Page 50 of The Check Down

“Hello?” I press a hand on my chest and will my heart to settle.

“Brynn? This is Beau.” The quarterback’s slow drawl does nothing to calm my frazzled nerves. “Listen,” he says, “we just landed, but he’s wiped. I’m gonna drive him home. We’ll worry about getting his truck tomorrow. Just wanted to confirm you were home so he’s not alone.”

“Yes.” My voice is frantic, so I force a calming breath into my lungs. “Yeah, I’m here. Thank you so much for giving him a ride.”

“Sure thing. He got more fluids on the way back, but the team docs want him to go heavy on liquids for the next day or so. And Coach has insisted that he not show up for practice tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’ll keep him home.”

“Good luck with that.” He chuckles. “We’ll see you in a few. I’ll text when I get there.”

“Okay. Thanks, Beau.”

I’m in danger of wearing a path in the plush rug by the time his text comes through. I rush downstairs and slip into my old sneakers—no dragon this time—and step out into the chilly darkness to meet the guys.

When Griffin opens the passenger door, Beau leans across the center console and eyes me. “He hasn’t puked for a couple hours, so that’s a good sign.”

“Thanks, Cap,” my roommate grumbles. He makes slow movements as he exits the SUV.

Once he has his legs under him, I swoop in to offer as much support as I can. With one arm wrapped around his waist, I shoulder his leather duffel bag with my free hand and give Beau a quick wave.

“Professor, I’m gonna crush you.” His voice is raspier than usual.

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“Mmm.” He leans into me a fraction more, but he’s still keeping most of his weight off me. “Never doubted it.”

We make our way into the building and begin a slow trudge up the stairs. “You’re burning up, mister.” The heat radiating from his body scorches my arm through his damp T-shirt. “When was the last time you took something for the fever?”

His response is incoherent. Rather than try to decipher it, I decide that if he’s still this warm, it won’t hurt him to have another dose.

We make our way into his bedroom, where he plops down on the side of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees so he can brace his head with his hands. “Head hurts so damn bad.”

“Let me get you something for that. Beright back.”

I sprint into the kitchen, where I’ve left a new bottle of Motrin on the counter. When I return to his bedroom, I fumble the huge tumbler of ice water, almost spilling the entire thing.

Because Griffin Lacey is standing before meshirtless.

My mouth goes so dry, I consider taking a huge swallow of the water that’s still left in the cup.

Oh my God. He’s glorious. Even better than my wildest fantasies have imagined for the last month. And believe me, they’ve been vivid.

This reality—in living color, close enough to touch—is magnificent. I soak up every detail—every dip, curve, and muscle—until I’m sure I could sketch him from memory if I had even one ounce of drawing talent. The way his back muscles bunch and stretch as he twists to throw his shirt across the room. The smattering of dark hair on his chest, those hard pectorals that beg me to rake my nails over them. His abs, so precise in their arrangement, as if they were stacked by the most meticulous bricklayer. And the dark trail of hair beneath his navel.

Holy hell.

When Griffin reaches for the waistband of his joggers, I waver between letting this play out or having the self-control to stop it. He hooks a thumb in the elastic, and when he drags it downward, I realize he’s got a hold of both joggersandunderwear.

“Griff!”

He startles when I shout his name. It’s clear that, in his fevered haze, he didn’t realize I was standing here.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Geez, what a dumb question, Brynn.

“Sorry. I’m so goddamn hot.” He thumbs his waistband again, and this time he pushes only the joggers down his thick, sturdy thighs. He toes them off both ankles and sinks back down on the side of the bed.

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