6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Sarah
Bridgerton is frozen mid-declaration of love on Kevin's massive TV, the Duke looking tortured about his feelings while Daphne tries to figure out what the hell all of this is.
I relate to this on a level that's probably unhealthy.
I've been staring at the same scene for ten minutes, doing more drinking of a grown-up beverage on the rocks than I am actually watching the show, while my brain runs numbers that refuse to add up.
$247.83.
That's my bank balance. That's all that stands between me and financial disaster until Friday. And that's assuming the rescue's account doesn't bounce from last week's emergency parvo treatment and I need to bail it out with a personal loan that will never get repaid.
My accountant calls it equity.
I call it the story of my life.
Ranger lifts his head from my feet — all seventy pounds of side-eyeing Chocolate Lab — and I swear he has his own thoughts about my checking account.
"Dude, quit judging. Your dad overpays me, and this is a long road trip, so it will be fine. Unless you snitch and tell him I’m not doing my job," I tell him.
Ranger's tail thumps once in commitment. He would never.
Kevin insists on paying me two hundred dollars a day to stay here during road trips. I've tried to refuse. Multiple times. Told him I'd do it for free because that's what friends do and Ranger's my favorite dog anyway.
Kevin had looked at me with those earnest blue eyes and said, "Sarah, you run a nonprofit. Let me pay you market rate."
Market rate. Right. Market rate is maybe fifty bucks a day.
But the money keeps my lights on and lets me eat food that isn't ramen, so I shut up and take it.
This is my fifth night here for this road trip.
Fifth night of pretending I don't notice how his shower has actual water pressure.
How his guest bed is approximately seventeen times more comfortable than my Murphy bed.
I haven't tested his actual bed. It's probably seventeen times better than the guest bed. Which would make it roughly three hundred times better than my sad Murphy bed situation.
This is also my fifth night of trying not to think about Kevin St. Clair in ways that best friends definitely should not think about each other.
I'm failing spectacularly.
My phone buzzes.
??Sunshine
Landed and headed to the truck. Everything hurts. Just need my bed.
Sorry.
Should have known nothing good would come from a fucking 2pm puck drop except enough time after the game to get through customs without staying another night up there.
I frown. Kevin never complains. The man played through a separated shoulder last season — three cortisone shots and a partially torn labrum. Never missed a game. I only found out when the medical reports leaked.
How bad?
??Sunshine
It's fine.
Hockey player "fine." That scale ranges from minor arterial bleed to just broke my foot, but I’m still skating.
I watched enough of this road trip to know it's bad. That hit in Calgary. The way he couldn't lift his arm in the Vancouver post-game earlier tonight. The minus-four that clearly destroyed him.
His week was a disaster. His homecoming doesn't have to be.
Making you a pizza. You need real food.
??Sunshine
Don't. I'm going to pass out as soon as I walk in.
Too late. Already headed to the kitchen to get a DiGiorno out of the freezer.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
??Sunshine
Thanks.
One word that makes me launch straight into caregiver mode, just like he’s a new intake at the shelter.
I know how to do this. I can't fix his shoulder or his stats or the fact that hockey is basically legalized assault.
But I can make sure the man eats something that isn't sad airplane snacks and is as comfortable as possible.
I hit pause on the Duke's emotional constipation and pull out the pizza and turn on the oven. His nutritionist would murder me if he knew. But Winston's not here, and Kevin needs carbs and cheese, not sad grilled chicken on a Caesar salad.
While I wait, I pour another drink.
Blanton's. The good stuff.
Kevin's told me a hundred times to help myself to anything. And after today's disaster email chain with the rescue's landlord, where he kept dropping hints about "market adjustments" (code for rent increases I absolutely cannot afford) I deserve good bourbon.
The Blanton's is dangerously smooth. Way smoother than the cheap stuff I buy for myself. This is the kind of liquor you buy when you have a dedicated ice-cube freezer.
Yes. Kevin St. Clair has a separate freezer just for ice. Welcome to the lifestyle gap between us.
I set up his recovery station while I wait. The man owns more rehab equipment than most hospitals. Heating wrap. Compression boots. Ice cold shoulder sleeve that lives in the freezer.
I pour him a matching drink. Drop in one of those absurd perfect ice cubes. Wedge the little horse cork back into the bottle.
Ranger supervises, tail wagging encouragement.
"Your dad's going to need serious help tonight," I tell him. "We’re on emotional support duty."
Ranger woofs agreement.
