand and step fully into the room, I see Cruz is barely restraining himself from jumping up to come to my rescue.
Ever the hero.
“All good.” I wave my hand before remembering it’s the wrong shade for someone who is supposed to be all good.
“Jesus, Liam. What happened?” He shoots out of his chair and grabs my arm, wincing at how cold my skin is before gently lifting it up for inspection. “No cast?”
“I just got it off.”
“And what? Decided to test how long it would take for frostbite to set in?”
“I liked the way the air felt on my arm,” I say petulantly.
Cruz bites back a smile. “Come here.” He tugs me to his desk chair and sits down, trapping my frozen hand between his heated palms and rubbing vigorously.
The friction slowly starts to bring back feeling to my fingers, making them prickle, and my hand gets heavy as the blood rushes into it. But standing over a seated Cruz, who’s so determinedly trying to bring my hand back to life, wakes up other parts of me, too.
We haven’t touched, platonically or otherwise, since the day I got on my knees for him. We had a revealing talk afterward, one I thought might make us closer, then he left first thing the next morning for his game, and when he got back, we were both too busy with classes to talk about, much less continue, what happened that day.
I don’t know if he wants to continue it, or if he even can, since we never really determined why it happened in the first place. I’m pretty sure sitting on his lap played a role though, and the second that thought enters my mind my feet carry me closer, until I’m straddling his legs and sinking on top of them.
He arches a curious brow but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “You didn’t tell me you were getting the cast off. I would’ve gone with you.”
“Getting it off is easy. I didn’t need a chaperone. Besides, it’s even further from an emergency than getting it on.”
Getting it off. I should’ve been more careful about my word choice while sitting on Cruz’s lap.
“Always so stubborn,” he mutters.
“Always playing hero,” I retort, though without my usual sarcasm. I might be starting to appreciate the hero thing.
“Are you excited to be able to play lacrosse again?” Cruz holds my hand in one palm while the other rubs up my forearm, rubbing heat back into my skin.
“Right now, I’m just excited I can scratch my arm when it itches. I’ll probably have to work up to just holding the stick.”
Holding the stick. Jesus, I’m on a roll.
“What’s so funny?”
Oh shit, did I snort out loud?
“What?”
“Now you’re turning red.” Cruz stops rubbing my arm and lets his hands fall to his lap, still holding mine. “What’s going through that head of yours?”
He said head.
