by Sara Ney
He shrugs, his shoulders not nearly as wide as those of any of the players. “Suit yourself.”
I plan on doing just that.
My palm goes to Jack’s cheek. “Jack, can you hear me?”
His head moves toward my voice, eyes peeling open like a newborn baby seeking the light. “Eliza? Why are you still here?”
My palm moves to his forehead as if taking his temperature. “I was about to leave when you got hit.”
He nods, wincing. Physically pained.
“Where does it hurt?”
“All over.”
I nod with authority, ready to take charge of the situation. “We’re going to get you off the field so I can get you home, okay?”
“Jesus, lady, he was fine a minute ago,” someone nearby uncharitably points out. “He tripped over his own feet.”
I ignore him, shooting him my most ferocious glare before refocusing on Jack. “Can you sit up? We have to get you off the field.”
“I think so,” Jack moans in his British accent, lifting his head from the ground, attempting to raise his body using his core. He manages it with loud groaning and wincing.
Poor thing! “Easy now,” I urge supportively, wanting him to be careful. The last thing we need is an injury due to his injury!
He eases his way up until he’s at a stand, leaning on me for support, weight transferred to one foot. Jack is heavy, but I can shoulder it, doing what I must.
“Give me a second to call a car, and then we’ll have one of your teammates help you to it.”
“I can manage,” he croaks. “I think I can make it if we go slow.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Don’t want to bother anyone else. They’re in the middle of this match.”
I understand and sympathize; he’s trying not to be a burden the same way I try not to be a burden on him. I’m so happy to help—so glad I was here for him in his time of need.
Slowly we shuffle toward the road, our transportation on its way, and I follow its progress through the app, watching as a teeny little car gets closer and closer.
I need to get him home. Get his head on a pillow and his knees elevated.
“We can watch a movie or something if you want. Do you want to take a shower or anything when we get back?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t think I’m all that dirty, was only in the match a few minutes before I fell.”
He’s being modest; if he’s self-conscious because he got pummeled to the ground, he shouldn’t be. People get hurt playing sports every second of every day, and the fact that he is more of a novice and less of an expert makes him all the more susceptible.
We’re home in no time, though it’s no easy feat; Jack remains slouched over in the back seat beside me the entire trip, and I worry about him. I don’t want him falling asleep or passing out—what if he has a concussion?
The trainer said his pupils were not dilated, and I suppose that’s true; I would have noticed. My roommates would occasionally come home high after smoking pot, so I definitely know my way around a dilated pupil.
“Hey, we’re home.”
I give him a slight nudge before opening up the door and helping him out, mindful of the uneven concrete pavers lining his driveway.
It takes me a little bit longer to get him inside the house and up the stairs, where I proceed to get him situated in his bedroom, mother-henning him as if I were a private nurse.
“Really, love, you don’t have to trouble yourself. I’m all right.” His eyes slide closed as his head hits the pillow.
Jack coughs.
Coughs again.
Oh dear…
This is worse than I thought. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“How about some tea?”
One eye cracks open. “Perhaps I could go for a spot of tea.”
Cough, cough.
“All right. I’ll go get that started, you wait here. Don’t try to get up.” I tuck the coverlet around his shoulder and turn on the ceiling fan to circulate the air. “Be right back.”
“’Kay.” His eyes drift shut.
Fussing around the kitchen, I wonder how I should make this tea for him; does he like sugar or honey in it? Don’t British people like milk? Similar to coffee but different, sort of prepared the same way.
I open up several cabinet doors before discovering his tea service, removing both a cup and saucer from the cupboard. Locate the tea bags, choosing several so he has options: chamomile, Earl Grey, and green.
Pluck a lemon from the basket on the counter and slice it, adding several slices to a little tray. Boil the water in a measuring cup in the microwave, not wanting to waste time doing it on the stove top.
All this done, I take the entirety of it back upstairs to my patient.
Clearing the bedside table, I put everything down and prepare his drink. “What kind of tea would you like?” I whisper. “I have a few.”
Jack hums. “I fancy the green tea—no caffeine, you see. I’d love to rest.”
He sniffles.
“Sugar? Honey?”
“Little bit of sugar.” His eyes open and he glances over at the tray. “And a bit of milk.”
His eyes slide shut.
He coughs.
“Are you sure you don’t want a shower? It might help your aching muscles.” I pour a dollop of milk into the tea, stirring it gently. “How hard were you hit?”
“Erm…I don’t remember.” With his head turned and facing the window, Jack looks peacefully at rest.
I don’t want to bother him with questions, but I have to make sure he’s okay.
“If you feel anything change, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, of course.”
Hmm. “Okay. Because I know how you boys can be.” I give him a flirty wink, though he’s not paying me the least bit of attention.
Jack sighs heavily, glancing my way again. Reaches out his hand to take hold of the dainty tea cup in his large palm.
