Page 104 of After the Snap

Pushing the thought away, I glance toward the hallway instead. At this rate, I’m going to have more clothes here than I do at Dad’s. Jubal cleared a drawer for me weeks ago, and I’ve nearly filled it without trying. My shampoo is in his shower, my toothbrush sits beside his, and staying over stopped requiring a packed bag every time I came. The message is still waiting when I look down at my phone again.

Nope. Dinner is almost ready. Drive safe, Old Man.

The dots appear again, but I lock my phone before he can defend his advanced age and turn back to dinner.

Jubal gave me a key a few weeks ago after I spent twenty minutes waiting for him in my car while he was stuck at the facility. I’d stared at it in my palm long enough for him to ask if I planned to use it or have it framed, and now I barely think about reaching for it. Tonight, I let myself in before he was due home, spread my things across the living room, and started dinner when I got hungry. The first few times I used the key, I still felt like I was letting myself into Jubal’s place. Tonight, with dinner on the stove and my things scattered beside his, it feels like I got home first.

The front door opens while I’m draining the pasta, and my body responds to the sound before I hear his voice. “Pea?”

“In here.”

His bag lands near the entryway, and a few seconds later, his arms slide around my waist from behind. I settle back against him without thinking, smiling when his mouth finds the spot beneath my ear. The faint scratch of his beard against my skin tells me he’s overdue for a shave, and underneath the clean scent of whatever they keep in the showers at the stadium is the familiar warmth of him.

“Hi,” he murmurs before planting a kiss on the side of my neck and resting his chin on my shoulder. “Something smells good.”

“It should. I’ve been trying very hard not to ruin it.”

His hand reaches past me toward the cutting board, and I catch it before he can steal a piece of chicken. “I’m starving.”

“You can wait.”

I turn in his arms to tell him dinner is almost done and notice his right shoulder sits lower than his left. Even with both arms around me, he’s keeping that elbow tucked close to his body. Nine games into the season, I know his body well enough to recognize what he’s trying not to show me. My hand slides up his chest toward his shoulder, but he catches my wrist before my fingers reach it.

“I’m fine.” His thumb brushes once over the inside of my wrist.

“I didn’t say anything.”

A month ago, I’m fine might have been enough to make me wonder whether I was overstepping. Now I know the difference between the soreness he complains about because he wants me to rub his back and the pain that makes him guard one side of his body while insisting nothing is wrong.

“How bad is it?”

“Not bad.”

Stepping out of his embrace, I fold my arms under my breasts. He knows I’m not asking whether he can play through it. I want to know how much he hurts standing here in front of me, where he doesn’t have to convince anyone he’s okay. His mouth tightens before he finally gives me the truth.

“Four. Maybe five on the pain scale if I reach overhead.”

“What did the trainers say?”

“Normal soreness. They worked on it after practice. And before you ask, they cleared me.”

Of course, they did. By November, I know being cleared and being comfortable are two very different things, but pushing will only make him feel like I don’t trust him to take care of himself. Instead, I lean in and kiss him, letting my mouth linger against his before I pull away.

“Okay.”

He kisses my forehead before heading for the refrigerator. When he reaches for the handle with his left hand instead of his right, the question rises again, but I swallow it. He answered me, and I won’t turn caring about him into refusing to believe him. Growing up with Dad meant I always knew what football does to bodies. He built his entire career around men who recover at the start of every week just enough to do it again at the end, yet this aspect of caring for one of them never prepared me. Now I know which bruises on Jubal are new and when the stiffness in his legs means he’ll fall asleep halfway through whatever we’re watching on television. Every week gives me another way to know him, even when I wish some of them didn’t come from watching him hurt.

Jubal catches me looking when he turns away from the refrigerator with a bottle of water. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and reach for the pasta. “I’m just wondering how much bubble wrap I’ll need to get you through the rest of the season.”

“Absolutely not.”

He twists the cap off his water with his left hand, and I have to resist the urge to take over one more thing for him. “King and Tuck want to know what type of cookies you’re bringing to the game on Sunday.”

“I told them I might have time to bake cookies. They turned that into a promise all by themselves.” I turn back to the stove, trying not to smile. “Besides, Tuck lost the right to have opinions about my baking when he helped Easton corner us in the locker room.”

Jubal’s mouth curves around the edge of his water bottle. Easton and Tuck haven’t said a word about catching us dancing alone in the locker room, and I’m perfectly happy to let that continue. But it’s gotten a lot harder to keep what’s happening between us a secret when I have to stop myself from reaching for him at the facility. He’s had problems keeping his hand inches from my back often enough that I know I’m not the only one adjusting. Thankfully, no one has asked, but I’m not counting on that to last forever, especially with Archer in the building. The man ruined my dad’s surprise party this year because knowing a secret creates a physical pressure inside him that can only be relieved by telling someone.