Page 76 of Slew Foot
Mickey was too worried to even enjoy the view. Instead, he pressed cool cloths to Rafe’s forehead and wiped his face and chest when it got too sweaty.
But Mickey had a game that night so he drove to the Hawk’s Nest and did his best to shut everything out of his mind except for trying to play with a call-up who definitely wasn’t Rafe.
Mickey rushed through his post-game routine, then hurried home after the Harriers’ win, stopping only to check with Dr. Pope who told him to keep an eye on Rafe’s temperature but as long as it didn’t get over a certain point, there was no need for worry.
Mickey still worried.
On the way home, he stopped at a pharmacy for some more medical supplies.
Rafe was dozing when he got there, and he was grateful he’d grabbed one of the medical laser thermometers so he could check Rafe’s temp without waking him.
It was still under the threshold Dr. Pope had told him to watch out for, so he set the thermometer on the nightstand, then rested a hand on Rafe’s forehead.
He stirred a little, pressing into Mickey’s touch and slurring, “… ’s better when you’re here.”
Helplessly, Mickey whispered, “I’m not going anywhere,” and settled on the bed beside Rafe over the covers to watch over him while he slept, risk of getting sick be damned.
The next morning, Rafe woke feeling like someone had hit him with a truck.
He was bleary-eyed as he blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. Every part of his body ached—worse than after a hit from Crawford—and he felt gross and sweaty.
He shifted, trying to throw back the covers, but someone grunted beside him.
Rafe lifted his head to see Mickey sprawled beside him, fully dressed in his gameday suit except for the jacket, shoes, and belt. He was on top of the covers, his head not even on a pillow, his forehead filled with lines like he was worried, even in his sleep.
Mickey, Rafe thought, a soft bruised feeling in his chest appearing. Mickey was so …Fuck. He’d be thebestfucking boyfriend.
Rafe shifted so he leaned against the headboard, staring at Mickey while he slept for a moment.
There was a weird, dry tickle in Rafe’s throat, so he tried to cough into his hand so it wouldn’t wake him. The sound was raspy, and it felt like there was another cough stuck, so he did again, this time deeper and louder.
He winced as Mickey flew upright, muttering something in German, his eyes wild as he looked around.
Rafe opened his mouth to say something, but he coughed again and then it was like his throat closed up and he couldn’t stop. He bent over, lungs going tight.
Mickey kept talking, murmuring something Rafe couldn’t hear or understand as he rubbed Rafe’s back, his hand warm and comforting.
A moment later, the door flew open and Rafe looked up through streaming eyes to see Tanner standing there.
“Dude. Are you okay?” he asked. He wore nothing but boxers and his hair was big and fluffy, the curls all messed up and wild.
Rafe tried to say something, but he couldn’t stop coughing. “Goaway,” he finally choked. “You’re both going to get sick.”
Tanner shrugged and walked farther into the room. “Pretty sure I was the one who got you sick in the first place.”
“Doesn’t explain him,” Rafe managed before another coughing fit took over.
“Yeah, well, he’s in love with you,” Tanner said with a snort.
Mickey made a soft sound, like someone had punched him in the chest.
And Rafe felt like he’d been punched in the chest too, breathless from the words and, well, because it felt like someone was twisting his lungs in their fist and squeezing.
He started coughing again and Mickey sighed and said, “I think we better get you into a hot shower.”
“I don’t”—Rafe had another coughing fit—“I don’t think I can. Too …” He flapped his arm. “Ugh.”
Even sitting up was a lot of work.
