Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

27. Cami

Cami

R olling over, I moan as sore muscles pull and a dull pain thrums in my hip. Softness beneath me offers comfort, but with the way my body aches it gives little relief.

“Cam?”

The whisper of my name has a smile pulling at my lips and I try to open my eyes but my lids are stuck and when I attempt to move my arm so I can rub the sleep from them it’s too hard. Like my limb is weighed down.

A grumble of frustration vibrates in my throat and the bed dips beside me.

“Shh… You’re safe.”

Safe? Why would I not be safe…

Warm pressure gliding over my head has my thoughts scattering.

Sinking into the soothing warmth engulfing me I take my time to catalogue the rest of my body, to wonder why I feel so groggy.

Was I in an accident?

I can’t recall where I am. Or who I’m with. But the sense of security I get from the presence, from the scent filling my nose, the timbre of the voice, puts me at ease.

I know the smell. I recognize the voice.

Except neither are trigging knowledge of who they belong to; it’s right there, I just can’t grab it…

I should be panicking, I should be moving away, forcing my eyes open and figuring out where I am. Why I’m in pain.

“Is she waking up yet?”

The light feminine voice flips a switch and the panic I couldn’t quite muster before screams through my veins and explodes into motion.

I’m upright, pushing through the comfort of a moment ago into muscle tightening anxiety.

Swaying on my feet, my eyes wide, I swivel my head in search of the threat. “Whitney!”

“Whoa.” Large hands grip my shoulders. “Easy, Cam.”

Twisting away, I swing around, and pounding pain shoots through the back of my skull.

Arms up ready to defend, I lock eyes with a set of light brown ones. Recognition slams into me and my lungs and body deflate when I realize where I am.

Who I’m with.

“Beckett?”

“Hey. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“I…” Why does he keep saying that? Glancing around, I see I’m in his bedroom. Was in his bed. Again? “When…”

Shaking my head, I try to clear the fog from my brain. Movement catches my eye and I turn to see Whitney hovering in the doorway as though afraid to enter the room.

I step toward her. “Are you okay?”

My question has her eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “Um, yeah.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder before coming back to me. “Are you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Cam.”

Beckett’s voice pulls my gaze back to him and I see he’s moved closer, has a hand held out .

“Come sit down.”

His soft voice, the concern written all over his face, has me taking a step away. “Why? What’s going on? Why am I here… When did I get here?”

The last thing I remember is…

“The game.” A smile stretches my lips. “We won the game.”

“Yeah, we did.” His smile doesn’t hold the joy I expect.

“Then…” I tip my head, eyes going to the ceiling like what I want to know will be written on it, and try to remember what happened after the game.

Did I get drunk at the post-game celebration?

“Come sit. Have some water.”

His gentleness, the careful movements he’s making toward me have me stepping back again and anger rolling through me. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Please, Cam, come sit down before you fall down, and I’ll explain what we know so far.”

I’m not frightened of Beckett. I’m scared of what he’s going to tell me. In spite of my fear, I let him take my hand and guide me back to his bed.

“Here.” Whitney appears in front of me, a glass of water held out. “Do you have a headache? I can get you some pain meds if you need but they said if you can put up with it you should try. At least until the Zolpidem is completely out of your system.”

“Zolpidem?” My eyes move to Beckett.

“It’s a drug used to treat insomnia.”

“Why the hell did I take a sleeping pill?”

“Drink some water and I’ll explain.”

His words don’t ease my mind, they only make me more confused. But what can I do other than what he’s asking?

I know neither of them would hurt me and their concern is genuine, if confusing.

When I lower to the edge of Beckett’s bed and take the glass from Whitney, both of them breathe a sigh of relief and sit on either side of me .

Their actions are not making me feel any better and after a couple of sips I brace myself and demand, “Tell me.”

“What do you remember?” Beckett asks.

“We won the game.”

“After the game. Do you remember anything from after the game?”

I think about it, because the longer I sit here the more my brain seems to clear. “You got a hat trick.” At his nod, I continue. “Nat banned the media from the locker room.”

“She did.”

