Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

  Tim’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay. You should drive, then.” Another thought occurred to him and he looked up at the room to find most of the team watching them. “If any of you see Michelle at Smitty’s tonight, can you let her know what happened?”

  A bunch of the guys nodded, though Tim could see in their faces that they didn’t relish being the ones to tell his girlfriend he was blowing her off. He found he really didn’t care. She’d give him a piece of her mind later, but that was just par for the course at this point. It wouldn’t even be the first time she’d accuse him of putting Chris before her, and Tim couldn’t deal with that shit right now, particularly since she would be right.

  CHRIS WOKE UP, the first time, flat on his back with his head spinning and a complete stranger smiling down at him. He would have cringed if he’d had control over his body, which he didn’t. Somehow, that was less alarming than it should have been.

  “Welcome back,” the nurse said, smile still in place.

  If she said anything after that, he didn’t remember it.

  When he woke a second time, he was propped up, his head on a nice soft pillow that was doing nothing to help with his pounding headache. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He just knew that would make it worse. He wished, fervently, to go right back to sleep. But holy shit, it tasted like something had died in his mouth—possibly a small, furry animal. Or maybe he’d swallowed a particularly ripe, unwashed hockey sock.

  He swallowed and let out a pathetic noise. A warm hand immediately stroked his cheek, and fingers curled around his neck. Something—maybe someone’s thumb?—traced over the hinge of his jaw a moment before familiar plastic brushed his lips.

  He wanted a sip from that straw, so much, but he was teammates with Alexei Belov, so there was no way in hell he was risking it without looking first. Not that Alexei would hit a man while he was down, but most of the team had been conditioned—at this point, to the level of Pavlovian instinct—to be cautious.

  At first, all Chris could see was dim lights and blobs of darker things. He blinked furiously and the image resolved into Tim hovering over him, his eyes searching Chris’s face, brows pinched with concern. That thumb stroked again, and Chris had to blink some more just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  Had Tim ever touched him like this?

  “Here, take a sip. It’s water,” Tim said, his voice rough and deep and washing over Chris.

  Chris tried to do as Tim suggested, fumbling with the straw until Tim held the damn thing in place, his fingers brushing Chris’s lips.

  If Chris hadn’t felt as though he’d just been run over by a Mack truck pulling two trailers full of cement, he might have shivered. All he could manage, though, was a single skipped heartbeat and a sigh of relief as the cold water slid down his throat.

  He whined pitifully when Tim took the straw away.

  Tim grinned. “You look like a wet cat when you make that face.”

  Chris scowled at his supposed friend, which only made Tim grin wider, his handsome face lighting up for a moment.

  “The nurse said you could only have a little to start, since the anesthesia still might make you feel sick,” Tim explained as he set the cup aside on the little tray by the bed. His thick, dark, brown hair was standing straight on end. All of it. He looked like a damned hedgehog, which Chris wished his sluggish brain had noticed when he’d been compared to a wet cat. He also looked tired. His full pink lips and thick, arched eyebrows were pulled down in a frown. His eyes, so dark blue people often assumed they were brown, intently focused on the contents of the bedside tray while he arranged it all just so.

  Then he turned back to Chris and fussed with the sheets, pulling them higher and smoothing them over his chest.

  Chris blinked again, wondering if they’d given him the good shit and he was hallucinating. They’d definitely given him something, since he felt distinctly…detached, and he couldn’t feel his leg at all. He wasn’t looking forward to when the drugs wore off and that last part changed.

  Or the part where Tim, his friend, his buddy—and nothing more, sadly—was fussing over him. He hadn’t even known Tim was capable of such…tenderness. If Chris hadn’t been as high as a kite, it might have pissed him off to discover something else to love about the guy. It had already been bad enough before Tim had apparently stood sentry at his bedside for…hours?

  Darting a gaze to the window, he tried to orient himself. It was pitch dark outside.

  “What time is it?”

  Tim glanced at his watch. “Almost midnight.”

