Page 92 of Play Along

Who the fuck has to hope that one day someone will care about them enough that their presence will be missed?

My wife, I guess.

Kennedy’s set on leaving Chicago, and I know that when she goes, there won’t be a day I won’t be missing her. There won’t be a day I won’t think about her dimples that hide when she scowls at me or her crossword puzzles or the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating at work. But it’s not her fault she doesn’t understand this yet. She was raised by fucked-up people who didn’t teach their daughter how important she is. How special and loved she is.

She wants me to teach her things? Well, that’s one lesson I’ll be sure to drill into that pretty head of hers.

“Another bowl?” I ask, grabbing hers and standing too quickly.

A sharp pain shoots through my groin and it happens so fast that I can’t hide the grimace on my face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My limp is impossible to mask as I hobble my way to the kitchen.

“Isaiah Rhodes.” Kennedy sits up. “What happened?”

Hands bracketed on the counter, I slowly open my hip flexor, stretching out the pained ligaments.

Kennedy stands from the couch when I don’t answer, carefully examining my movements. “Did you get hurt in the game tonight?”

Fuck.

She’s one of four people I was hoping wouldn’t find out.

“When I slid into third base during the fifth inning, I tweaked something in my hip flexor.”

“Why didn’t you come in for post-game treatment?”

I huff an exasperated laugh. “And have you rub out my groin in public? Wasn’t exactly trying to let the boys see just how hard I get for my wife.”

“Well, let me check it now.”

“No.”

“Isaiah, you can’t be playing injured. Dr. Fredrick is going to lose his mind that he wasn’t informed immediately. You have to tell the medical staff when you’re hurt. It’s in your contract.”

“Well, good news. I just did, but you’re not telling anyone else, Ken. It’s not a big deal and they’re going to make it something, keep me out of games I don’t need to miss. It’s just a little sore. I’ll be fine.”

“You could have a tear.”

“I don’t.”

She stands straighter, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll be the judge of that. I need to examine you. Go lay on the couch.”

“I don’t fit on the couch.”

“Well then...” Her eyes roam my apartment. “Your bed.”

My brows shoot up. “Are you sure about that, Doc?”

She rolls her eyes. “Live, laugh, love, Isaiah. Get your ass on the bed so I can check your injury.”

Chuckling, I hobble to my door and open it for her to enter first. I watch the way her eyes scan my bedroom, the same way they did when she first entered my apartment. I track her movements, noting the smile that ticks on her lips when she finds the framed picture of Max on my dresser and the silent laugh she heaves when she lands on the painted canvas of a hot pink unicorn hanging over my bed. The words I’m Magical are even spelled out in sparkly silver and the chosen location was thanks to Travis.

“I’m magical? That may as well say ‘I’m good at sex,’ hanging over your bed like that.”

I shrug. “You said it, not me.”

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