When two worlds collide at midnight in the empty halls of New Jersey Private Hospital, Jack and Parker learn that no matter what, the heart wants what it wants.
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I CAN HEAR THE SOUND OF MY BABY YELLOW CONVERSE squeaking on the shiny hospital floors as I walk beside maybe the cutest boy I'd ever met in my life. It makes me painfully aware that neither of us know what to say and with an overwhelming amount of anxiety, I feel the need to break the silence between us.
I guess he must feel it too, because in a panic, we both turn to each other and start to talk at the same time.
"How's your shoulder?" I ask at the same time that he asks me: "what would you like for breakfast?"
We stare at each other blankly for a fraction of a second, both sort of surprised by the other, before we break out into a small fit of quiet laughter.
"You first," he says, chewing on his bottom lip and drawing my eyes to them without even trying.
I suck in a breath, willing myself to look away. "How's your shoulder feeling?"
Jack shrugs, then winces. "It's okay, still sore, I start rehabilitation tomorrow."
"Your team wants you back?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow in his direction.
"Maybe," he grins. "I want my team back."
"You miss it already?" I ask, genuinely surprised.
"It's hockey season," he shrugs. "Usually, I'd be training or on the ice right now, I'm not used to doing nothing."
"You mean resting," I remind him with a giggle.
He nudges my shoulder. "Same thing."
"It is quite literally not," I offer with a look of concern. "You come first, Jack."
"Sure," he shrugs again, this time holding back his wince. "But without hockey I'm not even me to begin with."
I stare at him, contemplating his words before turning my attention ahead to face the hall without speaking. When Jack doesn't get a response, he changes the subject. "So, what am I treating you to this morning?"
"Oh, no, Jack, it's okay," I mumble, shaking my head with wide eyes. "You don't have to buy, I can pay for us, I know how expensive surgery is."
"Relax, Parker," he grins, tossing an arm around my shoulders. It's a casual gesture, probably meaning nothing beyond friendship at all, but the way I can feel his fingertips toying with the tube of my cannula like the idea of it doesn't totally freak him out, or the way he smells fucking amazing, all of it has my head spinning. He chuckles again, and I'm positive I've never heard a prettier sound. "I make seven figures a year, sweetheart, I think I can afford to buy you some breakfast."
I blush, hard.
And not just at the idea that Jack Hughes the twenty-two year old professional athlete had just called me a pet name, but because, did he really make that much in a year?