  “Where am I?”

  Tim froze for a second. “You don’t know where you are?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as they watched Chris closely.

  Chris almost sighed in pleasure when Tim’s fingers thread into his hair by his temples, skimming over his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed. He was definitely going to miss this when he sobered up. Or maybe when Tim did. What was his deal tonight, anyway?

  “I don’t feel any bumps,” Tim said, his tone distressed. Chris forced his eyes open again and tried to make sense of the panic on Tim’s face. He was having a hard time focusing. “Shit. I didn’t think you’d hit your head. Did they go through the concussion protocols?” Tim asked, reaching for the nurse’s call button on the mattress. “I’ll get the doctor. It’s going to be okay, maybe they didn’t—”

  Chris grabbed Tim’s hand, surprising them both, based on Tim’s startled gaze.

  “I know I’m at the hospital. I meant, am I still in post-op, or did they move me to a room?”

  “You’re in a room,” Tim said, his shoulders coming down from around his ears. “I can’t take you home until tomorrow,” he added grumpily, smoothing another hand across Chris’s chest. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

  Chris let himself wallow in the comfort of Tim’s voice. The warmth of his touch. It didn’t mean anything, but it was nice to pretend, for just a second. Fuck, these drugs were great.

  “You should go home. Get some rest,” he said eventually, though that was the opposite of what he wanted.

  Tim frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay,” Chris said meekly.

  He stared down at the massive lump beneath the covers where his lower leg should be. Not that it wasn’t there, but it was kind of weird seeing it when he couldn’t feel it at all. He couldn’t even feel the gigantic cast they’d already warned him he’d be stuck with for the first week, but he could see the shape of it beneath the blankets. He considered trying to wiggle his leg, but discarded that idea. He’d take this pain-free thing for as long as he could milk it.

  After that, everything was going to get a lot harder. Even doped to the gills, he knew that.

  He swallowed and looked up at Tim, still hovering beside the bed. Did he plan to just stare at Chris all night? There was a very uncomfortable-looking chair pulled up beside the bed, with a tattered copy of Tim’s favorite Neil Gaiman novel hooked over the arm and a duffle bag filled with what looked like both their clothes beside it. There was no way Tim was going to be able to sleep in that damn thing, and they had practice tomorrow.

  Well, Tim had practice tomorrow. Chris guessed he was done with those, for the time being. Possibly forever.

  He let that thought float away and turned his face against the pillow. Tim lurched forward, like he was going to…what?

  Chris eyed him warily for a moment, his eyes already drooping as the day and the drugs caught up with him. A hockey game, an ambulance ride, and the surgery were a lot to take in one afternoon, and that was without the talk with the doctor. The one who said he’d do the best he could, but…

  At least they’d been able to pin him back together here in Moncton. He couldn’t imagine what the ride from the middle of New Brunswick all the way to Montreal would have been like with his leg in so many pieces.

  That thought, for some reason, made him cold. He shivered, almost violently, an
d wondered if the drugs were doing weird things to his system. Tim resumed his fussing with the covers, as if by tucking them up as close to Chris’s armpits as possible, he could make it all better.

  Maybe it did help a little. There was something that would help even more, though, and Chris was just pathetic and needy enough that he was going to ask for it.

  Tomorrow, he’d blame the drugs.

  Gritting his teeth, he scooted his butt and his good leg as far over on the bed as he could, careful not to move the other leg at all. Tim put a hand on his hip to try to stop him, but Chris was already pressed up against the railing and settled back on the mattress.

  His muscles shook from the exertion. It was incredibly lowering. He was weak and cold and so done with everything at that moment that he couldn’t be bothered to care whether he was doing the right thing when he said, “Come here.”

  Tim looked at him curiously. “Where?”

  Chris patted the empty space beside him and closed his eyes. If Tim would rather sleep in the chair, Chris told himself he’d understand. Maybe he’d even get up the energy to ask for another blanket and let himself be soothed by its weight and warmth. But that wasn’t what he wanted.

