Page 2 of Pucked Mountain Man
“Yeah, but you may have to force it. He’ll lie about pain—don’t let him.”
I nod. “I’ll play good nurse, bad nurse with him until he tells me the truth.”
Thatcher gives a nod of his own. “Three: if he tries to watch the replay of the game where he was injured more than once, turn it off.”
My lips part. “He rewatches the game?”
“He blames himself.” Thatcher’s mouth twists.
I picture Grady alone, jaw clenched in the glow of a screen, punishing himself with slow-motion. Over and over again, waiting to see where he want wrong.
My belly tightens.
“And rule four,” Thatcher continues, his voice takes on an edge, “make sure he keeps his hands to himself.”
I laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his distance.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I say. “I’m not his type.”
The man goes for models and influencers, for crying out loud.
Thatcher frowns. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk down about yourself. You’re beautiful. Smart. And kind of scary when you’re mad.”
“Uh-huh.” Methinks the brother doth talk me up too much. “You don’t have to worry. I have plenty to keep me busy while I’m there.”
“You mean your little singing and humming,” he teases.
My chest tightens. “I’m working on an EP. I need to write something that isn’t half a song on a napkin.”
His expression softens. “You know I love your voice, kid. But?—”
There it is. Thebut.
“But it’s just a hobby,” I finish for him. “Open mics don’t pay rent.”
He winces. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence stretches. I think of Mom, swaying in the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand as we sang Fleetwood Mac too loud and rarely in the same key. She named me for Stevie Nicks, like I was destined for the stage.
I’ve yet to command one like my namesake.
Thatcher clears his throat. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”Before either of us can say more, his phone pings. He glances at the screen. “Your patient is here.”
My stomach flips. I smooth my sweatshirt. “Great. I love that for me.”
The sliding doors open and cold air rushes in and Grady enters.
He’s bigger than I remember. And he seems to be in disguise: hoodie, sweatpants, black beanie over dark hair, and aviators reflecting the concourse lights.
Who does he think he’s fooling? Even half-covered, he’s all shoulders and strength. He’s not the kind of man who can disappear in a room.
