Chapter 32
Lars
T hey knocked me out for the flight home, and the last few days have been a blur while I battled a viral infection. My constant is Dylon and his musky scent, under the coconut-lime body wash, has become home. The fog clears bit by bit each day. I don’t understand how Dylon has spent so much time with me. He should have left to stay in the team hotel for our home game.
“You’re awake.” Dylon sets a tray of food on the bed next to me. “How are you feeling?” His hesitant smile makes me yearn for his dimple.
My voice cracks so I clear my throat. “Better?” My voice goes up at the end like it is a question.
He brings the back of his wrist to my forehead. “No fever. I’ve gotten good at determining that based on touching your skin. Drink?” He hands me my favorite sports drink.
I’m assaulted by memories of him helping me throw up, go to the bathroom, and shower. “You do not have to take care of me. I am better now.” I decide I’m not lying, instead I’m relieving him of his misguided sense of duty. He doesn’t owe me anything.
The sharp inhale of breath hurts as I think about the conversation we must have. He lied for a reason, and facing the demise of our relationship all but breaks me.
I cannot live through another betrayal, but I’m not ready to confront him.
“Why are you here?” I ask, and he leans back in surprise .
“I live here,” he says, but it sounds like a question.
“But the team has a game.” I motion as if he can see the team.
“I’m too sick.” He sheepishly turns away when my face must give away my disbelief. “If I developed a fever, the team said I couldn’t play. There was no way in hell I was leaving you alone, but it didn’t matter since I spiked a fever right before we had to report to the hotel.” His fingers trace a nonexistent pattern on the bed.
“You are not sick,” I state the obvious.
His warm hazel eyes lift to meet mine. “That’s a matter of opinion, but I’m not too sick to make sure you’re better. Try a bite of bagel.”
To appease him, I eat half the bagel, each bite prolonging the impending conversation.
“Are you ready to thank me yet?” His dimple flashes at me but disappears.
I blink. “Thank you for staying with me.” Talking brings on a headache.
He chuckles. “Do you remember I told you when you didn’t want my help in Germany that you could hate me then and thank me later?” His tense shoulders hint he’s asking more.
“I was not a good patient,” I admit.
“Not nearly as bad as I was when you helped me through the worst of my withdrawals.”
“We are even now,” I say with clarity. His debt to me has been paid.
“This isn’t about keeping track, it’s about being what the other needs.” He places his palm on my leg, and it thaws my icy attitude. “I’m not leaving you.”
I snort and cover it with a cough. He’s hurt by my reaction, and I don’t blame him. Dylon has proven his devotion. No man provides personal care unless he is invested in that person. But I’m not sure that it matters if he cannot tell me the truth.
“Are you up for a shower?” His eagerness to continue helping surprises me.
I cannot wash the germs out of my system, but I would like to clean the film of sick clinging to me like another layer of skin. I nod and peel the covers back on the opposite side of the bed. Dylon rushes around to steady me.
“Careful. You’ve got sea legs, and dry land might be tricky,” he jokes .
I expect him to back off at the bathroom door, but he guides me in and starts the shower.
“You’re staying?” I wrestle the T-shirt over my head and almost tip over, but large hands on my waist keep me upright.
“I will keep telling you I’m not leaving until you believe it,” he whispers, as if he’s had to reassure me before.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll get you sick?” I ask, stepping into the gloriously warm water.
“If I’m not sick by now, I’m never getting whatever you have.” He strips and stands guard behind my shaky body. “You spent at least forty-eight plus hours living in my armpit. Literally. Don’t ask me why that’s the place you chose because I didn’t smell very good, but you were…adamant about not moving.” His tone suggests there’s more to the story.
That explains how his scent became embedded in my soul. I inhaled it for days.
When I tip my head back to rinse the shampoo, I lose my balance.
Hands as familiar as my own, once again, keep me from falling. “I got ya.” One arm bands around my middle while he runs another hand through my hair, rinsing it under the water. He gives my body a quick scrub and dries my hair with a towel when we step out. Then, he hops back in to wash himself. “Sorry, I probably stank up your room, but it was hard to leave you.”
I watch him in the mirror instead of brushing my teeth. Muscles flexing in motion and so much skin. It’s a couple of shades darker than my pale complexion, even in the dead of winter.
My dick receives some excess blood but thankfully doesn’t get hard. But when Dylon turns and catches my stare, his cock hardens and juts out, pointing at me.
“Sorry.” He squeezes it, but it doesn’t go down. “He’s got a mind of his own, and he’s very happy you’re conscious and nearly naked.” He shrugs as if his dick has its own personality.
I continue watching him mutely. When I’m certain I’m clearheaded, I’ll ask about the lies and then decide whether to tell him about my past .
Dylon grabs a towel, strides out of the room, and I get a peek at his ass.
