Page 49 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Since Eslin left the school today, my mind’s been in a loop—running through every worst-case scenario on repeat. I haven’t been able to stop myself from wanting to go to her door, just to check on her. To see her. To know she’s okay.
But without a reason, without an excuse, I’d look exactly like what she asked me not to be—intrusive. Crossing lines. Making this harder than it already is.
And this right here—what I’m feeling now—is exactly why I’ve spent so long keeping my distance from anything close to love. Why I’ve stayed guarded. Why I’ve been terrified to let anyone get this close again.
Because when I fall, I fall hard. I love hard. And I know myself—I’d worry too much, hold too tight.
I’ve already lost one love of my life.
Losing another? That would destroy me.
So I do what I know I can, from a professional position, even if that feels like a stretch. I call the team doctor.
“Dr. Shoup. Grant Mills here. We’ve got a team member who needs your assistance.”
Dr. Shoup freezes for a beat when I tell him where he’s going. My building. And we both know none of the players live here.
But to his credit, he doesn’t ask. Still, I give him the rundown—what happened at the event, how Eslin hit her head, how she insisted she was fine but I wanted to be certain. And becausehe hasn’t formally met Eslin yet, I add, “I’ll meet you at her place. I don’t want you to startle her.”
I sound composed. Calm. Like I’ve got it all under control.
But the truth is, I’m nowhere close.
***
An hour later, I’m standing outside Eslin’s apartment, Dr. Shoup a few steps behind me.
I check my watch, anxiety tightening in my chest.
Please don’t be asleep. Please don’t have a concussion and be doing the one thing doctors always warn against.
I draw in a breath, then knock.
Also, please have some decent clothes on because…a man can only take so much.
When she opens the door, there’s already a frown waiting for me, like she knew exactly who it was before she even checked.
But what there isn’t much of...is clothing.
She’s standing there in a pair of those little boy shorts—the kind I used to absolutelyhateseeing my daughter wear—and a simple tank top.
Only difference is…I like Eslin in those shorts.
I like her in them, a lot.
“What are you doing here?” She asks.
I hold out her phone. “You dropped this at the school.”
She gasps, snatching the phone from my hand. “Oh my goodness, thank you! I emailed Marlow to see if anyone had seen it, and when she wrote back and said no, I thought I’d lost it for good!”
I’d grabbed it the second I saw it slip from her pocket. Tried to tell her. But she was so focused on getting away, on escaping the embarrassment, she didn’t notice I was standing there holding it.
Her gaze flicks from the phone to the man standing beside me.
“This is Dr. Shoup,” I say, keeping my tone even. “He’s going to check you for a concussion.”
Her mouth opens, ready to argue, but I cut her off.