  Of course, he’d also feel bad if Tim ended up pulling an all-nighter because of him. And there was the worry of Tim killing them on the way home tomorrow if he fell asleep behind the wheel.

  So, really, there were plenty of perfectly good reasons for doing this.

  Chris smiled faintly when the mattress dipped beside him. He kept perfectly still, not giving in to the urge to curl into the warmth of Tim’s body as he settled onto the bed. He opened his eyes at the sound of Tim’s sneakers hitting the floor and watched those freakishly long, skinny feet slide down the bed. As soon as Tim’s shoulder pressed against his fully, Chris threw the blankets over Tim’s legs.

  Tim shut off the lights, and Chris turned his head, surprised to find Tim looking back, his face close, his expression unsure. He appeared ready to leap from the bed at the least provocation.

  “It’s fine,” Chris said soothingly, as if it didn’t matter. As if he didn’t care. “I’m just going to pass out now anyway. You should get some sleep, too.”

  Tim flashed a quick grin. “Okay.”

  For a while after that, Chris drifted, not quite asleep, but sort of floating on a cloud of exhaustion and good drugs. When Tim wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, he let himself do what he’d wanted to all along, curling into that warmth as best as he could without moving his leg. Pressing his cheek to Tim’s chest, he threw caution to the wind and an arm across Tim’s waist.

  He smiled, probably dopily, and was glad no one could see his face. Then his thoughts got dimmer still, reality blending with half-formed dreams as he sank deeper into the bed and unconsciousness.

  In the morning, he would tell himself he had imagined the press of lips to the top of his head and the gentle back-and-forth of fingertips along his arm.

  Chapter Two

  TIM BARELY RESISTED grabbing Chris as he staggered on his crutches, just a few feet shy of his bed. His cast, which reached all the way to mid-thigh, was Ice Cats blue—apparently the doctor was a fan—and gigantic.

  “I hate you so much,” Chris groaned, shooting Tim a dirty look.

  “I know, buddy,” Tim said easily, not taking it personally as he restrained himself to steadying his friend with a hand on his back. It had been a long morning of meetings with doctors and convincing the hospital to release Chris. Tim could see the beads of sweat forming on Chris’s temples, feel how his muscles shook. As much as the wheelchair to the car had made Chris squawk, it had been a godsend. Sometime around the bottom of the stairs in the front foyer of their building, Tim had started to worry he’d have to carry Chris the rest of the way, and god knew that would have meant creating a scene, since there was no way Chris was going to go quietly.

  Tim pictured himself carrying Chris down the hallway with old Mrs. Boudreaux watching and grinned.

  “Why can’t I just sit on the couch, again?” Chris grumbled.

  Tim rolled his eyes and pulled one crutch away, helping Chris ease down onto the bed. “Because I have to go to practice in an hour, you’re exhausted, you’re high, and you have the bedroom with a bathroom attached?”

  He tried to say it patiently, but since it was the fourth time he was repeating it, he maybe missed the mark some.

  Chris scowled and harrumphed, but Tim also noted how he quickly scooted back against the headboard and almost melted into the bed the moment he was settled. Tim would bet anything that Chris would pass out the moment Tim left.

  In the meantime, he was pouting mightily, which should not have been as charming as it was.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that your face can get stuck that way?” Tim asked, turning away to lean the crutches against the wall by the head of the bed and letting himself smile where he knew Chris wouldn’t see it.

  Schooling his features, he turned back to Chris and pulled all the prescription bottles from his pockets to line them up on the bedside table. He immediately noted how much paler Chris was now than he’d been in the car and felt another rush of the protectiveness he’d been struggling with since he’d woken up with Chris half on top of him. Not that there was anything wrong with feeling protective. His friend was hurt and needed him. Of course he wanted to help. And Chris was so upset, so tired and broken that he’d practically cuddled with Tim all night, drooling on his shirt and clinging to his chest.

