Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s the funniest thing that’s happened all offseason.”

“I’m glad somebody’s enjoying it.”

He studies me for another second before his expression softens. “You know...”

“What?”

“You actually sound happy.”

“I have a concussion.”

“You don’t.”

“It feels like I do.” Only worse, because now someone has messages from me that contain phrases like, “I want to slide my tongue up your thigh and taste you.”

“I’ve known you for six years.” He nods toward my phone. “I’ve never seen you smile at a text message.”

I immediately wipe all expression from my face. “I wasn’t smiling.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was...grimacing.”

“Sure.” He stands. “The IV people should be here any minute.”

He reaches the door. “Oh by the way.”

“What?”

“If ‘Wrong Number’ texts back, tell her to be gentle with you.”

I throw a pillow at him. He ducks. The door slams behind him.

Idiot.

My phone buzzes again. I stare at it. I shouldn’t answer. I barely remember last night.

She probably woke up this morning wondering why she’d spent half the night talking to an idiot.

I unlock the phone anyway.

Good morning. I hope you didn’t puke.

I smile. Damn it. I smile.

I type back.

Morning. Not as far as I know.

Head hurt?

How’d you know?

Lucky guess. Mine does too.

Something warm settles in my chest.