Page 47 of Fair Catch

It’s not until I pause the show and drop the remote to the coffee table that he jerks in surprise, dropping his keys on the floor.

“Fuck, you really gotta stop acting like a mouse.”

I blink at him. “The TV was on. I thought it would’ve been a dead giveaway.”

His gaze shoots to where the television is mounted while picking up his keys, and he frowns. “Oh, shit. I guess you’re right.”

He looks all out of sorts as he limps his way to the kitchen, dropping his wallet and keys on the granite countertop. And while he’s doing his best to look like he isn’t in pain, the contorted features on his face give him away.

“You okay?” I ask, rising up from the couch and closing the distance between us. “I saw that hit you took, and then the medical team drove you back to the locker room.”

“The trainer wanted to check me out,” he says, confirming what Phoenix had told me during the game. “No big deal.”

Noticing how he doesn’t answer the actual question and considering he’s clearly limping, I’d hardly say it’s not a big deal.

“What did he say was wrong?”

He tries his best to play it off with a shrug. “It’s just a minor sprain. A few days’ rest and I’ll be good as new.”

I don’t know if I want to slap him or laugh at how he’s attempting to play this off. “Sprains are worse than breaks. Any athlete should know that, especially at the collegiate level.”

“And I do,” Kason says, arching a brow. “The question is, why do you?”

“You forget I’ve been best friends with a hockey player for most of my life?” I point out, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve seen my fair share of sports injuries.”

“Then you should also know that with a little rest, ice, and ibuprofen, I’ll be good to go by practice on Monday.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, I think he actually believes it. Or maybe this jock has taken one too many hits to the head, but either way, I’m not about to argue with him when it comes to what he’s putting his body through.

And yet…

“Okay, well walking around the apartment isn’t what I’d call resting or icing, so go sit on the couch.”

“Can I at least grab some stuff before getting comfortable?” he asks with a laugh.

“No, I’ll get it.” Not waiting for a response or argument, I usher him toward the couch until he drops down onto one of the cushions. I grab a couple of the throw pillows my mother insisted we have and stuff one under Kasons’s ankle and hand the other to him for his back.

His eyes stay locked on me as he gingerly takes it from me, not looking away as he tucks it behind him. I feel him watching me as I head back to the kitchen, and I glance back to meet his gaze.

“What? Why’re you staring?”

He shrugs. “You being nice is still kinda weird.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to me beingthisnice. This is me helping the needy, seeing as you’re basically a cripple.”

“Guess I spoke too soon,” he mutters, chuckling from his spot on the couch.

“My point exactly.” I say absently before adding, “You said ibuprofen, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m good there. I already took some meds in the locker room.”

So just a drink and an ice pack, then. Got it.

Grabbing one of the many ice packs we have in the freezer and a bottle of water from in the fridge and head back to hand them off to him.

“Thanks,” he says, sitting up to situate the ice over his ankle.

“No problem.”

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