“Where’s Raine?”
She opened the door next to her and pointed. “Second bay on the right. Dislocated shoulder went back in already. Hopefully nothing more than a deep hematoma from impact other than that.”
I made my way toward the bay, ignoring a man I didn’t know telling me this area was off-limits to fans. Finally, I saw Dr. Bindi come out of the bay and stopped short. “Michael. Good to see you.”
“How is he?”
He held up a finger and ducked back into the bay where I heard him ask Tiller if I could come in. I didn’t wait for a response. I hustled in there and started snapping.
“Why the fuck did Maple Leaf throw that pass to you when you were in double coverage and that giant fucking side of beef was standing there waiting to take you out?”
My eyes roamed over every inch of his body, taking in the sweaty, matted hair, the tired and pained eyes, and the missing jersey. Other than holding a very painful arm against his front, he seemed okay. My body began to shake violently as the adrenaline crash dropped. I didn’t like to think about why I cared so damned much.
He let go of his hurt arm and reached out a hand to me. “Come here.”
I took it and stepped closer, still examining every inch of him I could.
Tiller eyed Dr. Bindi. “Can you give us a minute? And look out for my agent—he’s probably going to come storming in any minute, too.”
As soon as we were alone, Tiller pulled me close and gave me a tight side hug. The move surprised me. We’d never hugged before or shown any other kind of physical affection other than the odd slap to the back of his head when he annoyed me or him ruffling my hair because he knew it drove me crazy.
I didn’t mind the sweat at all. In fact, I might have liked it a little too much.
It was the fact he was shaking too that I minded. A lot.
“Fuck,” he said gruffly into my neck. Even his voice was shaking. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Are you okay?” His voice wasn’t the only one shaking. “I thought maybe you’d lost consciousness. I couldn’t breathe.”
“I think I was just stunned for a minute. My mind kept going toward the goal when my body had been laid flat out.”
“Concussion protocol?” I asked, pulling out of the hug so I could look at his face.
He nodded. “They’re going to put me in the tube regardless, but they’re pretty sure there’s nothing like that. They’re more worried about my arm. I can’t really… I can’t really move it.”
I grabbed a nearby towel and began to wipe the sweat off his face and push his hair out of his eyes. “You need a haircut,” I murmured.
His voice was rough with pain. “You like it shaggy like this.”
I caught his eye at the unexpected observation. “Is that why you canceled the haircut appointment with Ricki?”
He blushed and looked down. “How mad is your dad going to be?”
I felt my nostrils flare. “Well, I hope he skins Maple Leaf alive. He deserves it.”
Tiller winced out a slight smile. “His name is Mopellei. Or you can call him Derek.”
“I’m not calling him shit. Stupid Canadian asshole. Does he even have any other play than send the ball to Raine and hope Raine saves everyone’s fucking bacon? Jesus. Shake it up a little. Doesn’t he realize that’s why you’re in double or triple coverage to begin with? Fuck.”
“You sound like your dad right now.” Tiller tugged on the hem of the Raine jersey I wore. “When did you get this?”
Oh god, he was going to be insufferable. “I spilled beer on my Saris jersey and this is all they had on the clearance rack at the concession shop.”
Thunderclouds darkened his face. “I will find every Saris jersey in my house and burn them in your favorite oven.”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh. Whatever his injury was, we’d get through it the way we always did. “Mess with my ovens and see how many eggs I can fit on one salad. I dare you.”
Dr. Bindi came back in with another doctor. “You remember Dr. Sullivan. She’s the soft-tissue specialist. We’re going to take you for some tests to assess the damage to the shoulder and arm. You’ll need the brain scan, too, just to rule out the concussion. I’m afraid the rest of your evening will be taken up with tests. Is there anyone you want us to call to keep you company?”
Tiller pointed his thumb at me. “Already here. Let’s get this party started. And if you can find me some pain pills, I’d be much obliged.”
I blinked at him. Tiller hated taking medicine. He didn’t like giving up control or forgetting what people said. It was one reason he never got drunk either. If he was asking for pain meds, he was way worse off than he was letting on.
I brushed the towel over his forehead again and then down his sweaty chest. “Close your eyes and listen to my voice. I’m going to tell you the story of what Wally did when he got recruited to play for Notre Dame.”
“He didn’t play for Notre Dame,” Tiller corrected.
“No. No, he did not. He ended up playing for Clemson. That’s what makes this a good story. Even my dad doesn’t know this one. I’m not sure Wally realizes anyone knows this story. It involves the Notre Dame coach’s daughter and some seriously poor decision-making on my brother’s part.”
He tried to laugh but winced. “Oh god. Tell me everything. I love a good Wally story.”
Over the next six hours of waiting and testing, I told him every Wally story I could think of and a few about Richie. When they finally gave him serious IV pain meds, he was able to relax enough to slip into sleep. I used that time to wipe him down, at least the parts of his body not covered by the hospital gown they’d changed him into. I didn’t want him caked in game sweat for the rest of the night, but I didn’t want to cause him any pain either.
Do not look at his body. He’s only this perfect because that’s his job. You’ve met enough of these assholes by now to know they’re not for you. Especially this one. Do your job.
I tried not to remember what it was like over five years ago when my father had walked in on Nelson humping me into the sofa in my parents’ family room or the helpless nausea I’d felt when I’d learned of Nelson’s trade to Seattle only ten days later. There were a million reasons I shouldn’t think of Tiller as anything other than my boss, but my father’s reaction was definitely the biggest, meanest one.
When Tiller was finally cleaned up as well as could be, I settled into a chair next to his bed in the little curtained off area where they’d stashed us between tests. I pulled out my phone and left Sam a voicemail update before texting Tiller’s mom.
Me: No concussion. Severe bruising to deltoid, biceps, and right pec. Dislocated shoulder. Possible radial nerve damage to non-dominant arm. Couple weeks in a sling.
Jill: Well, shit.
I laughed.
Me: That about covers it. He’s gonna be pissed when he sobers up.
Jill: How you gonna keep him still? Want me to come?
I thought about Tiller’s mom. Jillian Raine was a successful midwife in Denver. When she took unexpected time off, it inevitably disappointed several of her pregnant patients. She usually planned her vacations at least a year in advance to avoid disruptions.