Page 13 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
His building is ridiculous. Like, the sort of high-rise you only see in movies. You know, the ones where the character is either a billionaire CEO or an assassin-for-hire? Yeah, it's that kind of luxury.
The lobby has a fountain. The elevator has a chandelier. The foyer has a freaking museum-quality painting of several sheepdogs playing poker, which is simultaneously so impressive and so unhinged that I have to stop and gape at it for a second.
"Can you make it the rest of the way?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice down so we don't alarm the concierge, who is already watching us like he expects Trent to vomit on the pristine marble tiles.
"I'm a professional athlete," Trent grumbles, pulling himself upright. He immediately overshoots, nearly pitching forward onto the marble floor.
I grab his arm and steer him toward the elevator, trying to ignore how good his biceps feel under my hands. For a guy who almost died of anaphylaxis this morning, he's surprisingly…solid.
We reach his penthouse, and the door swings open like it's been waiting for us. The inside is even more absurd than the lobby. There's a grand piano, a wall of glass that overlooks the entire city, and a rug so soft I want to bury my face in it and nap for the next decade. There are also three hockey sticks, a stack of signed jerseys, and a bottle of ibuprofen the size of my head sitting on the coffee table.
He drops onto the couch with a groan, his arms flopping across the top like he's preparing to be painted like a French girl.
"Home sweet home," he sighs.
"Let's get you some water," I say, heading for the kitchen. "Then you're going to bed, and I'm going to sit vigil until I'm sure you're not going to choke on your tongue and die." I pause, realizing I have no clue where he keeps his glasses. Or anything, really. "Uh, where are your cups?"
He gestures with a wave of his hand. "Above the coffee maker, left side. Not the right. That's my protein shake shrine."
Sure enough, when I open the cabinet to the right, it's jammed with shaker bottles, whey tubs, and enough pre-workout to fuel a small CrossFit cult. Yuck.
I opt for the other side, grab a glass, and fill it with filtered water. There's a bowl of fruit on the counter, which I pointedly ignore. I prefer the miniature, gummy versions, thank you very much.
When I return, he's flipping through channels on the remote, but as soon as I hand him the water, he sets it down and smiles at me, like nothing makes him happier than a glass of tap water delivered by a woman in wrinkled orange scrubs.
"Thanks, Sunshine," he says. His voice is back to normal, and his lips are definitely no longer Muppet-shaped. If anything, he looks better than he didthis morning.
I narrow my eyes. "You're not supposed to look this perky after a trip to the ER."
He tips his head back and laughs. "Would you be mad if I said I may have been exaggerating a little bit for the last hour or so?"
"Yes, actually. I've been texting fifteen people to update them on your condition all day. If you're not at death's door, I'm going to smother you with one of your fancy pillows."
His grin widens. "Who have you been texting?"
I instantly regret saying anything. "Liz, obviously. Coach, because if you croaked and I didn't inform him, I'd get blacklisted from every team in Illinois. Sandra, because she keeps a spreadsheet of every player injury, and I don't want to be the one to ruin her data. And half of your teammates, because I figured ignoring them would only result in them showing up in the ER."
He makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. "Good call. We definitely didn't need them around. And you're the only reason Sandra's head hasn't exploded. If she fires you, we're all fucked."
I try to hide the flush climbing up my cheeks by focusing on his face, looking for any sign that he's still at risk of keeling over. "How is the itching?" I ask, as clinically as possible.
He shrugs and lifts the hospital gown, exposing a strip of abs that I'd really like to lick. There are a few angry redmarks on his ribs, but they're fading fast. I pretend I don't notice the abs, even though my brain immediately creates a familiar slideshow of what the rest of him probably looks like naked.
I've gotten myself off to that self-made slideshow a lot.
"They're fine," he says, pulling the gown down. "The drugs did their job. I just itch a little."
"Don't scratch," I say. "You'll make it worse."
He smirks. "You going to punish me if I do?"
I refuse to answer. Mostly because I might say something I live to regret. Instead, I dig through my bag for the travel-size lotion I always carry and lob it at his head. He catches it one-handed, smirking even harder.
"That's not the kind of punishment I had in mind, but I'll take it," he teases.
If I had the energy, I'd hurl something heavier at him, like a dumbbell, or perhaps the coffee table. He has no idea what his flirting is doing to me. And he's probably too high to even know he's doing it. It's cruel and unusual.
I move to tidy up the living room, because that's what I do when I'm frazzled. I clean. But, aside from the stuff on the coffee table, his apartment is already sparkling. I wonder if he actually lives here, or if he's just squatting. He spends so much time at the arena, he might as well live there.
