Page 13 of For Pucking Ever

"Almost there," he murmurs, and I hate how my body leans into his voice like a plant seeking sunlight.

His kitchen is gleaming surfaces and morning light. A French press of coffee sits on the island next to a plate of what looks like the fluffiest omelet I've ever seen. Fresh fruit. Toast.

"You made all this?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

Bast shrugs, helping me onto one of the bar stools. "My grand-mamie taught me. She said no man should rely on others to feed him." He pours me a glass of water, sliding it across the counter. "Drink. You need to stay hydrated."

I take a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass as he moves around the kitchen with practiced ease. His shoulders flex beneath his t-shirt as he reaches for mugs in a high cabinet.

"Why are you doing this?" I blurt out. I don’t know why I am going down this road again, but I need to be sure.

He turns, coffeepot in hand, brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"This." I gesture weakly at the food, the house, him. "Taking care of me. You didn't have to volunteer."

Something flickers across his face, too quick to identify. He pours the coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between us.

"You would have preferred a stranger?" he asks, sliding a mug toward me. "Or a facility?"

I stare into the dark liquid, watching the steam curl upward. "I would have preferred not being a burden to anyone."

Bast is quiet for so long I think he might not respond. When I look up, his expression is unreadable, but his eyes. . .his eyes hold a heat that makes my breath catch.

"You are not a burden, Derrick," he says my name deliberately, like he's tasting it. "You are. . . a fellow athlete, a teammate."

The word falls between us, inadequate and hollow.

I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "We're not teammates, Bast. We play for different teams, remember? We're rivals." I pick up my fork, jabbing at the omelet. "Opponents."

He leans forward, palms flat on the counter, and suddenly all I can think about is how those hands felt on my skin ten months ago. How they felt on my skin last night, clinical but gentle as he helped me in the shower.

"Is that what you think we are?" he asks quietly. "Opponents?"

I meet his gaze, trying to keep my expression neutral even as my heart hammers against my ribs. "What would you call it?"

The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring. I can see him weighing his words, the careful calculation behind those stormy eyes.

"Complicated," he finally says.

I snort, taking a bite of the omelet. It's delicious, light, fluffy, with just the right amount of cheese, herbs, and is that Canadian bacon? I hate that he's good at this too.

"That's one word for it," I mutter.

He sits beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch. "Eat. Then we can talk about. . .complications."

I focus on the food instead of the heat of him next to me. Instead of the way my body remembers his touch. Instead of the fact that I'm stuck here, in his beautiful house with his beautiful art on the walls, completely at his mercy.

"You never answered my question," I ask after swallowing a mouthful of toast. "Why volunteer to take me in?"

Bast takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes fixed on something outside the window. When he speaks, his voice is so low I almost miss it. "Because I owed you this much."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Guilt.

That's what this is. He feels responsible, not just because his teammate's slapshot is what cracked my skull, but because of everything else. The summer that ended in silence. The season of avoiding each other's eyes during handshake lines. The carefully constructed distance we've both maintained.

"You don't owe me anything," I say, pushing the plate away. My appetite vanishes like smoke. "It was just a summer fling. Ancient history."

His jaw tightens. "Is that what it was to you?"