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“Wife,” I say, and refuse to be embarrassed by how much emotion is in my voice. The crying kind.
Van doesn’t miss it, though, and must open his mouth to remark on it because I see Wyatt darting away from the wall and hear anoomphfrom Van. But I’m not looking at them. Only Bailey.
“Hockey player,” she says.
This time, Wyatt doesn’t move quickly enough to stop Van from saying, “Which one?”
I’m the one who kicks him—right off the bed and onto the floor. Which really doesn’t do good things for my head, but I regret nothing.
“Everybody out,” Alec says, clapping his hands. When I wince at the sharp sound and the way it tunnels through my head, he lowers his voice. “Sorry, Hop. Everybody out.”
Parker hugs Bailey, who’s still hanging in the doorway, and a few of the guys pat her shoulder or back. Alec manages to sweet-talk the nurse and security guard who were trying to stop Bailey, and in a few seconds, everyone is gone.
But Bailey is still standing in the doorway.
“After all that bravery, telling off the hospital staff, and making marital declarations, you’re scared to come in here?”
I pat the bed next to me, unable to really scoot over for her because I just know that kind of movement will kill my head. Kicking Van almost made me puke. Throwing up is the last thing I want to do right now.
“I just … need a minute,” Bailey says, and I frown. Which, like everything else right now, hurts.
Don’t I even get a morphine drip in this place?
“What do you need a minute for?” I ask, as she finally, finally walks fully into the room, pushing the door closed softly as she does.
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I needed to see for myself that you were okay. I’ve been traveling all night, and the last thing I saw was you on the ice, not moving.” She stops just short of the bed, and I don’t miss the way she’s twirling her rings or the way her lips tremble. “Seeing that on a YouTube livestream was …”
“Come here. Please.”
I tug her toward me, trying to move slowly but still wincing because my stupid, stupid head feels like someone is hitting it repeatedly with a rubber mallet.
“Does it hurt to move?” she asks and when I nod, she narrows her eyes. “Then stop moving.”
“Then get in this bed with me.”
“There’s no room.”
“Get in the bed, wife.”
“So bossy,” she says, carefully settling herself next to me. “Are we having our first fight?”
“Only if it means we get to make up later. Ow.”
“Does it hurt to smile?” With gentle fingers, Bailey traces my lips.
“Everything hurts,” I groan, and she shifts, running her fingers through my hair. “Except that. That feels awesome.”
“Then I’ll keep doing it. Even if you didn’t score any points.”
I close my eyes, trying not to laugh. Groaning instead because her fingers feel so good on my scalp. Forget a morphine drip. I need a Bailey mainline. “Did you fly all the way here to tell me how much I sucked in the last game?”
“Yep. That and to tell you I love you.”
“Aw, you—wait. Hang on. Did you just say you love me?” I stare at the shy smile on Bailey’s face, wishing my brain felt less mushy so I could be one hundred percent sure she said?—
“I love you.”
This time, I get the full effect. Because I’m watching her as she says it, and I’m slightly more prepared than I was a few seconds before.
