Page 143 of Over the Line

After I’d eaten and taken a pill, I stacked some pillows against the headboard and sat back against them. When I was situated, Garrett joined me, and I was seriously grateful that the shower had loosened up my muscles enough that I could curl against him.

“Is this comfortable?” he asked as I draped my arm across his midsection.

“It’s fine.” I closed my eyes as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “It’s perfect.” I sighed. “The meds will knock me out at some point. They’re not like painkillers, but they do make me tired.”

“Then sleep.” He carded his fingers through my hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I gripped his other hand, and I didn’t care how pathetic I sounded when I whispered, “I want to actually spend time with you, though.”

“I know. And we are.” He kissed the top of my head. “And when you feel human again, we will.”

I made an unhappy noise, which got a soft laugh out of him.

“I’d much rather have you fall asleep than watch you be in pain.” He stroked my hair again. “We have time. I mean it—I’m not going anywhere.”

My stomach twisted and I gnawed the inside of my cheek. He couldn’t possibly know how much I wanted to believe that.

“Hey.” His fingertips trailed up and down my arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I…”

Well, fuck. Might as well just be honest with him, right? Because he was going to find out soon enough.

“Stuff like this—it’s going to happen. Often. I mean, I don’t get—it’s not always like⁠—”

“Pain is a thing,” he said evenly. “You’re a professional athlete.”

“It… right. It is. But I don’t think a lot of people realize how much pain there is, and how much it interferes with daily life.” I paused, then decided to lay down the card that had chased my ex out the door. “When I retire, I’m going to have to train almost as much as I do now. Stay in almost this level of shape for as long as I can. Because as soon as I stop…”

“All the past injuries will kick in.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“Yeah.” I exhaled. “Which means even after I’m not playing hockey anymore…”

Silence hung between us for a moment.

“Do you…” Garrett’s hand stopped mid-stroke on my arm. “Do you think I’m going to bail because hockey means you’re in pain sometimes?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

He tensed. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Tristan and I told the media we”—I made air quotes before resting my arm on his stomach again—“grew apart and mutually agreed to separate. But that’s not the whole story.” I laughed bitterly. “It isn’t even the story at all, unless growing apart and mutually agreeing to separate includes ‘I didn’t sign up for someone who cuddles with icepacks more than he touches me.’”

“He—are you telling me that clown was jealous of icepacks?”

“He was jealous of hockey. It got all of my time and attention, and it cut into our sex life, our relationship—all of it. He was with me during that season when I couldn’t go three games without getting hurt. By halfway through the season, he was pissed that I could always recover enough to play hockey, but I was never quite healthy enough for sex.”

“Jesus Christ.” Garrett wiped his hand over his face, then lowered it and rested it on top of my arm. “Tell me he didn’t really dump you because your sport put you through the meat grinder.”

“He did.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Though I couldn’t see him, I could almost feel him rolling his eyes. “What did he expect? That you’d just come home from a game and screw him?”

“I mean, sometimes I can.”

“Oh, I know.” He laughed softly. “I definitely know.”

I managed a quiet chuckle. “But sometimes… Sometimes things hurt. Or I’m just fucking tired. Or I feel like crap mentally because it was a tough game.”