Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(38)

I hear the door creak open through my panting.

“Can I come in?” Grant’s soft, soothing voice says from behind me.

I nod in response, coughing once before flushing the toilet.

Somehow, Grant seeing me at my worst doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. Maybe because of that day he rescued me from my apartment, broken and bloody. Maybe because he’s always so strong and composed—nothing seems to bother the guy.

He holds out a glass of water, a thermometer, and a damp washcloth.

“Thank you.” I swish my mouth with the room-temperature water and spit. Leaning back against the side of the tub with a groan, I stick the thermometer in my mouth. It must be the stomach flu.

While we wait for the thermometer to give us the verdict, Grant presses the cool washcloth to my cheek. His touch is soft and methodical, his eyes revealing equal parts concern and concentration. My pulse has slowed to a regular rhythm when the thermometer beeps. Grant pulls it from my mouth, squinting at the numbers.

“What’s it say?”

“You don’t have a fever. Could it be food poisoning?”

I shake my head. “I’ve had food poisoning before. This isn’t that bad.”

“Then what is it?” Grant frowns, confusion in his voice.

I sigh, going back over the list of what I’ve eaten lately, where I could have caught something, when I last felt so crummy . . .

Oh no.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday. Coach gave us the day off.”

“No, I mean, what’s the date?”

He thinks it over for a second. “The eighteenth. Why?”

A cold shock slithers down my spine. With all the changes in my life lately, I haven’t been paying as close attention as I should have. I’m late. I lift a shaking hand to my mouth.

“What’s the matter? Ana?” Grant lifts my chin with his fingers.

Oh God. I meet his eyes. “I need to go to a drugstore.”

“You can’t go like this. I’ll go. What do you need?”

I wish I could flush myself down the toilet and disappear like my breakfast.

My voice is low and timid when I reply. “A pregnancy test.”

Grant nods slowly. I can see him processing this information, his jaw clenching and unclenching. We’re silent for a moment, our eyes locked and mouths shut.

Suddenly, he stands, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get one delivered.”

“You can’t get them delivered. They aren’t like pizzas.”

Oh fuck. The thought of pizza—cheesy, gooey, sloppy pizza—sends another wave of nausea shooting from my belly to my throat.

I push Grant out of the way and hang my head over the toilet again. I feel like I’m dying, emptying my insides like this. The only thing keeping me grounded is Grant’s hand on my back, rubbing in soothing circles.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs when I lift my head with a sob.

We repeat the process again—me swishing water and cleaning my mouth, and him wiping my face with a cool cloth.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

I nod.

Grant lifts me in one gentle motion, not too quickly, but steady. I nestle my head against his shoulder, curling into the warmth radiating from beneath his thin T-shirt. He carries me across the hall into his room, saying something about the blackout blinds being better, and I’m too tired to argue. He settles both of us gently on the bed. I sink back into him, willing whatever is left in my stomach to settle.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, hating myself for being such a burden.

“Don’t be sorry.” He breathes into my hair, one hand seeking mine. “Just rest.”

As our fingers curl together, I let my eyes close. I don’t realize it at first, but our breathing falls into a steady pace, matching in perfect time.

I feel so secure in Grant’s arms, more than I have ever in my life. With my fingers clasped with his, I drift away.

? ? ?

My dreams are interrupted by barking, and then voices. The deep rasp of male voices.

“Two bottles of Gatorade. Two tests—early-detection kind. Some of those Pepto tablets, and some carbonated water.”

I’m trying to make sense of the strange list before I open my eyes and register where I am. I reach across the duvet, squinting at the rosy light spilling in through the curtains. It has to be late afternoon already.

The door is half-open, two voices carrying clearly from the hall. It’s Grant and . . . Jordie? Yes, that sounds just like Jordan Prescott, twenty-five-year-old hotshot left winger, a.k.a. a rookie on the team. I’ve always been a little aware of Jordie, since Jason was constantly threatened by his mere existence. Not to mention that the guy is really talented on the ice. And totally cute too.

Feeling much better than I did before I fell asleep, I slip out of bed. Wrapping myself in an oversized cardigan, I tiptoe down the hall and find I was right. Jordie stands across from Grant, whose broad back is to me.

One by one, Jordie pulls items out of a brown paper bag and sets them on the kitchen counter. “Saltine crackers, chicken noodle soup, some orange juice—”

“You can keep the orange juice. She’s not going to want that. Lost a ton already.”

“Shit, really?”