Page 68 of Tangled with the Tight End

Chapter 11

Winona

When you watch the game, be a student of the game.

~ Don Meyer

When I walk into Declan’s house, the game’s on. The sounds of the announcers’ voices ring through surround-sound speakers, making it feel almost as if he’s watching the game in person.

Declan’s sitting on the couch, his leg up on a stack of memory foam support pillows. I stand still, taking him in.

Most days I forget how handsome he is—or I push the awareness down to get the job done.

But today he snuck past my defenses. He’s so intent, his eyes fixed on the screen. His brows draw in just the slightest. The set of his jaw is determined, but the stubble along his cheeks gives him a rugged, day-off look. He’s in a white T-shirt, no Thunder logo this time. It’s stretched across his chest and biceps. He’s paired that with some light-grey sweat shorts.

I’m not even hiding the fact that I’m staring when he looks over at me as if I just materialized out of nowhere.

“Hey,” he says, turning back to the TV.

“Hey.” I half-laugh to myself.

He went into the practice facility three days this week. I dropped him off and picked him up. It’s not technically part of my job to provide routine taxi service, but he’d have to ask someone else, and I was available. I did odd jobs while he worked out and watched his teammates run drills. Then I circled back around and picked him up.

Yesterday, I didn’t come over. Declan can maneuver around the house a lot more on his own, so I’m down to four days a week of approved care. In the meantime, I also picked up another patient—an elderly farmer on the outskirts of town who had to have a hip replacement.

I’m here to work, so I tear my eyes away from Declan and get busy.

“Don’t mind me. I’ll just be checking how you’re adjusting to your cast.”

“Mkay,” Declan says, his eyes still on the TV. “Run! Run!” he shouts as if the men on the screen can hear him. “Yes! Yes! Watch your left!”

I smile to myself. He’s kind of cute when he gets all passionate.

“You know they can’t hear you, right?”

“I know,” he says, smirking up at me. “It’s … frustrating that they can’t.”

A commercial comes on. Some guy selling insurance.

“I’m just going to check the skin around your cast for irritation, pressure sores, or breakdown,” I say, running my hand around the edge of the cast.

Declan’s focus lasers in on me. I look up at him, but I feel the start of a blush, so I fix my eyes on the job at hand. Which doesn’t help much because my pointer finger is running through the dark hairs on his leg.

I move to his toes on the leg with the broken ankle. Using my fingernail, I poke under each one in turn. “Can you feel that?” I say with each poke.

He answers, “Yes,” each time. When I get to the baby toe, he giggles and his toe curls backward.

“Are you ticklish, Declan?”

“Only a little,” he says, steeling his face into an impenetrable mask.

“I’m massively ticklish,” I tell him. “I’d probably kick my nurse in the face.”

Declan chuckles.

The next commercial comes on. Some football player is selling potato chips.

“Your color’s good. No swelling. No discharge.” I bend down and sniff.