Watching him sip it gingerly makes me smile. It’s a frail and fragile cup, hand painted with blue flowers and petals on a pristine white porcelain, beauty clutched in his massive fingers.
A contradiction.
His lips sip, puckered. “This is good, Eliza. Thank you.”
“Finish it all—I hear tea is good for you. And for the soul.”
“Indeed.” He quietly drinks the rest, and the silence has me shifting on my heels near the door, unsure of my place in the room.
“Well…if you want more hot water, let me know. You can text me, I’ll be down the hall.”
“Don’t go.” He pats the space beside him with his free hand. “Stay here and keep me company.”
I hesitate. “You need rest.”
He doesn’t need me prattling on beside him, chatting away to fill the void.
“Get your sketch pad and I’ll turn the telly on.”
“You need sleep, Jack.”
“Come on, Liza, please?”
It’s the first time he’s called me by a nickname; it’s the same one my friends and family from back home use. It’s one I’ve always adored, and hearing him use it now has my heart skipping a small beat.
I go to my room to fetch my notebook and a pen, retracing my steps back to his bedroom and climbing up onto his big bed. Everything is gray: the sheets, the pillowcases, the comforter—his curtains, too.
“Are you sure this is all right? I don’t want to bother you.”
“I invited you up here because I want your company,” he tells me with his eyes still closed. “I’m not that tired.”
“All right,” I allow. “If you insist.”
“I insist,” he says with a small chuckle—then he groans as if it pains him to laugh, emitting yet another suppressed cough.
I wonder how a sports injury can conjure up coughing fits but don’t ask the question out loud. It’s not my place to judge him
, and I don’t want him to feel any more humiliated than he already does for the way he played today.
Jack begins flipping through the channels, stopping to read the descriptions of several action films and another few comedies before settling on a home improvement network, a show where they’re house-hunting for properties in the Caribbean.
Not at all what I would expect him to watch, and it makes me hide a smile.
“You don’t want to watch Batman? Or The Avengers?”
“Too noisy. Too much for my eyes to focus on, probably not good for my brain.”
He has a point.
“Besides, I love this show. My favorite part is trying to guess which house they’ll choose at the end.” He pauses. “I also love to nitpick on their walk-throughs the same way they do.”
I pick up where I left off in my notebook—the sketch of an immortal zombie I started at the beginning of the week—adding details to the torso, admiring my work along the way.
Jack moves restlessly beside me, shifting in place, unable to get comfortable.
“You said you felt okay,” I say, setting down my things and turning my body toward him so I can see him better.
“I did feel okay,” he grunts. “I didn’t think I would feel like this after having that delicious tea.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I don’t know, I think I might have a headache. Or a fever? You should check.”
I scoot over, placing my palm in the center of his forehead, then on his cheeks, pressing down the way my mother does when I’m not feeling well.
“You don’t feel warm.” But that doesn’t mean he isn’t sick. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a shower? Maybe a cold one?”
“Quite sure. I just want to lie here.” His head turns into my palm, lips pressing into the center of it.
Warm.
Hot.
Breath.
My body stills before I pull my hand back, shocked by the tingles coursing through me, the contact burning my skin where his mouth just was.
Did he do that on purpose, or was it merely a coincidence? Surely he wasn’t kissing my palm.
He can’t be feeling like himself—maybe he isn’t aware that putting his mouth on my palm is so intimate.
Perhaps…he did?
Jack moans.
“What’s wrong?”
He lies back, sinking deeper into his fluffy pillow, gazing up at the ceiling. “Nothing.”
Instinctively I lean over, staring into his brown eyes, observing once again, looking for any change in them.
Any change at all.
Nothing.
Nada.
Hmm. He wasn’t kidding when he said nothing was wrong, but I had to verify it for myself.
“What do you see?” he wants to know, lying still.
“Not much,” I finally allow, not moving from this position, not ready to return to my comfy spot on his bed. “But wait—what’s this?”
I inch forward, pretending to inspect his head. Ears, eyebrows.
Furrowing my own brows to appear troubled.
Hum in my throat.
“What?” Now he sounds concerned.
“It looks like your eyes are dilated and you have a gash on your forehead,” I lie, the little sneak lying there innocently, worry etching his face. “You’ll probably need stitches.”
“What?!” His fingers fly to his forehead, feeling for a wound. He pulls them away to check for blood and finds none.
Looks confused.
Presses his fingertips to his cheeks, temples, forehead, coming up blank.
“You liar, there’s nothing on my face.”
I want to smack him.
“Are you even hurt?!” Is it just me, or has my voice reached a fever pitch?
“Are you actually questioning my sincerity?”
“No, I’m asking if you’re hurt. Did you get injured today, or are you full of shit?”
His massive palm flies to his chest, pressing above his heart. “It pains me that you would question—”
“Oh shut up, Jack.” I shove myself off the bed, gathering up my things, feeling instantaneously guilty for telling him to shut up. The words are SO RUDE and I’m horribly impulsive for letting them fly out of my mouth.