I’m weak and obsessed with him. That is a deadly combination. Bracing my arms on the counter, I steady my breathing. It’s all too good to be true. Dylon is an amazing man. Funny and loyal and so fucking sexy. If I could live with the lies, we might be happy forever. Or our world could burn down in an instant.
I do not question his affection for me. He’s proven how deep his feelings are. I question the life we are building on a pile of sand.
My closet is on one side of the bathroom and the bedroom on the other. It takes several attempts to dress myself in sweats and a T-shirt, and after that, I decide I should get back in bed. Dylon tucks clean sheets around my mattress as I stare.
“You didn’t have to do this.” I lean on the doorframe.
“You’ll never get better if you keep sleeping in the same germs. Wanna try the living room for a while?” He hauls a new blanket from the hall linen closet and almost trips over the dirty sheets and comforter.
“I need a nap.” It’s ridiculous that, as a professional athlete, showering and dressing saps all my energy.
“I switched your pillows with the ones in my room, and I’ll spray yours with disinfectant unless you’d prefer I wash them.”
There is something about getting into clean sheets that provides comfort and peace. “Do not care,” I mumble, my eyes closing.
The time on my phone says I’ve slept for another five hours. I stretch, finally feeling human. I should text Von to see if he got sick as well. It’s strange that I’m the only one on the team who got sick.
There are so many notifications that I forget why I picked up my phone. Even feeling better, that is too much to tackle .
Dylon’s hushed, angry voice filters through my closed door. This time, I stand slowly, testing my balance and equilibrium. I am a little wobbly and smile at Dylon’s reference to sea legs.
His tone gets louder and more insistent, and my first instinct is to help him. He’s blocking the front door to our apartment. I hear but don’t see the person.
“Can’t I come check on you?” I recognize his mother’s shrill voice.
“We’re sick and I would appreciate a call first,” Dylon explains. He’s never refused her in all the time I have known him. Dylon’s family thinks they’re good people, but they use him. His rookie year, he gave them most of his signing bonus and salary. He had to hire a financial advisor when his rent check bounced, and then they complained about not getting as much money.
“I’ll stay in my room so she doesn’t catch what I have,” I offer, trying to ease the fury wafting across the room.
“That would be perfect.” His mom pushes past him, rolling an enormous suitcase in one hand and holding a bottle of wine in the other. “I’m here to spend time alone with my son.” She makes a shooing motion.
I resist the urge to tell her this is a dry house. If Dylon is going to drink, I’d rather know now and have him do it here, where he’s safe.
“Mom, I told you, you can’t bring alcohol into my house.” Dylon keeps the door open as if he thinks she’ll leave. “We don’t have a room for you.”
My heart’s heavy when Dylon calls the apartment “my house.” I’ve been trying to convince him for so long, but I am confused about how to feel.
“I’ll take your room.” She pauses, leaning on the handle of her suitcase.
Dylon’s eyes narrow. “You said you came to care for me while I’m sick, but you plan to kick me out of my room. I’ll put you up in a hotel.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Downtown or Midtown?”
“My own son is going to put me out on the street,” she accuses.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, Lars has a highly contagious infection, and I have a fever. You can’t stay here. You’ve never come to visit unless I pay for your flight and a hotel so I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“My flight was last minute so you can Venmo me the cost.” She abandons her suitcase and struts into the kitchen. “Where’s your wine opener? ”
Dylon flushes an angry red, and his eyes cut to mine. “Mom,” he snaps, “you are not drinking that here. Why can’t you be supportive of my sobriety?”
“You don’t have an alcohol problem. You made one mistake with pain pills, which you needed by the way, and some people blew it out of proportion.” Her gaze cuts to me.
I should give them some privacy, but the woman is intent on sabotaging her son, and I’ll be here to help him resist if that’s what he wants.
“Get out.” He holds the door open and points to the hallway.
“Do not take that tone with me. After all we sacrificed moving to Detroit, all so you could play hockey, you don’t get to dismiss me. You’ve always been too much trouble and ungrateful.” Her chin lifts like a defiant child.
“Mom, I’m done with you pretending you made sacrifices for me. Dad lost his job, that’s why we moved. I paid you back by paying off your debt and buying you a new house and cars. I gave your brother money to update his bar. If you can’t support my decisions to better my life, you need to leave.” His voice is calm and firm.
“You were more fun before him .” She points at me.
“Don’t ever speak to him like that. He’s supported my decisions and helped me stay on the team. If your definition of fun is getting drunk, then I’ll never be fun. I’m done drinking. Forever.” His jaw ticks in annoyance.
I’m surprised by his words. He intends to stay sober while playing hockey but has admitted he misses having a beer with friends and is looking forward to social drinking once he retires.
His mom doesn’t move. “Mom, you are not welcome unless you’re sober and can be nice to Lars.” His hand curls into a fist at his side while our apartment door remains wide open.
“Fine. You can get me a hotel room.” She blows out a breath. “For a month.”
A string of Swedish curses leaves my mouth as Dylon says, “Hell no.”