Chapter 14
Hazy
Hazy stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bathroom.
He looked as disheveled as he felt. Even with his brace still on, anyone could see he’d lost a significant amount of muscle mass already.
Bruises were evident under his arms where his crutches rubbed, and beneath some parts of his leg brace.
Dark rings circled his eyes. His face needed a shave.
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
He’d rocked a beard a few times in the past, but it wasn’t his preference, and he needed to feel human again.
With a broken leg, a forced rest from his job, a new housemate, and his teammates gone for the next week, Hazy’s life felt out of control; but his facial hair he could shape to his will.
He leaned his crutches against the jack-and-jill sinks and coated his face in shaving cream.
Then he realized he’d forgotten a razor.
He rinsed his hands of the excess shaving cream, then reached for his crutches.
They slipped through his fingers and clattered to the ground.
The brace on his leg made it impossible to bend his knee.
He swept his bad leg behind him and reached toward the fallen crutches, but wobbled.
Trying to catch his balance, he grabbed the bathroom counter.
His flailing met a slick surface. He lost his footing and fell to the side.
His head smacked against the bowl of the toilet, and he lay there dazed and frustrated.
A knock came at the bathroom door, but before he could shout that he was okay, Livy swung it open.
She wore black boy-short panties and an oversized tank top that barely contained her cleavage, hair ratted in a mess around her face. He’d woken her.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“I asked if you needed help and you said no.”
Livy had been keeping Hazy company while he showered since his injury, always sitting on his counter or the toilet and chattering away about her day while ensuring he didn’t slip and die. That evening he insisted he could attend to his hygiene independently.
Hazy groaned and flung an arm over his face, muffling his answer. “I wanted to do it myself.”
Livy mumbled something under her breath that sounded like ‘fucking idiot’ as she helped him into a seated position to pull him to his feet. When he was standing and steady, she closed the toilet lid and wordlessly directed him to sit.
He obeyed without argument. If he protested, she’d be more pissed.
Livy swept his hair out of his face and spread more shaving cream over the patches that had wiped away when he fell. When she went searching for a razor, Hazy pointed out the correct drawer. She used a gentle hand on his forehead to tilt his head back.
“Why do you still shave like this?” she asked. “You could get one of those electric razors. Way easier.”
“I’ve tried like ten different ones, and I still feel prickly. The manual razor works better.”
She swiped the razor down his face, then rinsed it.
Hazy had never let someone else shave his face for him, but he liked it.
Normally he would balk at someone helping him.
He knew it wasn’t like that killer barber musical, since razors weren’t a single unprotected blade anymore.
But someone could still nick him. He closed his eyes while she worked.
Swipe after swipe removed the hair and shaving cream from his face, and her soft touch on his forehead directed his position.
Livy felt like coming home, and he was exhausted.
The smell of coconut wafted over him, a hint of the body wash she’d been using since adolescence.
He let himself drift into his own thoughts as she finished.
She stepped away for a moment. When she returned, she draped a warm, wet rag over his face.
Her dragging of the washcloth over his face had him opening his eyes.
The spectacular view of tits greeted him so, so close to his face.
His hand floated between them, intending to tweak a hard nipple before he remembered where he was. Who he was with. Fuck. Looking down her shirt was such a violation of privacy. Even if he hadn’t meant to. He snatched his hand back and cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said.
He forced his eyes to her face.
“Do you want to shower?” Livy asked.
It took far too long for his brain to comprehend the question.
She ran the washcloth over his face again, wiping away the last of the residue left by his shaving product, a patient expression on her face.
Of their own accord, his eyes drifted over her face and down her chest. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“No,” his voice came out far too scratchy. He cleared his throat again. “No,” he repeated, shaking his head and once again forcing his eyes to her face.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ll feel better once it’s done.”
Hazy shook his head. “I’ll do it in the morning.”
Livy frowned at him, the endearing little crease between her eyebrows begging to be smoothed away. “I don’t trust you to do it yourself yet. You almost died shaving. If we do it tonight, we can both sleep in.” She leaned past him to turn on the water.
