Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
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When I get home, the first thing I observe is my car parked in a different spot, sans the trailer. I make a mental note to thank Elias. Maybe Wade knows what his teammate’s favorite snacks are, so I can put together a basket for him to show my appreciation.
The next thing I notice when I walk into the apartment is Wade standing in the kitchen.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
He’s leaning on his crutches, stirring something on the stove. “I was, but my stomach started growling.”
I set my purse and laptop bag on one of the dining room chairs, feeling a slight twinge of guilt for commandeering his kitchen table as a pseudo-office.
“Why didn’t you just order takeout?”
He shakes his head. “My body needs the right fuel to heal.”
I suppress an eye roll. “A supreme pizza has protein and veggies. Sounds healthy to me.”
“Says the woman who thinks a box of macaroni and powdered cheese is good for you.” His tone is snarky, but he’s not smiling.
“Hey now, that’s not all I eat.” I join him by the stove and peer down into the large pot. Aromatic herbs fill my nose as chunks of chicken, carrots, and celery chase after the spoon as he stirs.
“Glad to hear that.” When bubbles break the surface of the broth, Wade pours in a box of elbow pasta.
“Pasta is dried.” I roll my lips between my teeth, trying to contain the giggle welling up.
He shoots me a look so full of disdain, I think the hair follicles on my arms just retracted.
I nudge him aside. “Go sit. I’ll finish this up for you.”
He frowns at me. “Are you sure?”
An exasperated sigh escapes me before I can stop it. “I think I can handle this part.”
After a moment of hesitation, he hobbles his way to the couch. “Thanks. Bowls are on the counter.”
I glance over and note the large Fiesta Ware ceramic ware—one in bright green and the other purple.
Two, of course, because Wade always made it his mission to make sure I ate. “Interesting choice of dishes.”
He grimaces as he lowers himself onto the cushions, then props his leg on the arm of the couch. “Nana ordered them for me. She insisted I have sturdy yet stylish dishes. You still like purple, right?”
A surge of tenderness fills me as I picture him selecting the bowl just for me. I run my finger over the rich indigo shade, which contrasts so well with the bright green, which I know is his favorite. “Yeah, I do.”
His chuckle seems to lighten the mood somewhat. I can only imagine how frustrated he must feel, having to miss games and practices for at least a week. When Elias brought me Wade’s keys and told me what happened, I wanted to race to the locker room, but Elias said Ethan was taking him home.
I want to ask Wade for details because I understand the ramifications of a groin pull turning into a tear if a player pushes too soon to get back into the game. And I know the looming question in every player’s head that comes with an injury—will it be a career-ender?
Once I confirm the noodles are done with a taste test, I ladle soup into the green bowl, cradle it in a napkin, and take it to Wade, along with a spoon.
He thanks me as I return to the pot to fix mine.
Since he has his leg stretched out on the couch, I settle into the chair off to the side of the sofa, folding my legs underneath me, and sample my first bite.
A flood of memories hits me as the savory chicken and broth-soaked pasta hit my tongue, transporting me back to his grandmother’s kitchen.
“Is this Nana’s recipe?” I stir my spoon through the soup.
“Yeah, I texted her for it.”
I take another bite and hum with pleasure. “Well, you nailed it.”
He grins. “Make sure you tell her next time you see her.”
My stomach hollows out at the thought. That would mean returning to Texas, and I’ve no intention of doing that anytime soon. The more distance I can keep between Chase and me, the safer I feel. At least until I know he’s lost interest in making my life a living hell.
“What’s that?”
“What was what?”
He points at me with his spoon. “That look of dread on your face.”
I kind of forgot how Wade could always read me. I stare at my soup, scrambling for some excuse to circumvent having to tell him the truth. “There’s celery in here.”
First, he rolls his eyes, then dons an expression that says he’s on to me. Because, of course, he is. This is Wade.
“You don’t hate celery that much.”
“Who says?” I shoot back, still determined to avoid his question and keep the mood light.
He places his bowl on the coffee table. “Come on, Bree. Since when do you hide things from me?”
Good grief, he’s like that proverbial dog with a bone! For a guy who typically avoids confrontation, he sure is going after this with fresh gusto.
“I’m not hiding anything from you.” Not completely true, but close enough. “I’m just not ready to talk about it, okay?”
His jaw locks, causing the muscle on the side to pulse.
I may never be able to tell him everything, but I can apologize. I rest my spoon in the bowl. “I’m sorry, Wade.”
His brows dip in confusion. “For what?”
“For ghosting you for a year. I should have replied to your texts. I just…” I’m near tears again.
His shoulders relax, and his gaze softens. “It’s okay, Bree-bear.”
My breath hitches at the sound of his childhood nickname for me, and cracks form in the walls around my heart—walls I erected to protect myself against Chase. But now I’m realizing they shut me off from everyone, including one of the people who matters the most to me.
He swings his leg from the couch to the coffee table and pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”
Without second-guessing, I put my bowl near his and scoot into the crook of his arm. He’s warm and solid, and I fit perfectly against him, just like always. When I lay my cheek against his chest, I inhale his clean, soapy sandalwood scent and exhale with a sigh against his T-shirt.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel a sense of peace, like I’ve found my center. All the noise and stress fade away, allowing me to breathe a little easier. That’s always been Wade’s grounding effect on me, and how I’ve missed it.
He rests his cheek against my forehead. “Whatever happened, when you’re ready, you can tell me. No judgment, okay?”
Closing my eyes against the sting of unshed tears, I nod and let myself settle into him more. “Okay.”
We stay like that for a while until Wade shifts. “I need to ice my leg again.”
“I’ll get it for you.” I jump off the couch and scurry toward the kitchen.
He instructs me on which ice pack to retrieve from the freezer and to wrap it in the towel draped over the back of the barstool.
When I bring it over, a compelling instinct to take care of him hits me, so I lay the cold compress on his leg, then grab the pillows he tossed to the side and wedge them under his foot. Without thinking, I caress his shin, more out of concern, but when I look at him, our gazes collide and lock.
Something flashes in his eyes, but it leaves so fast, I’m not sure what I saw, if anything. But that doesn’t stop the heated tingles shooting straight into my core.
I’ve always felt a stronger connection to Wade than to his sisters. He was the one I ran to first when I needed to talk something out, or the first person I called to share a win.
But this—this feels…different.
He drags a blue and green afghan off the back of the couch—one I’m sure Nana knitted for him because I have one just like it in pink and purple—and tosses it over his foot. “The ice pack makes my toes cold.”
When he reaches for his soup, I hand it to him so he won’t have to strain.
“Thanks.” He won’t look at me, just stares into his bowl, but doesn’t eat. As if he flipped a switch, leaving me in the dark.
“Sure thing.” I return to my chair, holding my bowl close but not feeling hungry anymore.
And here I thought my apology, followed by the hug, had restored our friendship, but the air between us feels thick, filled with tension again. I know it’s my fault. What did I expect after I ghosted my best friend for a year? Did I think things would be the same?
Somehow, I have to make it up to Wade, show him I’m sorry for not taking better care of our friendship. I know he forgives me, but the damage to our relationship will take time to heal, something I’ll have to accept and live with.
I hate that he’s laid up with this injury, but maybe this could be my opportunity to prove to him how much he means to me.
He’s always been there for me when I needed him. Now, I can do the same for him.