Page 22 of On the Brink of Passion

“What?”

“What’re you doing?”

“You sniffled. You can’t get sick. Do you hear me? That is not okay. Not permitted. I do not allow it.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. “You know, I don’t really think that’s how the whole sick thing works.”

“I don’t care. You’re not getting sick. Now stay there. I’m going to the dining hall to get you broth and hot lemon water and honey. There must be a drugstore around here too, right? They’d have a humidifier, and vitamin C drops, and echinacea, and zinc. I need to call Daphne and see if any of those are on the SIG no-no list.”

Mostly it’s stuff like illegal drugs and steroids, but a few people have been caught out and had their medals stripped for taking over-the-counter meds. That is not happening to us, no way.

I reach for my phone where it’s plugged in on the nightstand, but before I can unplug it and get on the phone with Daphne, Beckett snags my wrist, and brings my hand to his mouth, dropping a kiss on my knuckles.

“I’m not sick. You can stop playing Nurse Nightingale or whoever you think you are. It’s just—”

And then he sneezes. The bastard actually sneezes. Thankfully his parents taught him some manners and he does it into his elbow but that is the last straw.

“You are sick. So stop touching me, you disease vector. The only thing worse than you being sick would be both of us being sick. I’m going to get some supplies. Don’t you dare get out of bed. Unless you need to use the bathroom. Or take a shower. Actually, the steam would probably be good for your congestion. Go take a shower. Don’t turn the fan on.”

It would be really great if Beck would stop looking at me like I’m a crazy person, but my bar isn’t that high. I’ll settle for him following my directions. Which he isn’t doing, he’s still lounging there like some kind of invalid while claiming he’s not ill.You can’t have it both ways, Beckett.

I yank my hand out of his and point at the bathroom door, having half a mind to shove him out of bed like I did last night. He might see it coming this time though so it probably wouldn’t work. Although come to think of it, this is probably his fault for dragging us out to that bar. Goddammit. “Go. Now.”

He sketches a lazy salute and sits up straighter before swinging his legs out from under the covers, landing his big feet on the floor. I watch for him to sway when he stands, but he doesn’t, just lumbers over to the bathroom with his boxers clinging to his hips in that really aggravating way.

Christ. Because I didn’t have enough problems.

Beckett

Before I turn on the shower, I can hear Jubilee talking on the phone.

“Beckett isn’t coming to practice today. He’s sick so I’m making him rest. He’s getting in the shower now and I’m going out to get him a shit ton of vitamin C and some broth. Can you tell me—”

Then the door slams shut and I can’t make out her words anymore. Just that she’s still talking rapid-fire at poor Daphne.

When I do turn the shower on, I follow Jubilee’s directive and don’t turn on the fan, letting the steam fill the bathroom. I don’t know what exactly has Jubilee going so far off the deep end—I mean, she’s usually swimming pretty close to it but this is fully over the line, and she is freaking. Over nothing, because I am not getting sick.

Except then I sneeze and sniffle again, which I’m glad Jubilee’s not here for because she’d probably drag me to the SIG ER. As if they could do anything about a cold. Even I know you can’t do shit for the common cold except treat some of the symptoms and wait it out.

Jubilee was right about the shower though; the hot water feels good. It always does after a hard practice, but there’s not any reason for me to be sore now. Except if I am getting sick. Shit. That’s a piece of information I will very much be keeping to myself.

I take a leisurely shower, inhaling the steam and standing under the hot spray, and when I’m done, I pull on some sweats. Then I check the agenda Jubilee set up for us today. Maybe Daphne will be able to convince her she’s being irrational about me not practicing, but I doubt it. When Jubilee’s got a head of steam about something, you do not want to get in that girl’s way.

We’ve got some press stuff in the afternoon and evening, and maybe she’ll let me out of quarantine for that. It’s not like it’s a lot of work. Surely I can sit there and talk about stuff? I’m better at that stuff than she is, and I help humanize her. She always kind of seems like a frost queen, but I’m the guy next door, albeit one who skates really well.

About ten minutes later she bustles back in, lays enough foam coffee cups on her desk to fortify a whole team. And then she’s descending upon me, feeling my forehead again, looking me over. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Did the shower help? Do your lungs feel clearer?”

“My lungs were perfectly—” It’s a good thing I’m used to Jubilee’s death glares, and don’t take too much offense to how she’s looking at me. Or call the proper authorities, because seriously, she looks like if this cold doesn’t kill me, she’s planning to do the job herself. If she’s going to be like this no matter what I say, I may as well make things easier on myself. “Yes, the shower helped. Thank you for suggesting it.”

Ah, finally, she looks like the cat who ate the canary. Shoulders back, little smile on her face. “Good, now drink some of this.”

She shoves one of the cups in my face, and that is. . . . not coffee. “What the hell is this?”

“This one is bone broth. It’s really good for you. Drink up.”

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