Chapter 18
THAD
New Year’s Eve
“Your goalie sucks.”
I looked away from the television, where Los Angeles was currently losing spectacularly to Colorado.
“He’s allowed one bad game,” I said.
“What he’s allowed is four goals in two periods.” The disgust twisting Cash’s face would’ve made more sense if he gave a shit about either team.
“It was one bad goal.” It wasn’t. Not really. The goalie had struggled all season.
“It was four.”
“Three of those weren’t his fault.”
Cash shoved another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “That’s what losers say when they’re losing.”
“You don’t even care who wins.”
“I care.” He tossed a piece of popcorn into the air, aiming for his mouth. It bounced off his chin and landed on the sectional beside him.
“You’re cleaning that shit up, boy.”
He smirked. “I care that your team loses.”
“Brat.”
His grin flashed before he turned back to the game.
With less than two minutes remaining in the third period, my team was down by one. They spent most of those two minutes trapped in their own zone while Cash offered commentary no one had asked for.
“Defenseman’s about to pinch,” he said.
“He has support.”
“Not enough.”
Colorado forced the puck past him and caught Los Angeles in a two-on-one going the other direction.
Cash held out his hand.
I slapped it away. “Fuck off.”
His laugh filled the living room.
The goalie left the net, giving Los Angeles the extra attacker. Cash sat forward, nearly dumping the bowl of popcorn between us.
“Come on,” I muttered.
“They’re not scoring.”
“Shut up.”
“They’re definitely not scoring.”
A shot from the point hit traffic in front of the net. The puck bounced off a skate, disappeared beneath three bodies, then slid across the line.
I jumped from the couch, both hands in the air.
“Showoff,” Cash grumbled, then said, “That was garbage.”
“That was a goal,” I said, settling back on the couch.
“That was not a goal. It was luck. Your guy kicked it in.”
“It went in off the defenseman.”
“Still a skate. Which means luck, not skill.”
“Not our skate.”
“You people will celebrate anything.”
“You’re sitting in my house, eating my popcorn.”
“I made the popcorn.”
“With my kernels.”
Cash rolled his eyes while the officials reviewed the goal. When the ruling on the ice stood, the game went to overtime.
“Did they all go blind suddenly?” Cash blamed the shooters, gesturing wildly after every missed shootout attempt.
By the time the broadcast ended, the popcorn bowl was empty and half its contents were scattered across the sectional and floor.
I looked at the mess.
Cash followed my gaze. “Roomba.”
“I don’t own a Roomba.”
“Seems like a personal failing to me, Doc. You should fix that.”
“Pick it up.”
“Make me.”
The image of him on his hands and knees before me… I surged to my feet and cleared my throat, taking the empty bowl from him as I stood. “I’m making dinner. You’re cleaning.”
His gaze dropped to my crotch. A smirk stretched his mouth wide. He looked up at me through his lashes. Then, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, he said, “Yes, Daddy.”
The urge to grab him and show the little shit exactly what being my boy meant sent me into the kitchen before I did something we weren’t ready for.
I returned with the dustbuster and held it out to him.
His eyes twinkled as he took it with a big, bright smile. The vacuum started behind me. A few minutes later, Cash came through the kitchen on his crutches, putting away the dustbuster he’d somehow managed to carry.
He stepped up next to me, pulling the cutting board, knife, and vegetables I’d laid out in front of him.
“You don’t have to help.”
“I know,” he said simply, cutting through the vegetables with ease.
We worked quietly, letting the silence between us settle. The final hockey game of the night played in the living room, the announcers’ voices carrying across the open space beneath the steady chop of Cash’s knife and the sizzle from the stove.
I caught myself checking his balance twice. Both times, Cash noticed, but never called me on it.
He pushed the chopped vegetables toward me. Our fingers brushed when I reached for them. My gaze met his. His fingers lingered against mine for a second before he pulled away.
I swallowed and turned back to the task at hand.
When dinner was ready, Cash made his way to the living room on his crutches while I carried both plates, tucking a pillow under his braced leg before handing him his food.
Afterward, I cleared the plates and came back to find him patting the cushion beside him.
I sat next to him, despite knowing how bad an idea it was.
My hand curled over his thigh, and it felt like the world faded away.
Swiping back and forth over his cotton-covered leg, I stared at the screen while seconds ticked down on the game playing in the background. My whole world centered on the spots we touched.
I needed to stop this nonsense. The sectional could hold a fucking NHL hockey team, yet I always sat next to him. The innocent touches fucked with me almost as much as catching him with his dick in his hand. Almost.
