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I’m thankful for our height difference because he can’t hear my heartbeat faster. Because it definitely didn’t start until after I was safe.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Y-you can put me down now.”
He lets go. Stepping back to give me space.
I try to take a step and crumble. I must’ve hurt my ankle again when I fell.
Sean is right by my side again. This time, he picks me up, cradling me against his body to the loveseat.
He sets me down on the couch, then repositions my leg, elevating it against the arm rest and tucking a pillow beneath my knees so I’m more comfortable.
“Stay there. I’ll be back with ice.”
It only takes him two minutes, max.
Sean brings the pizza down with the ice pack and two Advil. There is no kitchen down here, not that I imagine he’ll allow me to get up anytime soon.
“Does it hurt?” he gingerly places the ice pack around my ankle. He walks away to get me a water. “Here, take this.” He hands me the Advil.
“It’s fine.” It’s mostly the truth. Eventually, I know it’ll be fine. But in this moment, it hurts like hell. And I probably won’t be able to run for a while.
He doesn’t move until I take the pills, to which I roll my eyes dramatically in front of him so that he understands just how ridiculous this all is. Then he doubles down, dragging over the armchair to be next to me.
Way too close to me.
He pulls the coffee table towards us, careful not to spill the water. “That way you don’t have to move,” he explains. His arm brushes against mine as he reaches out to grab me a slice.
I hate the way skin to skin contact makes me shiver.
I swallow my nerves with bites of pepperoni. He’s just another guy. He’s not special.
“You don’t have practice today?” I ask. I don’t know the first thing about hockey. I’m a football fan, myself. But I assume the same principles apply.
“Nope.” He opens his mouth and shoves the entirety of the slice inside.
I blink to make sure I’m not imagining things. “You uh,” I can’t think of anything else to say, too distracted by the sight of him. His hands are the size of the plates. Dinner plates.
I remember what it felt like to be held tight against his chest. I wonder what it’d feel like to have those hands on the rest of my body.
“I take it that you’re not a hockey fan, then?” he asks, fighting against a long string of cheese that’s stuck to the pizza.
I look up at him. Is he mad? Should I lie. Then he laughs, his face softening. “Most people I know in Jersey aren’t, don’t worry. I’m not offended.”
“Okay good,” I exhale in relief. “I do like sports though,” I offer.
“Just not mine.”
I wince. Not better.
“I’m teasing you, relax.” He nudges me with his shoulder. This time he doesn’t move away.
The space where his body touches mine sparks again, leaving behind a strange, heated sensation over my skin. Except this time, I think he feels it too.
The distraction makes me clumsy. “Shit.” I stretch out my white shirt to see the big, red marinara stain. I knew better than to wear this.
“Stay here. Let me help.” Sean heads into the bathroom and comes back out with a small, wet hand towel.
“Here.” He hands it to me.
