Page 134 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“You can’t walk around like that?”

I frown and glance over my shoulder at him.

“Like what?”

When he doesn’t answer immediately, I walk over to the hand sanitizer post and begin pumping a flood full in my hand and, basically, give my top half a scrub down with my hands.

“Mickey! You can’t just walk around a hospital in a bra and those health pants!”

“Scrub bottoms,” I correct. “And I can walk around this hospital wearing whatever, so as long as I’m not completely naked. If patients can wear a drape that shows their ass, which, most of the time, isn’t even their choice, I can walk around in my bra and scrub pants to avoid having someone else’s blood on me. Thank you very much.”

“Oh my God, does this have to do with you being a germaphobe freak?”

I pause, scrubbing my arms to glare at him.

He puts his hands up in defense.

“What? It’s true. You don’t need to look at me like that.”

Biting my bottom lip, I stomp back to the bench where he’s standing until I’m inches from him. Our height difference does nothing as he flinches a step back at my erupting movement.

“Why do you always have to make me seem like some irrational, crazy bitch all the time?” I snap. “You always have something negative to say to me. Always have to comment about how I live in a poor fucking neighborhood with thin walls. Or because I have higher cleanliness standards than the average person. I simply want to feel clean after I’ve been unconscious for two hours before being awake for another hour sitting in a top that has a child’s blood! Why is that bad? Do you know if that child has a blood-related illness? Should I go home wearing those scrubs until I’m in a comfortable space to take them off, so you don’t have to deal with looking at my hideous body for a few seconds while I just call an Uber and go home?”

“Y-Your body isn’t hideous,” he argues and groans. “Mick—“

“Stop calling me that!” I snap back. “Ace calls me that. Not you.”

“I’m the one who made that fucking nickname!”

“And you lost the right when you almost killed my mom!” I snap back and leave him stunned. “Fuck, Jayce. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“You still blame your mom dying on me,” he whispers and points in my face. “I didn’t kill her! The ice broke. Am I supposed to control the fucking weather like Jack Fucking Frost?”

“We’re not having this conversation anymore,” I conclude and walk back to the hand sanitizer post to clean my hands again. Anything, so I don’t have to look at that man.

“Fucking hell. All we do is fight, and you don’t care.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I keep rubbing my hands with sanitizer, making them red and wrinkly the longer I rub them together. I’m not paying attention to it.

Honestly, I just want to disappear and wake up in a comfy bed, embraced by those I love.

Mom used to do that.

When I had a rough day, she wouldn’t let me explain a single thing. She knew I sucked with words and how hard it was to communicate the way I liked. She’d just slip into my bed and hug me tightly. Nothing would have to be said.

If I talked, she’d listen.

If I cried, she’d assure me that no matter what I’m dealing with, I’ll get through it.

There were no expectations.

Just warm hugs and another’s company.

I freeze when material goes over my head, only to look up to see Jayce.

Before I can argue, he mutters, “Just wear it, Johnson.”

The way he says it isn’t an order or in his obnoxious, harsh tone. His voice is soft, while his expression is hard to read.

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