Page 21 of Body Check

“Sounds good.” We lumber up to the eighth floor, and I scan my key, gaining entry to the small hotel room.

Dumping McKittrick unceremoniously on the bed, Robby takes off his shoes while I pack a bag with the essentials I’ll need for an overnight stay.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Don’t go,” the hockey player slurs. “Don’t wanna be alone.”

Glancing at Robby, I ask a silent question, and he shrugs.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he says.

With a sigh, I sink onto the armchair. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

My friend bustles around the room, procuring another water bottle and some Advil. He stops and kisses my forehead.

“You’re a good egg, Meels,” he says, before he leaves.

McKittrick thrashes in the bed. I make my way over and run my hand through his hair, letting the soft strands sift through my fingers.

He whines, a needy noise deep in the back of his throat. I start to pull away, and his big hand wraps around my wrist, his grip firm.

“Don’t,” he says, his eyes closed. “Don’t stop.”

I run my finger through his hair again and again, scratching at the back of his scalp, fluffing the strands of hair, massaging his head until he drifts off.

When he lets out a snore, I step back, and when he doesn’t jerk, I slowly back away and return to the armchair.

Hopefully, when he wakes up, he won’t remember any of this.