Page 50 of Tangled with the Tight End

The impact stops my momentum and sends me flying in the opposite direction.

I scream. The crutches give way. I’m flailing.

Patrick reaches out, shouting my name, “Winonaaaa!” He grabs my arm and somehow lifts me up as the crutches clatter to the ground. With one swift movement he deposits me on my feet.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was demonstrating how to use this sling.”

Patrick starts laughing. I glance over at the couch. Declan is cracking up. He’s actually wiping a tear out from under his eye and gasping for breath.

“That … was … awesome,” Declan says between bursts of laughter. His voice grows more serious. “You need to be careful, though.”

“You think?” I say, tucking a hair behind my ear.

“Yeah. I don’t want to have to set up a second couch in here.”

It takes me a minute to register what he’s saying. And when I figure it out, my heart clenches just a little. Declan would want to get a couch for me? Here? But why?

I pick the crutches up off the floor, propping them on the wall.

“Well, I think that’s everything …” I say. “Except your cold compression. Let me get to that.”

Declan turns his attention to his brother while I grab the cuff machine and exit stage left into the kitchen.

“What brings you here?” Declan asks Patrick.

“Just checking on you on my break. But I didn’t realize it was the entertainment hour.”

“Don’t knock it,” Declan says.

And I can’t make out what else he says without lingering too close when I have a job to do.

I fill the water and ice and come back into the family room, setting up the machine while the guys talk.

Once the compression is on, I step out into the hallway and lean back against the wall.

Cass is going to die when I tell her about my antics on the crutches.

I can hear her voice now. Only you, Winona. Only you.

Chapter 9

Declan

It was a million tiny little things that,

when you added them all up,

they meant we were supposed to be together.

~ Sleepless in Seattle (1993)

Winona’s moving around me in what’s turning into a routine. It’s midafternoon and she just arrived. I always wonder what she’s been up to during the time since her last visit, but asking feels intrusive, so I just watch her as she goes through the motions.

She puts the cuff on my arm. This time she actually gives my bicep a squeeze. It’s not exactly professional, but she manages to make it feel innocent.

“What does a man do to get arms like this?” she asks, staring at my bicep like it’s abnormal. “I don’t think I remember you being this big in junior high or high school. Not that I paid much attention to you.”

She just says whatever’s on her mind.