Chapter Two
Trent
T he worst part of anaphylaxis isn't the lack of oxygen, the itching, or the hives turning your skin into a topographical map.
That shit is small fries compared to lying helpless in an assless hospital gown while the woman of your dreams paces a goddamn rut in the linoleum, looking like she's about to throw up or start sobbing. Or both.
I itch so bad I want to peel off my own damn skin. But I'll die before I let Dani Frost see me scratch my own ass.
She's doing her own impression of a caged animal as she paces, hands clasped so tight her knuckles are white.
Her full lips move like she's reciting the ingredients list of every food in her fridge.
Every so often, she mutters honey , and then makes this sound that's half demented bird, half abject misery .
There's a plastic Christmas tree blinking in the hallway, reflecting off the glass panel above the exam room door. Its rainbow LEDs have a disco ball effect across her blue eyes, which are fixed on my face with desperate, guilty intensity.
I smirk at her, which is tough when my upper lip feels like it's the size of a bratwurst. "You gonna keep pacing, or are you planning to faint dramatically into my arms?"
If the latter is an option, I'd absolutely prefer to go with it. Anything to get her into my arms at this point. I'm a desperate motherfucker.
She flinches, her cheeks blazing red. "You almost died, Kirk."
Ouch. The use of my last name means she's serious. I fucking live for the sound of my first rolling from her lips when she gives it to me, but I guess I'm not getting it today.
She's currently scanning my hives like she's about to start cataloguing them for a research paper…which I'm guessing isn't a good thing.
Fuck. This is not how the morning was supposed to go.
I had a plan to execute before her delicious fucking fudge tried to kill me.
I was going to get her hands on my body, and then, when she was nice and complacent, casually suggest she accompany me to Colt's Christmas party tomorrow night.
She was supposed to say yes, and I was supposed to spend Christmas with her in my bed.
Best. Christmas. Ever .
"You'll have to try way harder than that to kill me, Dani," I say, trying to sound casual. It comes out kind of nasally and extra deep, like I'm auditioning to be Darth Vader's replacement.
She wrings her hands together, strands of blonde hair curling around her face in a way that makes her look beautifully wild. "Stop making jokes! I had to stab you in the leg with an EpiPen." She hits me with those wide eyes I can't resist. "I've never even used an EpiPen on a person before!"
I wiggle my toes under the sheet, mostly to prove I'm not dead. But also because most of the blood in my body is currently in my cock, so I should probably try to work it into other areas at some point, right? "You did great. Ten out of ten, would get stabbed again."
Her mouth works silently, like she wants to argue, but the words won't form.
I've seen her like this before, usually with Ryan, or when Sandra tries to tell her a banana counts as junk food.
Usually, she'll snort, roll her eyes, and then steamroll right through the conversation instead of losing her mind. My girl has the patience of a saint.
Today, she just keeps staring, shoulders hunched, looking about as dangerous as a kitten. And about as guilty as a puppy who just shit in a shoe.
There's a machine by my head, beeping like a Morse code distress signal, and every time it chirps, she jumps a little. She keeps looking at it, then at me, like the number might count down to my last breath.
"How bad does it hurt?" she asks, her voice soft.
"Honestly? I'm fine," I lie with the confidence of a man who has told every team doc he's good to go while actively bleeding from somewhere important. "It's just a little itchy."
She eyes me, not buying my bullshit for a second. "You scratched yourself so hard you drew blood."
Shit. Did I? I sneak a peek at my left forearm. There are three bright red welts with a faint trickle of dried blood. Dammit.
"Fine. Maybe a six out of ten. But only because I want to see if you'll give me a sticker for being brave."
"Trent."
There it is. My real name. The one she uses when she forgets she's supposed to maintain that infuriating line between us.
I swear to Christ, I hear her whispering it in my dreams. Usually, right before I wake up to find my cock already in my hand. It's impressive how often that's happened since she signed on as our physical therapist.
I've never cared much about dating. Women in this world can be vipers. But Dani is different, and I'm not above admitting that I'm goddamn obsessed.
I don't even need therapy. My back is fine. Does that stop me from finagling my way onto her schedule at least twice a week? Absolutely not .
I can't help but grin at her when she glares at me. "Are you going to take away my fudge privileges?"
