Page 34 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

“Uh…yeah.” It takes a moment, but his eyes go wide when he figures out who he just delivered dinner to.

“Thanks, man,” I say the second he hands it over, and I slip inside before he has a chance to say anything.

I never used to be this way. I used to happily embrace every bit of attention I could get. But recently, it’s the last thing I want, because everyone who wants to talk to me wants to discuss my injury and potential recovery time—literally the last thing I want to talk to a stranger about.

I feel like an asshole for running away as I say good evening to the concierge, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. As I head up to Sienna’s floor in the elevator, I clutch the bag of food to my chest, my stomach growling as the savory scent fills the enclosed space.

By the time I get to her door, I’m ravenous, and as I knock, my hand trembles, desperate for food. Anyone would think I haven’t eaten anything today, which is far from the case.

Guilt eats at me that she might be sleeping. I should have at least messaged to check if she was awake, but then I’d ruin the surprise. And possibly end up stuck on this side of the door when she refused to answer. This way, I stand a bit of a chance of getting inside.

I’m not sure what it is, but Sienna always has her guard up around me. I’ve watched her interact with the others, and she’s always more relaxed. I like to think that maybe on some level, she does remember me. Or maybe her body does. Either that or she thinks I’m hotter than the others— which of course, is entirely possible—and I make her nervous.

Honestly, I’m happy with either of those options.

She’s faster to get to the door this time, and she opens it a little more cautiously than she did this morning. The second she sees it’s me, her eyes widen and her lips press into a thin line.

“What’s this? Déjà vu?” she asks, hugging the blanket I wrapped her up in earlier.

She still looks exhausted. The circles under her eyes are dark, her lips are dry, and her hair is wild. But she still takes my breath away like she did the very first time I saw her.

I find her eyes again, letting that smirk she accused me of wearing earlier make its appearance. “Nah, baby. This time I come with dinner, not breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” she states, trying and failing to make herself big enough to fill the doorway.

“Darlin’, you need to eat,” I say, cursing when I hear my Texan drawl loud and clear.

But if she clocks it, she doesn’t react. “Don’t call me that.”

My mouth opens and closes, but I soon find that I don’t have any words.

“I got you chicken noodle soup. You gonna let me in so I can serve it for you?”

“I can serve my own soup,” she says with a huff.

“I’m well aware of that. But unless you have a boyfriend that I don’t know about who’s on his way over to take care of you, then I’m gonna do it for you so you can rest.”

“And what if I do have a boyfriend on his way over?” My stomach knots painfully as the words roll off her tongue.

I’m not aware that she has a boyfriend. Rett and Bea have never said anything. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t hiding one somewhere.

I take a step forward, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep eye contact with me. I might not be as tall as some of the guys on the team, but I still tower above her short frame.

“Wouldn’t make a difference. He wasn’t here this morning when you needed him, and I was. He deserves to be taught a lesson if he isn’t taking care of you properly.”

Sienna stares at me, her lips parted in disbelief. If the situation were different, trying to hold myself back from pressing mine against them and pushing my tongue into her mouth would be almost impossible. But as it is, she’s sick, and me getting any closer is probably the last thing she wants.

“Excuse me. Our dinner is getting cold,” I say, awkwardly slipping around her, and once again, inviting myself into her space.

Her stare burns into my back, but I don’t allow her to know I’m aware of it. Instead, I walk straight to her kitchen and begin getting what I need.

“That looks like a hell of a lot more than chicken noodle soup.”

“Well, yeah. A machine like this can’t live on just that,” I explain as I continue pulling containers from the bag.

“I guess not,” she mutters. “You know, you’re kinda interrupting.”

“Oh yeah? About to get ready to go out partying?”