Page 95 of The Goalie in Room 1

“I don’t own a Roomba.”

“Seems like a personal failing to me, Doc. You should fix that.”

“Pick it up.”

“Make me.”

The image of him on his hands and knees before me… I surged to my feet and cleared my throat, taking the empty bowl from him as I stood. “I’m making dinner. You’re cleaning.”

His gaze dropped to my crotch. A smirk stretched his mouth wide. He looked up at me through his lashes. Then, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, he said, “Yes, Daddy.”

The urge to grab him and show the little shit exactly what being my boy meant sent me into the kitchen before I did something we weren’t ready for.

I returned with the dustbuster and held it out to him.

His eyes twinkled as he took it with a big, bright smile. The vacuum started behind me. A few minutes later, Cash came through the kitchen on his crutches, putting away the dustbuster he’d somehow managed to carry.

He stepped up next to me, pulling the cutting board, knife, and vegetables I’d laid out in front of him.

“You don’t have to help.”

“I know,” he said simply, cutting through the vegetables with ease.

We worked quietly, letting the silence between us settle. The final hockey game of the night played in the living room, the announcers’ voices carrying across the open space beneath the steady chop of Cash’s knife and the sizzle from the stove.

I caught myself checking his balance twice. Both times, Cash noticed, but never called me on it.

He pushed the chopped vegetables toward me. Our fingers brushed when I reached for them. My gaze met his. His fingers lingered against mine for a second before he pulled away.

I swallowed and turned back to the task at hand.

When dinner was ready, Cash made his way to the living room on his crutches while I carried both plates, tucking a pillow under his braced leg before handing him his food. Afterward, I cleared the plates and came back to find him patting the cushion beside him. I sat next to him, despite knowing how bad an idea it was. My hand curled over his thigh, and it felt like the world faded away.

Swiping back and forth over his cotton-covered leg, I stared at the screen while seconds ticked down on the game playing in the background. My whole world centered on the spots we touched.

I needed to stop this nonsense. The sectional could hold a fucking NHL hockey team, yet I always sat next to him. The innocent touches fucked with me almost as much as catching him with his dick in his hand. Almost.

With a sigh, I forced myself to lift my hand. Cash caught my wrist and returned it to his thigh without looking away from the game.

“Cold,” he said.

“Liar. You’re wearing sweatpants. My hand isn’t what’s keeping you warm.”

“Could be.”

I tightened my fingers around his thigh.

His mouth twitched.

Little shit.

By the time the second game’s postgame coverage ended, Cash had sunk deeper into the cushions.

“What do you want to watch?” I asked, taking the remote he held out .

“You choose,” he said. The sleepy tone tugged at my protective instincts.

I groaned. “Ugh. You complain about everything I choose the whole time it’s on.”