The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(45)

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Ivy


My face hurts, literally hurts, like someone has used it as a punching bag and stomped on it for good measure. Add the fact that my head felt like a bowling ball teetering on the top of my neck, and I’d wanted to weep when I’d trudged toward my door. I’d known who was banging on it, and I hadn’t felt like facing him when I looked like the walking dead. To be honest, I hadn’t felt like facing him at all. Not after the things we’d last said to each other.

Gray’s affable expression had faded the moment he’d seen me. But he hadn’t turned and run off to get an axe, so there was that to be thankful for.

And now that he is here, his big, strong body offering me support—literally, because I can only lean against him and pray that the pounding in my head will soon end—I sigh with relief. He is here. I don’t care about the phone sex. Or anything other than his presence making me feel better.

His chest rumbles when he speaks. “You really do look awful.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, too achy to put any emphasis behind it. “I feel bad.” Now that came out like a pitiful pout.

Gray utters a short laugh. “Yeah, I’d say that you do.” Looking fresh and hot and way too healthy for my taste, he rests his cool hand on my forehead. “Jesus, baby, you’re burning up.”

“That’s because I have a fever. And I’ll try to ignore that you called me baby. Do I look like I need diapers?”

“And I see we’re a grumpy patient as well.”

At the very least, sickness is an excellent defense against any post-phone-sex awkwardness.

Gray tries to take my hand and lead me toward my room when the haze fully lifts from my brain. Instantly, I lurch back so he can’t touch me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say and wince at my aching head.

He frowns. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting you into bed.”

“Oh no, you aren’t.” My hands cover my mouth, which is probably ineffectual, but I don’t know what else to do. This also muffles my words when I continue to yell at him. “Get out, Gray. You cannot be here.”

He actually looks hurt, his open expression twisting into a wince, and I solider on, because he’s obviously being thick. “Gray, you cannot get sick! You need to stay healthy to play, you big oaf. Now, go!” I wave one hand in the direction of the door, while still covering my mouth. “Out with you.”

Does he listen? No. He laughs as though I’m the oaf. “Oh, please, I never get sick. I’ve had my flu shot.”

I roll my eyes and snort, which really isn’t advisable with a stuffed nose.

“And have the immune system of a god,” he adds.

“Fuck! Don’t say that! Quick, knock on wood.” I flail my arms. “Knock on your big, block head.” In my outrage, I start to cough and almost lose a lung.

His brows draw together in a frown. “Let it go, Mac. There is no way in hell I’m leaving you like this.”

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

A world of skepticism lives in his eyes. “Yeah, not buying that. Now, quit arguing. I’ll be careful with your germ-ridden ass, okay?”

“I so want to blow a raspberry at you right now. You’re just lucky I care about your football career too much to risk spraying germs.”

“I’m touched.” He purses his lips when I sway on my feet. “Hell, you shouldn’t even be walking around.”

His arm wraps around my waist, his other arm snakes under my thighs, and then I’m airborne, all six feet of me. As simple as that, as if I’m no heavier than his bag.

Because arguing has left me weak and whiny, I rest my pounding head against his shoulder and enjoy the novelty of being carried.

“Don’t scold,” I say as he puts me down in my bedroom. “I was getting the door.” I give him a pointed look which he ignores in favor of pulling back my sheets. The bed swims before my eyes, glimmering like an oasis in a sea of misery. But I’m so hot, the flannel PJs I’d thrown on to answer the door suffocate me. Hesitating, I glance at Gray. “I can take it from here.” The floor tilts.

Gray’s arm slips around my shoulder. “Sure you can, Special Sauce.” Cool blue eyes study me for a moment, and then he starts to ease my pajama pants down my hips.

“Gray!” I make a furtive attempt to hold onto them.

He pauses, looking up at me with brows lifted in confusion. “What? You’re burning up. And you have underwear on, right?”

“Yeah. But—”

“It’s not any different than seeing you in a bathing suit.” He gives me another look, grinning now. “Unless you’re wearing naughty panties?”

“You sound way too hopeful there, bud.”

“I always hold out hope for sexy underwear. Step.”

I do as told, way too aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m sweating like a farmer. But he’s right. I’m wearing basic boy briefs that cover me more than a bikini would, and frankly, I’m too sick to put up a fuss any longer.

Gray turns into Mr. Brisk Efficiency, neatly pulling off my shirt and not even looking at my bra as he handles me into bed and covers me with cool sheets. With a sigh, I sink into the bed, and Gray closes the curtains against the harsh daylight.