Page 49 of Empty Net
I nod.
He stands first, then offers his hand.
I look at it.
This should be nothing. Teammates haul each other up constantly. Hands are tools. Bodies are equipment. Help is a lever.
Caleb's hand is not nothing.
I take it.
He braces well. Better than I expect. Runner's build, but solid through the shoulders. I push with the left leg, let him take a little weight, and get upright. The right hip protests. I keep my jaw locked. Caleb's other hand comes to my elbow. Support, not ownership.
Inside the room, he gets me to the bed. Puts the ice back in place. Finds the extra pillow without asking and wedges it under my knee so the joint is not pulling.
"You have done this before," I say.
"No."
"Could've fooled me."
"I pay attention."
The sentence has history.
He sits on the edge of the bed. Tie loose, sleeves rolled, expression wrecked by the effort of making it useful.
The pain eases. Not gone. It never goes. But the sharpness recedes enough for the room to come back. Caleb comes back with it. The line of his throat where the top button is open. The tired set of his mouth. The hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing once like he is restraining himself from touching me again.
I know what he is doing.
He is waiting for the pain to stay separate from whatever else is in the room. He is careful enough to know that care cannot be a bridge to sex unless I build it from my side.
So I build it.
"Caleb."
His eyes lift.
I say his name and the room changes.
That is new.
I put my hand over his on the bed.
He looks at our hands. Then at me. "Nolan."
"Yes."
"I need you to be very clear."
My throat tightens. Not fear. Not exactly. The cost of being asked to speak where my body would rather move.
"I want you," I say.
His breath changes. One clean shift.
"Now?"
