Page 15 of Pucking the Grump

“An insane person,” she snaps back. She tosses her phone into her purse and props her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe you did this. I have three meetings today! Three big meetings. Coach Bennett from Utah is only in town for two days, and I’m sure?—”

“I’m sure they’ll find someone else to meet with him,” I cut in. “Or reschedule the meeting for tomorrow. Come on, woman. It’s one day. One day to give your body a real chance to rest and reset.” I step closer, relieved when she doesn’t back away. “One day in three years of perfect attendance. And before you ask, yes, I also called in sick. Different excuse though—migraine. Different method of notification, too. I was very careful not to create any connecting dots, proving I’m not an insane person, but actually quite clever. And Sophie’s agreed to be on Barb duty today so I can stay here and help you get some more rest.”

Her lips press together, but the fire is slowly leaving her gaze. “I don’t need more rest. I actually slept really well last night.”

“You also slept for almost twelve hours straight,” I say simply. “And if I’m being honest, last night was kind of scary. You were not yourself.”

And not well, I’m tempted to add, but I know better.

“It was just a rough night.” She crosses her arms defensively. “After a rough weekend. Sometimes stress catches up with everyone. It was a blip, that’s all.”

“A blip?” I repeat, arching a dubious brow. “Rem, you were so exhausted you couldn’t stop crying. Or shaking. That’s not a blip. That’s your body screaming for mercy after months of neglect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” I counter. “I’m being real with you. If you keep this up, you’re headed for a breakdown. Ask me how I know.”

She wrinkles her nose, a hint of curiosity in her tone as she says, “Don’t tell me you’ve had a breakdown.”

“No,” I say, hurrying on before she can interrupt, “but that’s only because I was born chill. I emerged from the womb so laid back, I didn’t even cry in the delivery room. But my oldest sister, Noemi, is like you. Driven, intense, high-functioning, impressive as hell, and prone to burning the candle at both ends. It’s fucked her up more than once. Last time, she was pushing so hard on a research project that when she got sick with bronchitis, she wasn’t strong enough to clear the infection, even with meds. She ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. For a while, we weren’t sure she was going to make it.”

Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry. That’s so scary. She’s the one who works at the lab in San Diego, right?”

“Yeah, making cancer meds,” I say, before adding in a more pointed tone, “Which, not to be a dick, is kind of more serious and worth risking your health for than hockey. And this is coming from someone who really loves hockey and owes it a lot.”

Her lips part, but then close again. A beat later, her posture sags as the last of the fight goes out of her. “Fine,” she says with a sigh. “I am still a little tired. I’ll rest.” She aims a warning finger at my face. “But you never do anything like this again. Not without my permission. I’m not a child who needs some big brother type to save me from myself.”

I snort. “And I’m not your brother. Thank God. That would make the fact that I woke up with my hard-on pressed between your ass cheeks pretty sick.”

Her lips twitch. “I must have really been sleeping like the dead. Your morning wood is usually pretty hard to miss.”

“You were,” I say with a sniff. “And it’s still hard to miss. It was extra big and hard this morning. And if you hadn’t run yourself ragged, you could have been getting off on it instead of sleeping in. Which brings me to the next stage of this intervention.”

“No,” she says, her eyes narrowing again. “No more intervention. I’m hungry and, as you learned last night, low on supplies. If you aren’t going to let me go to the store, we should order groceries delivered.”

“Already done, they’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Thirty tops,” I say. “And I already have coffee made in the kitchen.” She starts past me, but I shift into her path. “No. No coffee until you’ve heard me out. I deserve that much after coming to the rescue last night, right?”

She folds her arms with clearly forced patience. “Okay. What?”

“You need rest. But you also need…fun.” I pull the folded piece of paper from my back pocket. “And I just happen to have a fun intervention contract drawn up and ready to be signed. Look at that.”

“A contract,” she repeats flatly. “What is this? Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“No, because it’s not a sex thing or a dominance thing.” I unfold the paper with a flourish. “It’s a fun thing, and I went to all the trouble to type it up and print it this morning when I was barely awake. So, you should at least read it before you toss it in the garbage.”

Her brows shoot up again. “On my computer? You helped yourself to access to that, too?”

“Yes. But in my defense, having the same password for everything is not the best cyber-security move. You should really mix it up a bit.”

She props a fist on her hip again. “Stone!”

“Sorry, sorry.” I clear my throat as I lift my free hand, fingers spread in surrender. “Look, the point is, I think you need someone to help you relax and remember there’s more to life than the grind. You need play, down time, some shits and giggles just for the sake of shits and giggles. And I’d like to volunteer as tribute to help out with all that.”

“Tribute. Helping me have fun is going to be like fighting for your life in the arena?” She sounds skeptical, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice that gives me hope.

“Nah, you’re not that hard a case.” I grin as I ease closer, wafting the contract gently back and forth. “But I know you. Unless you sign on the dotted line, you won’t take your fun seriously. So, I propose that for the next month, until your big interview, you let me help you build some fun, relaxation, and self-care into your schedule. No strings attached, no pressure, just balance and good times with a friend who wants the best for you.” I shrug as I add in what I hope is a casual voice, “And if you’d rather we not fuck around while we’re doing that, that’s fine by me. Your health and happiness are more important than my penis.”

“Don’t be stupid, your penis is one of my main sources of fun,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice that brings me a ridiculous amount of joy. “But what does this ‘fun coaching’ involve, exactly? You know I don’t have a lot of spare time, and I really can’t miss work or shirk my other obligations.”

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