Chapter 6
I know this because I'm currently walking across campus with a grocery bag containing a pint of cookie dough, a pint of mint chip, and what's left of my dignity—which, for the record, isn't much.
It's been five days since I rode Jay Cross's face in the training room and then fled like the building was on fire.
Five days since I marched into Dr. King's office and requested a transfer.
Five days since I found out that giving up Jay's placement means I'm now a semester behind on my practical hours because every other student's assignment was already taken.
Fantastic. Wonderful. Love that for me.
I push through the door to my dorm building, climbing the stairs with the kind of defeated energy usually reserved for finals week or discovering your ex is dating someone hotter than you.
When I get to my room, Kinsey is sprawled across her bed surrounded by papers with a red pen tucked behind her ear. She's got the Catfish on while she's marking papers.
“Isn't that distracting?” I ask, nodding toward the screen as I drop my bag on the counter.
She shrugs without looking up from the essay she's marking. “Not really. Wes is an outfielder. He's barely on screen. I keep it on so I can at least pretend I know what happened when he calls later.”
“And for Tate Sorenson,” I say with a smirk, pulling the ice cream out of the bag. That's at least the only reason I'd bother watching a baseball game. That man is a walking thirst trap.
“He really is.” Kinsey finally glances up—then does a double take when she sees what I'm holding. “Really? You're just going to eat a tub of ice cream in the middle of the day?”
“Two tubs, actually.” I grab a spoon from our makeshift kitchenette. “And yes. I am.”
“Ally.” She sets down her red pen, giving me her full attention. “What's wrong? Did Derek call you, or is this just the lingering trauma?”
Derek? I haven't thought of that man since Jay walked back into my life.
“I get it,” Kinsey continues. “You must have a lot of regrets. You didn’t waste two years—you learned a very specific lesson about endurance and false hope.”
“This isn't about Derek,” I spit out his name as I pry the lid off the cookie dough and take a massive bite, buying myself time. The cold hits my teeth, but I barely feel it. “I'm a semester behind.”
“Behind on what?”
“My practical hours.” I take another bite, not looking at her. “I gave up my practical placement with Jay Cross, and there's no one else they could assign me to.”
“Wait.” She sits up straighter. “You gave up the placement? I thought you just... I don't know, switched days or something.”
“Nope. Full transfer. He's his athletic trainer's problem now. Not mine.”
Never mine.
“Why would you do that? You were complaining about it, sure, but you weren't—” She stops mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing. “Ally. Why did you give up on Jay?”
I shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth.
“Ally.”
Even with the cold ice cream in my mouth, I can feel my cheeks heating, which is absolutely ridiculous because I'm a grown woman who can handle discussing... whatever the hell that was.
Kinsey's eyes go wide. “Oh my God.”
“Don't—”
“Oh my God.” She's off the bed now, crossing the room with her eyes solely focused on me. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Something happened. Something definitely happened.” She points at my face.
I keep my gaze fixed on my ice cream, hoping she'll eventually get bored and go back to marking papers.
It doesn't happen.
“I took things too far,” I finally admit.
“Define 'too far.'“
“I'd rather not.”
“Ally.”
“Fine!” I drop the spoon into the container, giving up any pretense of composure. “I taped his mouth shut because he wouldn't stop talking, and then I... I may have...”
“May have what?”
“Sat on his face,” I wince as I say the words. Even the watered-down version doesn't sound great.
Silence.
I risk a glance at Kinsey. She's staring at me with her mouth literally hanging open.
“You sat on his face?”
“It was an accident!”
“How do you accidentally sit on someone's face?!”
“I don't know! One second I was taping his mouth shut, and the next I was—” I gesture vaguely, unable to form the words. “It just happened.”
Truthfully, thinking about the way he pulled my panties to the side and managed to get me off without his tongue or lips is still beyond anything I thought possible.
Kinsey lets out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “I can't believe you didn't tell me this immediately. This is the most exciting thing that's happened all semester!”
“It's not exciting. It's mortifying.” I abandon the ice cream on the counter and collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
“I rode my patient's face in the training room and ran out of the room before Jay could say anything.