  Tim hadn’t slept much, but what sleep he had gotten had been solid. He figured he would have been up all night in the stupid chair, but being in the bed meant he would know if Chris had needed him, so he had been able to relax and let himself conk out for a while.

  Still, he was pretty tired. So, maybe it was exhaustion that turned that protective urge into something that made Tim want to run his fingers over Chris’s unruly bedhead and tame the wild spikes. That made him want to tuck the sheets in closer and get the quilt off his own bed, the one his grandmother had made him and was so soft and worn with age that the cotton was silky now.

  Because, as previously stated, Tim wasn’t stupid. And the burning desire to crawl into bed and pull Chris back onto his chest and spend the day like that? That definitely wasn’t bros. Tim didn’t know what it was, just that it was different. New. And weird.

  His cellphone buzzing in his pocket for the tenth time that morning distracted him from that whole line of thinking, which he definitely wasn’t going to pursue. Instead, he looked at the caller ID and sighed. He should probably answer one of Michelle’s calls, at some point.

  He shoved his phone back in his pocket.

  “What do you need?” he asked Chris.

  “I’m fine,” Chris said, apparently done with pouting and moving onto stoic martyrdom instead. “You should head to the gym before practice.”

  “Really? So, you’re cool with your remote over there on the dresser, and no food, and nothing to drink? Instead, you’ll just subsist on your sadness, maybe?”

  Chris narrowed his eyes. “I really hate you.”

  Tim laughed. “So you keep saying. Maybe I’ll believe you one of these days, but for now, I know you loooooove me.”

  Tim didn’t really know what to make of the expression on Chris’s face. He turned for the kitchen instead, tossing the remote back over his shoulder as he passed the dresser.

  He cringed at the thwack of it hitting…something.

  “Hey!” Chris shouted indignantly, but Tim could tell it wasn’t real outrage so he kept going for the kitchen. “You could have hit my leg!”

  Tim rolled his eyes and shouted back from the hallway, “Quit your bitching. I’m going to slave over a hot stove for you.”

  “Oh my god,” Chris cried. “We’re going to die!”

  Tim chuckled and refused to comment. Just because he normally didn’t like to cook didn’t mean he couldn’t. He was perfectly capable of pulling together so
mething a lot more palatable than anything the hospital cafeteria had on offer.

  Which wasn’t saying much. Chris’s breakfast had looked like the goo they used to sling on Nickelodeon when they were kids.

  Unfortunately, his belief that cooking was mostly a waste of time when there were a zillion places nearby for takeout or delivery meant that the cupboards weren’t exactly overflowing with options.

  His mother would be appalled by his selections, but he promised himself that he would stop at the store on the way home and make up for it.

  Chris looked insultingly shocked when Tim came back into the bedroom with a bowl of Kraft Dinner and a very large smoothie. Tim tried not to act too smug when Chris took the smoothie from his hands eagerly and gulped down a quarter of it.

  He also manfully resisted the urge to wipe the smudge of purple from Chris’s lips. That would be weird.

  “That’s perfect. Is it—”

  “Banana, blueberry, strawberry, and mango with chocolate protein powder and chia seeds, just the way you like it.”

  Chris blinked up at him for a moment. He seemed to be doing that a lot. Maybe it was the drugs. “Thank you. It’s my favorite.”

  Tim rolled his eyes. “I know. Why do you think I made it for you, dickface?” He straightened the covers over Chris’s legs again, suddenly unsure of what he should do with himself. He needed to get going soon, but he didn’t want to leave.

  Chris caught his wrist, stopping his movements. “Thank you,” he said again, looking at Tim in a way that made him feel kind of squirmy. “You should go to practice.”

  “Yes. Right. Practice.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the door.

  Chris nodded, then stared at him as he stood there, not moving. When Chris opened his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of, “What the fuck is your problem?”—Tim jerked into motion.

  He didn’t get far, stopping again in the doorway. “Call me if you need anything.”