Page 67 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Ha,” I manage, just as another wave of pain moves through me and I, embarrassingly, pass out into his arms.

Sam

“Hey,” I say, watching as Finn slowly wakes up, her eyes struggling to open. She’s tucked into my bed, a pillow jammed under her left side to keep her from rolling over onto her shoulder.

After she passed out, I put her in my car and took her straight to urgent care. According to them, she had a dislocated shoulder and a concussion. Nothing serious, but she’d be in some pain. She was sleepy and pissed while they waited for the results of her CT scan, and adorably frustrated that she couldn’t just take a little nap.

Finn was particularly upset at the florescent lights, calling them abrasive enough times that the nurse finally agreed to turn themoff, but kept the lamp next to her hospital bed on so she wouldn’t fall asleep. The scans came back, and, finally given permission, Finn drifted to sleep while I waited for them to get her discharge information together.

“With a grade one concussion, we just need to be cautious for the next day or so,” Dr. Roberts said, handing me a packet of information. “She needs rest. Limited screens and no intense concentration.”

I had to hold back a smile thinking about the tablet in her purse. All Finn did was concentrate intensely. On the way to the urgent care, she’d roused in the passenger seat and murmured something about watching game film after climbing.

“She's not going to like that,” I’d said.

“Well, she doesn't have to like it. She just has to do it.” He looked at me seriously. “Someone should check on her periodically through the day. Sleep is the best thing for her, but we need to make sure she’s recovering and not getting worse.”

I glanced at Finn, head lolled to the side on her pillow. No way was I taking her to Aldine’s guest house and leaving her there, so I decided to bring her back to my apartment. I’d text Penny to let her know.

“Watch for unusual drowsiness or severe headaches. If symptoms worsen, bring her back in.” He wrote something on his prescription pad. “This is for any nausea, and the pain in that shoulder. Make sure she doesn’t sleep on it. It can be useful totuck a pillow into the side,” he gestured to this ribs, “like this. So she doesn’t turn in her sleep. Ice that bump on her head, but not for too long.”

“Okay.”

“And she needs at least twenty-four hours of rest before returning to work. When she does return, it should be gradual.” He handed me the prescription.

Now, I help her sit up and shake out the medication for nausea and pain into her palm. Finn blinks at it for a second, as though she’s never seen pills before.

“Take ‘em,” I say, handing her a glass of water.

To my surprise, she blinks at me once, then obeys, taking the pills and knocking them back. She makes a face after drinking the water, her eyes shifting, unfocused, to mine.

“Is that filtered?” Finn asks.

I press my lips together. “I filled this from the tap.”

“Microplastics,” she mutters, shaking her head and burying her head in the pillow. Her voice is muffled and barely legible when she says, “Bad for you—bad for performance. Tell Penny to order you a filter.”

A second later, she’s drifted to sleep again, and I watch her, the water glass in hand. Even disheveled and cranky, she’s gorgeous. And I want to take care of her for the rest of her life.

That knowledge settles in me like sediment forming solid rock. I want to take care of her. I wanther. And I’m going to do what I can to make that happen.

I sit with her, reading a motivational book on the long list she wants me to get through, until it’s time for bed. Sleepy and loose, I get her into the shower with me, then blow-dry her hair for her and tuck her back into my bed, setting an alarm to wake up every few hours to check on her.

The next morning, Finn wakes up more like herself, but I insist on dropping her off at the guest house anyway. It’s in the back of the property, so unless the Aldines are actively looking out the window, it’s not likely they’ll see me.

“See you after practice,” Finn says, her eyes skipping to mine. Maybe it’s delusional, but I’m starting to think something in her gaze might be changing when she looks at me—something more open than before.

Something that gives me hope. That when I ask her to give this thing a shot, she might actually say yes.

***

“Sammy!”

I wince at the name, and I don’t know why. It used to beSamthat bothered me, and now Sammy is starting to feel…different. Childish.

“Hey, Harper,” I say, turning to face her. Today she’s wearing a blush-pink sweater dress and thick wool tights. A camera hangs loosely around her neck. “You need a picture or something?”

“Actually,” she says, clearing her throat and rolling her lips into her mouth. I stare at them for a moment, my brain trying to catch up with what’s happening right now. The air between us has changed, shifting and warming a few degrees.

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