Page 95 of Bone Deep
His grin is instant and wicked and he doesn’t wait a second to smash the button. The nurse’s voice comes through, “How may I help you?”
Ryan leans in, “Yes, I’d like a number three, large size, with a diet coke and a side of nuggies.”
There’s a beat, and then my new friend, Marcy, comes back on, deadpan: “What kind of sauce would you like with your nuggies?”
Ryan jolts, then laughs, “Uh, ranch please.”
“Coming right up,” she says, and the intercom clicks off.
Ryan stares at it. “No way.”
Two seconds later, the door opens—Marcy strides in, holding a bag and a big diet coke. She sets them on the tray, gives Ryan a wink, and sails out. “Thank you, have a nice day.”
Ryan gawks at the food, then turns to me with a look so open and grateful it almost knocks me back.
“Thank you,” he says, voice rough.
I shrug, acting casual. “No biggie. I was already out.”
He shakes his head. “Not just that.”
He opens the bag, grabs a fry, pops it in his mouth, and then holds one out. I lean in and bite it from his fingers, and something in his face softens even more.
“But also,” he says, shoving more fries in his mouth, “for being here. For offering to help. You didn’t have to do any of this. Especially for a booty call.”
I laugh, but inside, everything tightens. Because I now know—even with all my boundaries, all my rules—Ryan Buterbaugh was never just a booty call.
Twenty-Eight
Rope Burn
Ryan
I'm fucking bored. I've been laid up in Spence's condo for two weeks now. The only excitement I get is trips to physical therapy. Well, that, and Spence walking around in his tiny trunks in the morning. Fuck me, that man is beautiful. He has to have every gay man in the city barking up his thick tree. In fact, I’ve seen a few text notifications pop up on his phone when he has it on the coffee table. Some Tyler guy. I want to say something, but Spence is being so nice helping me out. Plus, we agreed not to fuck anyone else while we’re doing…this. I trust him.
My teammates Marquis and Nate have stopped by a couple times with food and beer. Other than that, it's been a lot of Netflix and endless scrolling on social media. Anthony said he's handling things with team management, but I think I've made a decision. I'm just a little scared to tell him about it. He just barely got his dream off the ground. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize it.
On the other hand, I'm tired of living my life for everyone else. I am more than just a golden arm that makes people money.
The door to Spence's condo flies open, breaking me out of my pity party. Spence barrels in, arms stacked with bags and boxes, Anthony right behind him in a similar state. F-Bomb grumbles on my chest as I gently move him aside and shift from lying flat to sitting upright. The weight of boredom lifts, replaced by confusion.
I look between them. “What’s all this?”
Spence drops his packages on the floor in front of the couch. He waves a hand over the pile. “This is what’s going to keep you occupied while you recover. A little passion project.”
I scoot to the edge of the couch, trying to see what all the stuff actually is. Anthony grins as he sets his pile down by my feet. “We’re going to help you start a cooking show on your social media channels.”
My face lights up like a stadium at playoffs. “What? Seriously? I would crush a cooking show!”
Anthony laughs. “We know. You’ve got the name, the following, and—let’s be real—you don’t just cook, you make fine dining cuisine. A world-famous athlete showing people how to refine their culinary skills at home? That’s gold.”
I’m nodding so hard my head might fall off. “Yes. Yes. This is genius.”
Spence jumps in, “And I’ve got the kitchen for it. Will be nice to see it finally get some use.”
I shoot him a crooked grin. “It is criminal you never use it. But won’t it be awkward with me hobbling around? I can’t exactly cook on crutches.”
He lifts one of the boxes. “Which is why we got you this knee scooter. It’s good for moving around small spaces.”
