Page 92 of Offside Rules

I look at the tape visible beneath his sleeve. "Are you scared about the surgery?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. I’m starting to think I should have kept that question to myself when he looks back at me.

"I’m just scared I’ll never get to play professionally again. I worked my whole life for this, and it might be over already. Way before I’m ready to give it up."

My chest tightens.

"I’m twenty-eight. I should be talking to my agent about where I want to play next season. Instead, I’m waiting to find out whether I’ll be able to. He wants to shop me around as a coach or sports broadcaster."

"What does the surgeon say?"

"That we’ll know more after the repair. Then there’s rehab."

"And Boston."

He nods. "And Boston."

"You could spend time with your dad."

"That was the plan. Get him to the specialist. Work on him about selling the shop while he works on me about doing my therapy." He looks toward the paused television. "It seemed like a decent way to spend the summer."

"Until?"

He turns back to me.

"Until I started wanting to stay here."

He could mean the team. His apartment. His friends.

I know better.

"If you can play again, couldn’t you come back?"

"If they want me. If the contract works. There are a few things I don’t get to decide."

"And if you can’t?"

He presses his lips together, then lets out a slow breath.

"I don’t know."

I’ve never heard him sound like that. Wolf always seems to have an answer, even when it’s one designed to annoy me. Tonight, he’s sitting beside me with his arm on a pillow, admitting he’s afraid of losing something he’s spent his entire life working toward.

I move my glass to the nightstand, then push the blanket off my legs and turn toward him.

His eyes follow me as I shift onto my knees beside him.

We agreed we didn’t have to touch. He’s kept his hands to himself all night, even when my knee brushed his leg. Now I put one hand on his good shoulder and lift my knee over his thighs, careful not to disturb the pillow supporting his bad arm.

"Baylor."

I settle onto his lap, my knees on either side of his hips. His hand comes to my waist, steadying me.

"I don’t want you to regret this," he says.

"I regretted telling you we couldn’t kiss again."

His fingers tighten slightly against my skin.