By the time I hear the key in the lock, I'm definitely past "responsible drinking" and solidly into "the Duke's romantic choices make complete sense" territory.
The door opens.
Oh no.
Kevin St. Clair looks like he fought all of western Canada and lost.
His suit is wrinkled beyond salvation. Tie hanging crooked.
Shirt untucked on one side, showing a strip of skin my bourbon-soaked brain immediately notices.
His dark blonde hair is destroyed. He’s obviously been running both hands through it, probably every time he thinks about Calgary or Vancouver.
There's even a fresh bruise along his jaw and it’s purple and angry.
He's moving carefully. Favoring his left side. Every step looks painful.
At the same time, he also looks unfairly attractive, which seems deeply unjust.
"They're supposed to use the Zamboni to clean the ice," I say. "Not your face."
"Everyone's a comedian." His voice comes out rough, gravelly in a way that makes the core of my traitorous body go immediately slick. I reflexively clench my thighs together.
I need to not let my brain or body start with this kind of nonsense. The last Wing Wednesday and my wandering thoughts was one thing. That was a crowded bar. This is a private condo with only a judgey dog for chaperone.
Said judgey dog launches himself at Kevin, giving all the enthusiasm of a furry best friend who hasn't seen his person in six million years. Kevin bends to greet him and I watch him wince. His jaw clenches.
He can’t even greet his best buddy the way he wants to. This is serious.
"Recliner," I order. "Now."
He stops. Dark blue eyes scan the living room, then find my face.
"You set up the recovery stuff?"
I nod and gesture toward the chair. "Pizza's almost done. Your nutritionist can fight me."
In some cultures, the expression on his face would count as a smile. "Winston would kill you."
"Already thought about that. Good thing Winston's not here. I'll take my chances." I pick up his bag and sit it to the side. "Come on."
He lets me steer him to the recliner. When my hands land on his shoulders — just to guide him, totally professional — I can feel how tense he is through the jacket. How solid. How warm.
The bourbon is not helping my decision-making skills.
Kevin sinks into the chair with a grunt he tries to hide. I hand him the glass I’ve poured for him. Without spilling.
Small victories.
Kevin takes a sip. Eyebrows rise as he sees the bottle nearby.
"I opened this bottle four before I left, when Liam was over here." He looks at me with tired amusement. "It's half gone, Sarah. What kind of parties are you and Ranger throwing?"
Shit.
"Ranger's a bad influence," I announce, grabbing the heating wrap. Subject change. Now. "What happened tonight?"
"You saw the hit in Calgary." Long sip. "Probably shouldn't have played Vancouver, but medical cleared me and my pride wouldn't let me sit. So, I cost us the game."
"I watched. You're too hard on yourself."
"I was on ice for four goals against." His eyes open, frustrated and exhausted. "Four. That doesn't happen to me."
"Everyone has bad games."
"I'm paid not to."
Can't argue with that.
"Shirt off," I say. "The wrap works better directly on the skin."
His eyebrows rise. "Does it?"
"That's what the manual says." My words are perfectly clear. Definitely not slurred. "You can't do it yourself with that shoulder."
He tries to shrug out of the jacket and immediately makes a sound that's half grunt, half curse.
"Oh for—" I move closer. "Let me."
More-than-halfway-drunk Sarah should not be undressing Kevin St. Clair. But here we are.
I step between his knees. Reach for his shoulders. Ease the jacket off his good arm first, then carefully work it off the injured side.
The jacket smells like him. Expensive cologne and that damn woodsiness that makes me want to bury my face in it.
I do not do this. I do not pretend he's a human forest. I have some self-control remaining.
Probably.
"Tie next," I manage. My voice sounds weird. Higher than normal.
"Sarah, I can—"
"Hush."
My fingers work the knot. I'm too close. Way too close. I can feel his breath on my face as the silk slides free.
The tie hits the floor.
"Sarah—"
He's looking at me strangely. Like he wants to say something important. Like there are words stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
"Shirt," I say, because I can't handle whatever that look means.
I start at his throat. First button. Second. Third. Each one reveals more skin. Warm skin that makes my fingertips want to linger instead of moving to the next button. By the time I'm halfway down, my hands aren't entirely steady.
His chest rises and falls under my fingers. Every breath uneven.
"This is probably—" he starts.
"Medical necessity," I interrupt. Last button. "Lift your good arm."
He does. I peel the shirt off that side. Work the cuff free. Carefully remove the sleeve from his injured shoulder.
Then I see the bruising.
"Holy shit, Kevin."