Page 13 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
Her eyes narrow in irritation as I wheel the suitcases farther into the living room.
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.” I shove the handle down and point toward her foot. “But that ankle looks worse.”
She glances down like she forgot it existed. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
Peyton sighs dramatically and sinks back against the couch cushions. “You’re being intense.”
“I’m being smart.”
“You’re bossy.”
“So are you. And stubborn.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Which weirdly feels like a victory.
I crouch in front of her and carefully add another pillow beneath her ankle to elevate it higher.
“You need to stay off it for the rest of the night.”
She opens her mouth.
“And keep it elevated,” I continue before she can argue.
“Daltyn—”
“You need to ice it.”
“I already said I would.”
“And sit on your ass.”
That gets a glare. “I need to unpack and get settled.”
“I’ll help you get settled after dinner.”
Her brows lift. “You’re helping me unpack, too?”
The second the words leave her mouth, she tries to stand again.
Jesus Christ.
I put both hands on her hips and guide her right back onto the couch before she fully gets upright.
“I’ll help?—”
“No.”
“I’m capable of carrying my own?—”
“Peyton.”
“That tone is getting really old.”
“And watching you almost face-plant every twenty minutes is getting old for me.”