“I was with Dad”—air rushes through my teeth and into my lungs as memories flash through my head. “Someone pushed me. Put something in my bag.”

“Draper. But he didn’t just push you. He injected you with Zolpidem and what he put in your bag was a tracking device.”

That explains the sleeping pill. But the other… “A tracking device?”

“We’re not sure why he did that, but Ray speculates his intention was to follow you until the Zolpidem took effect.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know that either.”

Bringing a hand up, I rub my forehead. “I feel weird.”

“You will for a little bit until the Zolpidem leaves your system. The doctor said to keep your fluids up to help flush it through.” He accompanies his words with a hand on the glass urging it back to my mouth. “Food will help too. I’ll make you some toast. Unless you feel up to eating something else.”

“I can make it.” Whitney pushes to her feet and looks down at me. “I’ll make whatever you want.”

“Toast is good.” I don’t want them to fuss over me more than necessary and at that thought, another pops up. “Why am I here? Why didn’t I go home?”

“Your apartment is a crime scene.”

“My apartment…” More memories surface and I’m not liking most of them .

“And your mom and dad decided staying here would be better because we can be here with you all the time. Not that you need a babysitter.”

“Seems like I do lately,” I mumble.

I can’t believe my life is turning into a soap opera again. I thought I’d put that behind me years ago. The idea of going through the drama Andrea made my life makes my skin crawl, makes me feel dirty.

“Can I take a shower?”

“Of course.” Beckett jumps to his feet. “Let me help you.”

He’s gone, striding toward the bathroom before I can protest. I hate that he’s being forced to look after me a second time. But I can’t deny the feeling his attention gives me.

I like it.

I want it.

“I’ll wait until you finish to make your toast.”

I glance up at Whitney. “Are you okay?”

The smile she gives me is filled with relief. “Yes. I’m fine.”

I can’t peg what her expression is. And I don’t have to because her next words spell it out for me.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. I wanted to cry when I saw you passed out in Dad’s arms. And I knew, just knew , it had something to do with me, but no one is saying that. Except everything started when I made that post at the beginning of pre-season. If I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Twice! And Dad wouldn’t be freaking out about keeping us both safe.”

There’s a lot to unpack in her words but I go with reassuring her about her dad’s behavior first. “He’s not freaking out. He’s just being careful.”

“Oh no, he’s definitely freaking out.” Her gaze moves to the bathroom door before coming back to me. “I know him and he might not be showing it, but he’s scared. I wasn’t there, but I bet when you fell into his lap out cold you took years off his life.”

She’s right. It had to have freaked him out. I don’t remember it. Can’t remember anything clearly past being in the owner’s suite at the end of the game. And honestly, that’s a little scary.

I’ll have to look up the side effects of Zolpidem. See if memory loss is one of them.

“All right. The water is warm and I’ve laid a fresh towel out close to the shower. Do you need help getting in?” Beckett strolls back into the bedroom, a frown on his face. “How’s your hip?”

“It’s fine.” It’s not, but I don’t want to impose any more than I have.

“Right. I’ll go get the cream and the heat pads ready.”

“I don’t nee?—”

Beckett holds up a hand. “I saw the bruises again last night when we got home and got you into bed. I’ll get the cream and the heat pads, and you’ll use both.”

“Uh oh, that’s his Dad voice. Better do what he says.” Whitney grins at me.

“Fine.” Emotions war inside me. I feel equally determined to take care of myself and yet strangely comforted by Beckett’s brand of looking out for me. Pushing to my feet, I ask, “Where’s my bag?”

“In the closet.” Beckett points over his shoulder. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”

“I need the whole thing. It’s got my toiletries and clothes in there. Wait. My bag is here?” So much of the last… “What time is it? What day is it?”

“You’ve been asleep about fourteen hours.”

“Oh.” Why does it feel like more of my life is missing from my memory?

“And Whit helped your mom pack up your hotel room and brought your stuff home.”

If Whitney helped Mom, why am I here and not at home?

So many questions and not enough answers. I want to shake my head and rattle all the missing memories lose, but I don’t think that will help the dull pain at the back of my skull .