Trying to explain to Dr. King why I couldn't have Jay as a patient anymore was even worse.”
“Okay, first of all, dramatic.” Kinsey sits on the edge of my bed. “Second of all, what does Jay think about all this?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know? Haven't you talked to him?”
“No.” I throw my arm over my eyes. “I haven't talked to him since I left him sitting there with tape residue across his swollen lips.
Even if I wanted to, what was I supposed to say?
'Hey, sorry I nearly suffocated you with my labia. Can we forget that ever happens while I continue to tape your thigh for the rest of the semester?”
Kinsey is quiet for a moment. Then she starts laughing.
“This isn't funny!”
“It's a little funny.” She's full-on cackling now. “Oh God. He's going to come looking for you, isn't he?”
“No.”
“Yes, he is.” She wipes tears from her eyes. “He's an athlete, Ally. They don't quit once they have their sights set on someone. Trust me—I'm engaged to one.” She raises her hand, flashing that obnoxiously gaudy ring on her hand.
“Jay doesn't have his sights set on me. He was just... flirting. Playing around. It didn't mean anything.”
“Ally. I think it's safe to say it means something after you sit on a man's face.”
I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes. “Can we please stop talking about this?”
“Fine, fine.” She's still grinning as she looks at her phone and giggles.
“What?”
“You know the Crushers have a home game tonight. You should go and confess your love to him. Bet he'd love that.”
“I don't love—” I stop, a horrible thought occurring to me. “Wait. He's playing? Tonight?”
“Yup.”
“He can't be playing. His leg is nowhere near ready for that.” I sit up, my chest tightening. “He was barely cleared for light drills when I was working with him. There's no way he should be on the ice for a full game.”
Kinsey checks her phone again. “According to the Crushers Instagram, he's not just playing—he's starting.”
“That fucking idiot.”
“Maybe his athletic trainer cleared him?”
“They don't know his injury like I do. They don’t know how Jay pushes himself past the point of reason because he's too stubborn to admit when he's hurting.” I'm pacing now, my ice cream completely forgotten.
“He's going to destroy that leg. He's going to set his recovery back weeks—maybe months—because he can't stand to sit on the bench.”
Kinsey is watching me with amusement laced across her face. “You really care about him, don't you?”
“I care about proper injury recovery protocols,” I say, dodging the question entirely.
“Sure you do.”
“I do!”
“Then why are you freaking out?”
I stop pacing, catching my reflection in the mirror above our dresser. I look manic. Unhinged. Like someone who definitely didn't just eat half a pint of ice cream while spiraling about a hockey player.
“I'm not freaking out,” I say, though my voice betrays me. “I'm just... concerned from a professional point of view.”
“Uh-huh.” Kinsey grabs the remote. “Well, if we aren't going to the game, then maybe we should check on him here.”
“What are you—”
She changes the channel, and suddenly there he is.
Jay Cross, in full gear, skating across the ice.
My stomach drops.
Even through the TV screen, I can see it. The way he's favoring his right side. The slight hesitation in his crossovers. The tension in his shoulders that says he's compensating for pain he won't admit to.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter.
“You're fuming,” Kinsey observes. “Maybe you should go down there and stop him.”
“No.”
“Ally—”
“He's not my patient anymore.” The words taste bitter. “If his team cleared him, then maybe he is getting better. Maybe I'm wrong.”
But even as I say it, I watch Jay take a sharp turn and nearly stumble. He catches himself, plays it off, but I see it. The flash of pain across his face before he hides it.
“Fucking idiot.”
“You said that already.”
“It bears repeating.” I turn away from the screen, unable to watch anymore. “Change the channel.”
“Ally—”
“Just put the baseball back on. Please. Tate Sorenson is the only man I want to see get injured. Speaking of, did you see when he got run over with the ATV?”
Kinsey sighs, switching the channel back to the baseball where we're greeted by Wes blowing a bubble with his gum in the outfield.
I head back to the kitchen and grab my ice cream before returning to my bed. With my legs crossed, I watch the Catfish game with feigned interest, completely ignoring Kinsey's stare.
I shove another spoonful of cookie dough into my mouth and try very hard not to think about the fact Jay is out there playing tonight.
It doesn't work.