Page 111 of The Fine Line
“Pretty much. I… uh… I play for the Blizzard?”
“No shit?” He spun around. “Why do you live in such a shitty apartment?”
I shrugged. “Why do you?”
“Touché.”
He flopped onto my couch like he owned it.
“Well, just make yourself at home?—”
“Thanks, man,” he said, already flipping through TV channels.
“Um… aren’t you throwing a party?”
“Sure am.”
“Should you not, like… be at it?”
“Hey, look!” He motioned to the TV, grinning.
I turned just in time to see my own face on the sports highlights—followed immediately by the clip of me crashing to the ice in that night’s game. On loop.
“Sheesh,” Sid winced. “That looked like it hurt.”
“Well, it kinda did.”
He eyed my ankle. “You benched?”
“Nah.” I shook my head. “Just resting it while we’re off. Keep it raised, ice it, take pain meds, repeat. Doctor’s orders.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
“The thrill of my life.”
Sid laughed, then shut off the TV and stood. “I’ve got a couch and a coffee table too. Want to keep your leg up at mine?”
My brows shot up, and for the first time since moving to Chicago, a rush of warmth flooded my chest.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That would be great.”
He patted my shoulder. “Mi casa es tu casa.”
“Let me just put on my shoes.”
I hobbled to the front door and began slipping into my sneakers, struggling to not topple over in the process.
“These the pain meds your doc gave you?”
I looked up to see Sid holding the orange prescription bottle that was sitting on my kitchen counter, reading the label.
“Yeah.”
“Damn,” he whistled. “Oxys? You must’ve really jacked yourself up. Doc gave you the good stuff.”
I limped over, brow scrunching as I read the label. “Percocet?” I only recognized the name from past injuries.
“Oh yeah,” Sid nodded, then tilted his head. “You take one yet? You still look like you’re hurting.”