With a sigh, I forced myself to lift my hand. Cash caught my wrist and returned it to his thigh without looking away from the game.
“Cold,” he said.
“Liar. You’re wearing sweatpants. My hand isn’t what’s keeping you warm.”
“Could be.”
I tightened my fingers around his thigh.
His mouth twitched.
Little shit.
By the time the second game’s postgame coverage ended, Cash had sunk deeper into the cushions.
“What do you want to watch?” I asked, taking the remote he held out .
“You choose,” he said. The sleepy tone tugged at my protective instincts.
I groaned. “Ugh. You complain about everything I choose the whole time it’s on.”
“Because your taste sucks.”
“Then you choose.”
“I’m comfortable.”
His fingers remained loosely wrapped around my forearm. My hand curled over his thigh. Moving would require him to release me.
I opened a streaming app and selected the first movie I found.
“Oh God, Doc, the shit you watch is so bad,” Cash complained.
Twenty minutes later, he was asleep against me, snoring softly. I lowered the volume but left the movie running. Explosions flashed across the room without managing to disturb him. His breathing warmed the side of my neck. Every few minutes, his thumb moved against my arm before going still again.
I should’ve woken him.
His neck would hurt in the morning. A knot had formed between my shoulder blades from sitting in the same position, but waking him meant he’d move away.
I stayed exactly where I was.
Sometime after eleven-thirty, Cash stirred. His cheek slid across my shoulder before he lifted his head and blinked at the television.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“No.”
“What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty-seven.”
“Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.”
Cash looked at my shoulder, then at me. “You let me sleep on you for an hour?”
“You were comfortable.”
“You could’ve moved.”
I could have.
“I was comfortable too.”
Something softened in his expression.
“We almost missed midnight.”
Then he reached for the remote. A New Year’s Eve broadcast filled the screen, the party already loud enough to make me miss the explosions from the movie he’d turned off.
Cash glanced at the clock. “Twenty-three minutes.”
“Yes.”
“It’s past your bedtime.”
I shook my head and laughed. “I probably performed two surgeries before you got out of bed this morning.”
“I got up early, so probably one and a half,” Cash said, resettling against me. His hand found my forearm again, but this time, his fingers moved slowly through the hair there.
Christmas Eve surfaced without warning.
His face in my doorway.
His eyes dropping below my waist.
The rough sound of his breathing when I walked into his room and found his hand moving over his flesh.
I shifted under him.
Cash glanced down at my lap. “Problem, Doc?”
“Yes.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
He turned back to the television, but his fingers continued their slow path along my arm.
I caught his hand.
Cash looked at our joined hands and then at me. His eyes had gone darker.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I said.
“Doing what?” The twitch at the corner of his mouth ruined the innocent act.
With my free hand, I caught his chin and turned his face toward mine. His pupils widened as I leaned closer.
“Testing me.”
“Maybe I’m checking your reflexes.”
“My reflexes are fine.”
“We’ll see.”
I loosened my grip on his chin but didn’t move away. My thumb moved over the center of his palm. Cash’s fingers curled around mine.
The crowd on the television began counting down.
Ten.
Nine.
Cash pushed himself higher against the cushions, his free hand curling around my bicep, hugging it to his chest.
Eight.
Seven.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Every reason not to kiss him lined up inside my head. His surgery. His recovery. The fact that I was still responsible for both.
Six.
Five.
My grip tightened around his hand. Cash leaned closer.
Four.
Three.
Close enough that I felt his breath against my lips. A kiss wouldn’t stop there, not after Christmas Eve.
Two.
“Someday,” Cash whispered, his chin trembling.
One.
The chaos erupted on the television. Confetti fell down the screen as the cameras panned to catch people shouting and couples kissing.
Cash didn’t close the last inch.
Neither did I.
“Happy New Year, Doc.”
His voice scraped over every nerve ending I had.
“Happy New Year, brat.”
He squeezed my hand and settled against me again, his head returning to my shoulder as if he belonged there.
I pressed my mouth to his hair.
Cash went still.
So did I.
Then his body softened against mine. He pulled our joined hands to his lips, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the back of my hand while fireworks burst across the television.
I didn’t move my mouth from his hair.
Two weeks in, the new year hit like a freight train — my surgical schedule exploded, clinic booked solid, staff drowning. Being chief of surgery meant more meetings than actual surgery, and most mornings, I left before six while Cash still slept.