He balled his hands into fists and pulled his head away from where, if he’d left it, her chest would have grazed the side of his face.
She was right; staying upright for any length of time on his own was a stretch.
But she was half naked and shoving her boobs in his face, and his dick was not on board with treating her like a sister.
He’d never been so aware of his lack of familial ties with someone.
“Fine,” he said. “But you have to put some fucking clothes on.”
Livy took stock of her outfit and stepped away. “What’s wrong with my pajamas?”
Hazy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She shouldn’t have to change for his comfort. He was making it weird. He needed to shake these unsettling thoughts.
Goddamn, he needed to get laid. He couldn’t remember the last time he fucked someone, and that was not like him.
His sex life had been robust from the moment he debuted in the NHL.
Women and men lined up to sleep with him.
A stranger occupied his bed more nights than not.
With Livy living in his house and his injury, all that disappeared.
He had a few numbers he could utilize, but the broken leg put a damper on things.
He did his best to wrangle his dick into submission. His Grandma. The kidnapping of Popcorn the beagle. How did he never notice how great Livy’s tits were? She filled out every top she wore, her curves soft and plentiful. She’d be more than a handful.
Fuck. No.
Seattle fumbling the World Series. A puck to the back of the knee. Gonorrhea. There. Limp as an over-cooked spaghetti noodle.
“Nothing is wrong with them. Sorry.”
She frowned and grabbed one of his dirty shirts from the floor, tugging it over her tank top.
Livy kneeled at Hazy’s feet and gingerly loosened his brace. Her fingers grazed against his inner thigh as she slid the brace off his leg.
His heart rate skyrocketed and his dick forgot every boner-killing idea he’d forced upon it. She ran steady, soft strokes of her fingers over his bruises. “They’re fading fast,” she said.
He jumped out of his skin at the contact.
Livy’s brow furrowed in confusion as he squirmed away from her.
“Sorry, I’m a little ticklish,” he said.
“No, you aren’t,” Livy called him out.
He’d never been ticklish.
He forced a cocky smile and smolder. “People change, baby girl.”
Livy rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
Hazy chuckled. “That did tickle, though,” he lied through his teeth.
“Huh.” She tested the water temperature.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Or so he thought until she said, “Alright, strip.”
“Sorry, what?” he asked.
It was a normal, heckling demand. She’d been joking around like that for weeks. It had never filled his stomach with angry bees before.
“You heard me,” she said. “Strip. Unless you plan to shower fully clothed.” She waggled her eyebrows and moved to the sink, tidying the countertop.
“Oh. Yeah.” Panic swelled in his chest again, but he forced himself to breathe through it.
Livy gave him her full attention, and for some reason, his anxiety didn’t make his fucking dick deflate. “Are you okay?” she asked.
He could not—could not—strip in front of her. Then she would know. And she could never find out. Because he’d been very clear about considering her a sister. “I’m fine.”
When she tried to cross that boundary, he rejected her. End of discussion. Then she moved on. Rightfully so.
Her next sentence made it worse. “Why are you being weird? I’ve seen it all before.”
“No, I know,” he said, struggling to find a reason to postpone his hygiene needs.
He stared too long, and Livy sighed and turned away from him. “I won’t look, okay?” she said, exasperated.
“Fine,” he gave in and got naked. When he tried to hobble over to the shower by himself, she whirled around.
“What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself again,” she scolded.
He steadied himself with one hand on the side of the shower and the other covering his semi. “I think I can do it.”
“And I think you can’t!” she raised her voice.
She stared pointedly at the ceiling while she held out an arm for him to use as leverage when stepping over the shower ledge.
He took the offered help and got settled before pulling the door closed behind him.
In hindsight, he could have waited until he sat down to take his underwear off, like he’d done every other time she helped him. Obviously, he wasn’t thinking clearly.
The steaming water helped melt away some of his anxiety, and the distance made it easier to remember his turnoffs. His libido in check, he made quick work of scrubbing himself and shut off the water. She handed him a towel and a clean pair of underwear, avoiding glancing down.
He wished his dick would be as good at ignoring her.