That, at least, earns me an exhale instead of a glower. A laugh almost escapes, but it's still stuck somewhere under her guilt.
"You're the worst patient." She perches on the edge of the plastic visitor chair, like she's afraid she'll break it, which is nuts because she's maybe a third my size. But I know how self-conscious she gets.
She's fucking perfect, in my opinion. Her thick, curvy body drives me wild. But she's always fidgeting with her scrubs like she wants to hide her beautiful body from the world. It pisses me off because she's a literal goddess, all soft and lush.
"I'm so sorry." She looks down at her hands, fiddling with the elastic hairband on her wrist. "I should've remembered your allergy. You even mentioned it a few weeks ago when Karsen brought in that beeswax skate polish."
"It's not your fault, Dani. Bees are just spicy bugs that want to ruin my life. And Christmas."
She shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. Jesus. The first time Dani Frost cries in front of me, I want it to be because she's overwhelmed with pleasure, not because she thinks she nearly murdered me with baked goods.
"Hey." I reach out, patting her wrist with a hand that still vaguely resembles a pufferfish. "Seriously, I'm okay. I' m on drugs now."
"You're always on drugs," she mutters, but her smile starts to peek through.
"Ibuprofen doesn't count." I grin again. "These ones damn sure do, though. I'm basically high as a kite. You could probably draw dicks on me right now, and I wouldn't even care."
Her gaze flicks down my arms, which are currently red and covered in hives.
"I think your tattoos are enough artwork," she says. This time, her smile sticks.
There's a long pause where the only sound is the monitor, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and the soft murmur of voices from out in the hall. It's the kind of silence that makes me uncomfortable lately, because silence means thinking, and thinking means remembering that Dani Frost isn't mine.
Yet.
I peek over at her to find her studying me like she's trying to solve a puzzle no one else has ever finished.
Honestly, she's probably closer than anyone else has ever been.
I don't do up close and personal. I like people at a distance, not under my skin or in my business.
Dani is different. I want her to know all my secrets. I damn sure want to know all of hers.
With the drugs running through my system, I have to remind myself that I'm not allowed to reach over and pull her down next to me to see if the hives make me more or less sensitive.
There's an unspoken rule: never hit on the team's PT, especially when you're half-dead. Honestly, fuck that rule.
She should be mine.
I pick at the plastic ID bracelet like it's a handcuff. "Can I go back to practice now?"
She snorts. "Not a chance. You'll be lucky if you go home at all tonight."
"Bullshit," I say, but there's no real heat in it. Dani gets the soft version of me. Everyone else can get fucked, though. "You know I'll just sneak out. The beds here are made for toddlers." I'm not even joking. My legs dangle in midair from the calves down.
"You almost went into shock, Trent. For once in your life, listen to someone who isn't paid to tell you what you want to hear."
Oof. I deserved that.
"Fine," I say, letting my head loll back on the pillow. "But only if you stay until they spring me. I need a chaperone, or I'll end up escaping and raiding the nurse's snack stash." I pause for effect. "There could be more honey. I might die."
She stiffens. "I have to check in with Coach. He's probably going to–"
"It's the day before Christmas Eve, Dani.
Practice was over hours ago. Half the guys are probably already on a plane headed to Wherever the Fuck.
And Coach isn't going to fire you. Come on.
Please don't leave me all alone." I do my best puppy dog eyes, which is hard with eyelids the size of cold cuts.
She hesitates, lips pursed. "Fine. But you have to promise to follow orders."
"Deal. But only if those orders involve going home today."
She rolls her eyes, but this time it's definitely affectionate. "You're insufferable."
"I know."
We both fall silent again, but it's comfortable now. Or maybe the drugs are better than I thought.
I watch her as she fiddles with the visitor badge, twirling it around her index finger, glancing up at me every few seconds like she's trying to catch me off guard. I let her think she has, just for fun.
When our eyes meet, she blushes and glances down at the floor.
"Hey, Dani?" I ask, my voice lower than I intended.
She tenses, looking up again. "Yeah?"
"When you decided to become a physical therapist, did you ever think you'd end up babysitting a bunch of overgrown children?"
She laughs for real this time. "Why? Did you expect the league to be a grown-up operation when you signed on? "
I shake my head. "No. I guess I just figured you would have followed through on that urge to run after seeing what a goddamn mess we all are."