He reaches for me. “Eliza, come on—I was only having a jest. Don’t be cross.”
I swat him away, rolling my eyes. “Having a jest? Don’t be cross. You sound like you’re from the 1800s.”
My pencil drops to the ground in my haste, and I bend to pick it up.
Then drop my notebook.
Ugh!
Jack peers over the side of the bed at me. “Eliza, don’t be mad.”
He leaps up to help pick up my things, our hands fumbling on the ground.
I stand. “Why would you do it?”
“It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that I have no bloody idea what I’m doing on that playing field. I could be killed.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s true!” he argues, following behind me toward the door. “You’ve seen those blokes, they’re massive. I’m tiny compared to some of them—I don’t stand a chance, Eliza. I had to do something.”
“Yeah—you can quit and go away honorably. Not fake a dumb injury.”
Surely everyone on the team now thinks he’s a pussy, but that’s another thing I’m not going to admit out loud.
“Dryden-Jones men do not quit.”
That makes me snort. “Please do not tell me you believe in that toxic bullshit.”
I pad down the stairs.
“I’m British—’course I believe in it. My father never hugged us.”
He sniffs indignantly, and that makes me laugh, sad as it is.
We go to the kitchen, Jack not bothering to limp as he did when I was hauling his lying ass into the house. He is his regular, jovial self with pep in his step, though a tad bashful.
“Are you embarrassed because I witnessed your downfall, or because you suck so bad at playing, or because you kept pretending?”
“Yes.” His head bob is vigorous.
His look? One of guilt.
“I’m sorry, Liza—I shouldn’t have lied. It was wrong and I’m a total wanker. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Not look so cute.
Not smell so good.
Not make me tingle when you touch me.
“I won’t hold it against you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I owe you a favor, and that will be it.”
If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? The song lyrics ring through my head, making me blush, and I can’t look him in the eye.
Instead, I go to the sink, feigning the need to wash my hands. Go to the fridge, pulling out the bowl of strawberries there, then the blueberries.
Pour a little of each into a snack bowl, busying myself.
“Are you avoiding me now?” His low timbre is close to my ear. “Don’t be cross.”
Don’t be cross.
So poetic.
I feel my defenses lowering, adding more fruit to my bowl for him so he can have some, too, still at the sink facing the window.
His hands go to my shoulders. “Won’t you look at me?”
I can’t.
“You can’t? Or won’t?”
Did I say those words out loud? I must have if he’s responding to them, fingers kneading the blades of my shoulders, thumbs digging lightly into my skin.
God it feels like heaven…
My head lolls to one side, giving him better access, my eyes closing even as my fingers clutch the bowl on the counter, as if needing it for support as his hands move over my skin.
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because…
I like you too much and now we live together. Anything more would make it weird, wouldn’t it?
But then.
His lips follow his fingers and meet my skin, softly kissing their
way up the curve of my neck. Up toward my ear, one of the most sensitive spots on my body.
Neck.
Collarbone.
Boobs.
Take your pick, I will melt in his hands if his fingers graze any of those three spots, and here he is with his lips on one, a treasure hunter seeking his prize.
Gross. What am I doing using metaphors?
Get it together, Eliza—he can’t be kissing you, he can’t be kissing you…
Why? What’s the harm?
Your roommates kicked you out because of this guy—the least you can do is allow yourself to enjoy his mouth. Enjoy his hands on you.
I war with myself even as his hands caress the exposed flesh above my hoodie.
“Why won’t you look at me, Liza?”
“Because you’ll kiss me if I turn around.”
There.
I said it.
Said the words we both know to be the truth, knot forming in my throat.
“True,” he volleys back quietly.
“So. Yeah, I can’t turn around.”
Jack goes still. “I respect that.”
My shoulders rise and fall, defeated. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, Jack. It’s just…” I chance a glance behind me.
Huge mistake.
Wide eyes, thick brows furrowed into a semi-frown, mouth set into a neutral line.
He’s beautiful.
I jerk my head back toward the window, hanging it slightly while I internally debate. Feel his large hands at my waist, sort of embracing me, sort of cradling me—I’m not sure which—as his nose nuzzles my hair.
I don’t want him to stop, but I know he should.
I want to see what happens if he doesn’t.
I want…to stop overthinking everything but can’t.
My brain won’t let me.
My body on the other hand…?
Presses into him as he stands behind me, aching for him to move his hands from my hips to anywhere else. For them to wander. For him to turn me around and kiss me though I just told him not to.
“You smell good,” he says, breathing into my hair.
He smells good too, like grass and outside and lemon from the tea I made him earlier. The closer he gets, the better it is.
Jack isn’t pushy; he’s perfect. And if he wasn’t living down the hall, it would be so easy to let myself fall into all the things I’ve never felt before. He is easily becoming a good friend. Easily becoming my first adult crush, and lord…he could break my heart if I let him.