Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
After a solid hour of playing basketball, Sam and I go food shopping. It’s already late afternoon by the time we pull into the garage. We’re in the process of unloading grocery bags and carrying them to the mudroom that leads to the kitchen when I hear shouting. The noise descends into a sort of groan. Sam and I look at each other, drop the bags, and hurry from the garage to the kitchen.
“Camilla!”
Without sparing another second, we run to the gym where we find Calvin sprawled face down on the mats.
“What happened?!” Cal turns his head to face me and I drop to my knees.
“Pulled a muscle in my back,” he groans.
“Sam, go get the cold packs in the freezer,” I order. Sam doesn’t hesitate, sprinting out of the room.
“Where’s Mercedes?”
“Needed the day off.”
“How long have you been lying here?”
“Maybe an hour.”
Instinctively, I start running my hands down his back to check for heat and swelling and find it on the left side of his lower back.
“Tell me if you feel any pain,” I say while I palpate the area.
His breath catches. I can feel him holding it. “A little…right there.”
“It doesn’t seem serious. Most likely a strain. I’ll ice it and get you some ibuprofen. Do you want me to call the team trainer?”
“No.”
“What about that blonde? The one that comes over to give you massages?”
“Natalie? Hmm, better not.”
“Why?”
He mumbles something that vaguely sounds like ‘can’t deal with her hitting on me right now’, and I have to bite my lower lip to school the grin spreading on my face. Very gently, I massage the area, the heel of my hand pressing and stretching the hot skin of his lower back.
“Ughhh––keep doing that.” Short, breathless moans break the sentence apart. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Played softball ‘til my senior year in college.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“I think I should be offended.”
“No, no, please. I just…”
“Don’t worry about it, Champ,” I interrupt, taking mercy on him.
Sam returns with the ice packs and hands them to me. His eyes are wide and anxious.
“It’s nothing serious, Sam.” That seems to calm him a little.
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Cal adds gruffly. Yeah, very reassuring. However, I cut him some slack since he’s in pain.
“Sam, I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you go start that book we got yesterday.” At my suggestion, Sam leaves skid marks. I’m pretty sure he’s still not entirely comfortable around Cal.
“You’ve really been pushing it lately.”
“Have to be ready for minicamp.”
My eyes do a slow dance over his perfect butt. “You’re more than ready. I’d say give it a rest, but your body just did it for me.” After he responds with some incoherent grumblings, I continue with, “I don’t think we should move you. Maybe I’ll just turn the television on while I alternate icing and massaging.”
“Okay.” That one word does what nothing has ever done before––make him sound vulnerable. My poor, weak heart spasms. After I get him the painkillers and order Chinese take-out for dinner, I start icing and massaging.
“You don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to.” Something in the tone he uses belies his words, although I could be imagining it––not like I can trust my judgment any longer. “Yeah, right there,” he groans.
“If you don’t want me to stay, just say so.”
“Stay if you want to,” he says, hurriedly.
I pick up a remote complicated enough to operate a military drone, and spend the next few minutes fumbling with it. When I have zero success turning on the television, Calvin patiently walks me through it, after which, I resume my tender ministrations. Last season’s conference championship game pops up on the flat screen.
“You’re a split second late on your release. You didn’t trust your receiver––the defensive back read it perfectly.” The words leave my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. The moment I finish the sentence I know I shouldn’t have.
Palms flat on the mat, his cheek resting on them, he lifts his face slightly to look at me. It’s tight––and not from pain.
“Stewart wasn’t where he was supposed to be. That’s why he got traded.”
It’s plain as day to me. Cal was a fraction of a second late pulling the trigger and it cost them the championship. “Why aren’t you saying anything,” he spits out. He’s pissed. I hear it loud and clear even though he’s trying hard to hide it.
“Because I disagree. You didn’t trust him. Watch the film from three years ago. You had the quickest release I’ve ever seen.” We both fall silent for the rest of the game. By the time it ends, he’s in ‘deep brooding’ mode.
“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”
“No. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he mumbles without glancing my way. The rest of the furniture we ordered arrived earlier in the week. The extra oversized down couch is wide enough to sleep two people comfortably.