Page 92 of The Goalie in Room 1

“Yes.”

I looked up. “How much?”

“Less than the tree.”

My head snapped up. “Bullshit.”

“I saw the receipt on the kitchen counter for that monstrosity.”

“Shit.”

Thad laughed, completely unrepentant.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“You left it beside the coffee maker.”

“Still.”

I pulled one of the shoes out and turned it over, pressing my thumb into the sole. I inspected the construction like I knew enough about fucking shoes to determine whether they were worth what he’d paid.

I knew they weren’t.

No shoe was worth that much.

“You’re going to need good shoes,” Thad said.

I stopped fucking with the sole and looked at him. “When I’m walking normally again?”

His expression changed, the teasing disappearing. “When you’re walking everywhere again.”

My fingers tightened around the shoe. There it was. Not if. Not some careful doctor answer about timelines and outcomes.

When.

Damn him.

“Thanks, Doc.”

His gaze held mine. “You’re welcome. And I thought…maybe…”

“Maybe…”

“When you’re ready, we could run together sometimes.”

Emotion clogged my throat. I carefully put the shoe back and replaced the lid before setting the box on the floor. Somewhere along the way, my leg ended up across his lap again. I wasn’t sure which of us had put it there.

His fingers rested loosely around my ankle, his thumb moving over my skin while we drank our coffee and surveyed the mess we’d made of the living room.

Last night slipped into my head again.

Thad’s hand.

My name.

Then his face in my doorway.

My dick apparently thought Christmas morning needed an encore because warmth started crawling lower.