Page 14 of It's Complicated

Thankfully there wasn’t a line for the men’s room, and we were able to walk right in. A few guys were at the urinals, but it was otherwise empty.

“Do you think you can get that off alone?” I asked.

He gave a hopeless shrug. “Maybe? It feels like it’s getting tighter the longer I wear it.”

“In there.” I motioned to a bathroom stall.

He went in. I followed and closed the door behind me. The stall was tiny, barely big enough for both of us to stand in it, but it would have to do.

“Take your shirt off.”

Jamie did as I said, pulling it up over his head.

“Jesus Christ,” I gaped at his torso. It was as bad as that small bit of his side I’d seen. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I repeated.

He shrugged again. “It’s not like I’m dying. Play through the pain and all that.”

I took his tee from him and tucked it into my waistband so it wouldn’t end up on the floor. “This isn’t the championship game. Suffering wasn’t part of the deal. I wanted you to look ridiculous, not cut off your ability to breathe.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.” He tugged at the neckline, his grimace telling me itwasa big deal.

As ex-hockey players, Jamie and I both experienced the same conditioning growing up. Nothing was more important than the game. Pain was inconsequential as long as you got the W and complaining was somehow a failure.

It took time to break that mindset, and this wasn’t the first time Jamie hid being in pain because of it.

“Shut up and hold still so I can get this off you,” I said, guilt sweeping through me.

I should have realized the stupid shirt would make him so uncomfortable, and I hated that I was the reason he was struggling.

He shot me a soft smile, like he could read where my thoughts had gone and was telling me he knew I didn’t mean for this to happen.

Pulling the shirt on had been tough but trying to yank it up was nearly impossible. The material was stretchy, but it didn’t breathe. The heat from wearing two shirts in a crowded bar made him a bit sweaty, which only made the shirt cling to him like it had been glued on.

After about five minutes of tugging and trying to peel the shirt up, all I managed to do was expose a three-inch strip of his stomach and shift the bottom hem so it cut into his waist instead of across his hips.

“This probably looks really weird to anyone in the bathroom,” he whispered, leaning in close so only I could hear him.

His hot breath tickled my ear and neck, sending little tingles through me.

What the hell?

Ignoring my body’s reaction, I stopped tugging on the shirt.

He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t bothered to stifle my little grunts of frustration every time my hands slipped or I lost my grip and almost punched one of us in the face during my struggles.

It probably looked and sounded like we were hooking up.

“Do you trust me?” I pulled my keys out of my pocket.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, his eyes on my keychain as I separated my penknife from the ring.

“It’ll take forever to cut it off, but I can at least open up the chest so you can breathe better.” I tucked my keys away. “You good with that? We can get the rest off when we get home.”

“Yeah. That’ll help.” He let out a shuddery breath. “It’s getting worse.”

I flipped the small knife out of the sheath. “All that yanking on it didn’t help.” I showed him the blade. It wasn’t sharp, but it was still a knife. “You still good with this?”

“Yeah, of course.” He sucked in a breath.

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