“I’ll put your bag in the bathroom. Do you need Whit to help you with anything?”

“No. I think I’m okay.”

“I’ll stay here so you can call out if you need me.” Whitney lowers herself back to the bed.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to.” She smiles at me and I know I’m not going to win this argument, and to be honest I don’t have the energy to fight it.

“Okay. I’m getting in the shower.” I head for the bathroom only for Beckett to overtake me, my bag in his hand.

Once he places it on the floor, he opens it up and asks, “What do you need? I’ll put it on the vanity so it’s within easy reach.”

“Beckett.” I wait for him to look at me. “I’m not an invalid. I can bend down and get whatever I need.”

“You’ve got a headache. Bending down repeatedly won’t help it.”

I don’t recall confirming I have a headache.

“You get a crease, right here”—he presses a finger to the skin at the top of my nose—“when you’re in pain.”

“It could be my hip.”

Beckett nods. “It could. But you’re walking without a limp now so it’s not your hip and the doctor said you might wake with a headache.”

“I feel out of touch. Confused.”

“That could be the remnants of the sleep med or the lack of memory. The last time you were awake, we were outside the visitors’ locker room in the Miami arena. Now you’re here.”

What he says makes sense and while I get how I got here doesn’t really matter, I want to know it. I need to put all the pieces together. I hate the out of control feeling I have right now. It too reminiscent of a past I put behind me long ago.

“Will you tell me everything that happened?”

“Of course.” He points at my bag. “Tell me what you need out of here and I’ll let you get that shower. ”

“My pjs and toiletries bag.”

He quickly has a pile on the counter. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Call out to Whit if you need help.”

“I won’t need?—”

“Cam. Don’t push yourself. There’s no shame in asking for help in a situation like this.”

I know he’s right. But when your formative years are spent taking care of yourself because no one else cares enough to do it, your natural instinct is to do it on your own.

It took years before I let Dad and Mom look after me. Years of hiding every bump or bruise or illness because I didn’t trust they’d help if I told them.

“Stop overthinking this and hop in the shower. The hot water should help clear your head and ease any aches remaining from the other day.”

I force a smile. “It’s hard to stop my mind from spinning. Although I’ll try because you’re right. I have a headache and all this thinking is only making it worse.”

“I’ll put together something more substantial than toast and make you a protein shake. Your body is still in repair mode from the fall and now this.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been through the wringer. Food, fluid, and rest for you for the next couple of days.”

“I should go?—”

“Don’t start that again. I want you here. I need you here.”

Beckett doesn’t give me time to comment on his words before he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

As much as I want to ponder what he said, why he said it, the relief the steaming shower offers is my priority. Pulling my shampoo and conditioner from my bag, I strip out of the shirt Beckett must have put on me at some point and hop under the warm spray.

The moan that leaves me is loud and I’m not surprised when Whitney knocks on the door .

“Cami? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

I smile. She’s so perceptive. Normally I’d say yes and not mean it, but I can’t lie to Whitney. “I’m a little shaky. But I think if I sit on the floor, I can wash my hair.”

“Oh, screw that!”

The next thing I know, Whitney is not only in the bathroom, she’s in the shower with me. Her clothes are soaked in seconds and I’m so weak and muddled that I don’t protest when she helps me sit on the floor and grabs the handheld shower head and switches the water flow to it.

“Tilt your head back so I can wet your hair, then pass me the shampoo.”

What strength I had on first waking is quickly draining away and I have to admit I’d never have been able to do this on my own. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to stand once she’s done.

“Thank you.”

“You took care of me. More than once. It’s only fair I take care of you in return.”

“Hmm…” The warm water, the press of her fingers through my hair, the care she’s showing me, it all makes me want to cry.

I’m not an emotional person. Not prone to tears. But right now I’m helpless to stop them from falling.

“It’s okay. We’ll take care of you.”

Whitney’s words make the tears flow faster and neither of us says another word while she finishes washing my hair.

And when she’s satisfied I’m clean, she helps me stand and dries me off and dresses me like a child before helping me back to Beckett’s bed.