Brains Behind the Puck

Barely Standing, Totally Falling

You'd think after being smashed into the boards by two bulldozer-men and nearly losing consciousness, Alex would have the good sense to stay in bed and, I don't know, rest like a normal human being. But nope, not Alex Hawthorne. He's determined to hobble around the house like some kind of wounded war hero, and Luke—bless him—is stuck playing human crutch.

"Would you sit down before you faceplant and I have to call 911?!" I shout from the couch, watching Luke practically drag Alex's oversized body down the stairs like he's herding a wayward bull.

"I'm fine," Alex grunts, though his face is pale, and he looks like he's one breath away from crumpling into a heap on the floor. Classic Alex: stubborn, invincible—or so he thinks.

"Sure," I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice. "Because walking down the stairs like an eighty-year-old man is the picture of health."

"Sunshine," he drawls, giving me that cocky smirk even through his pain, "you fuss too much."

Oh, the nerve of him. My pulse skips a beat, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "And you don't fuss enough," I fire back. "You look like one sneeze away from breaking in half."

Luke chuckles as he steadies Alex. "She's got a point, man. If it were up to you, you'd be back on the ice tomorrow, pretending you didn't just get turned into a human wrecking ball."

Alex shoots Luke a glare that could melt steel. "I'm not a wrecking ball."

Luke snickers, helping Alex toward the couch, and I fight back a smirk. Watching Alex squirm is almost therapeutic. Luke lowers him onto the cushions, and Alex groans dramatically, sinking into the pillows like they're made of lead.

He sprawls across the couch like he's claiming it as his kingdom, those ridiculously long legs eating up all the space. My eyes should be rolling, but instead, they lock onto his stupidly handsome, bruised-up face. The messier he looks, the harder it is to ignore the fact that he's still... breathtaking.

I step closer, hands on my hips, and stare him down. "Oh yeah? Then what do you call the fact that you got wrecked on the ice and now look like a Picasso painting?"

Luke snorts and claps Alex on the shoulder—hard—and Alex winces. "Yeah, man. Even your bruises have bruises."

Alex's jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he's going to come back with one of his trademark smartass comments. But instead, he just leans his head back against the cushions, clearly too wiped out to keep up his tough-guy act. Good. Maybe he'll finally listen to reason.

I turn to Luke, raising an eyebrow. "You hanging around, or are you gonna ditch me with this man-child? Because he's two minutes away from a dramatic faint."

Luke grins, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'll hang until the guys get here. But you've got this, Riles, we have practise. You're his personal nurse now."

Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted to hear—official nursemaid duty for Alex Hawthorne.

Alex mutters something under his breath, but no one's fooled. He's hurting, even if he won't admit it.

"Hey," he grumbles, shifting to get more comfortable. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Right," Luke says, rolling his eyes as he heads toward the door. "That's why you've got Shortie here pampering you like some kind of personal nurse."

Alex glares after him, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. Luke throws me a wink as he leaves, and I shake my head, letting out a breath.

"Stubborn as a mule," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. But my heart stutters a little when I say it, like it's betraying me every time I try to be annoyed.