The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(47)
He snorts, a good-natured sound. “I had the stomach flu. Something fierce. But, back then, I was also a starting offensive lineman—”
“Of course you were. Like I said, overachiever—”
“Hush.” He gives my butt a light smack. “Anyway, I had it in my mind that I’d suck it up and play, do it for the good of the team. Man, it was bad. I could barely stand. My guts were cramping up in pain. And then a big f*cking defensive end smashes into me.” He pauses, and I feel him cringe. “He literally knocked the shit out of me.”
I bite my lips to keep from snorting. “Oh, Cupcake.” And then I lose the battle and laugh, hard. “Just…no…”
Gray’s body shakes as he presses his lips against my forehead, his breath coming out in gusts as he clearly tries to control his laughter, and then it hits me: He’s trying not to jostle me. Deep inside my chest, my heart makes a tiny flip.
“Want to know the worst part?” he asks after a moment.
“There’s something worse?”
“Our uniform pants were white.”
“God.” I clutch his lean waist. “Cupcake.”
“They called me Stain from then on.” He makes a sharp, quick snort. “Some of those f*ckers still call me that when I go back home.”
“Fuckers,” I agree vehemently.
He glances down and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I would think you’d have been one of the first in line to call me that.”
I press my grin against his pecs. “Can I?”
“Not if you want to live,” he says darkly.
“With the way I’m feeling now, chances of living are touch and go.”
Instantly, his body stills, and his hold on me grows more secure. “Don’t say that, Mac. Not even as a joke.”
And then I remember his mother. Horror has my heart skipping a beat, and I cling to him. “You’re right, it was a stupid joke.”
His lips brush the top of my head. Not quite a kiss but as if he’s drawing in my scent. “It was a stupid story. I should have said something else. Something nice to put you to sleep.”
Tenderness swamps my chest, and I swallow with difficulty. “It was perfect.” He is perfect. And I am so grateful he’s here with me that I nestle down, wanting to sink into him and never let go. “I love you, Gray.”
It slips out without warning, the words hanging in an awkward silence. Gray’s chest lifts on a sharp breath, and my skin prickles with mortification. I will myself not to tense, not to make my gaffe any worse.
Then he sighs and rests his chin on the crown of my head. “I love you too, Ivy.”
The lightness of his tone and the gentle way in which he says it, makes it clear that we’re talking about the love of friends.
In silence, his hand glides down my thigh, a slow stroke designed to comfort. Suddenly I am too tired to keep my eyes open. And as I drift off to sleep, I count myself lucky that he hadn’t taken my words the wrong way. And I ignore the small part of me that kind of wishes he had.
Fourteen
Ivy
I am sick for days. Fi and Dad stay away. Fi because she just had a stomach flu and I don’t want to give her my cold, and Dad because he’s become an extreme hypochondriac in recent years. Just the mere mention of illness has him running for the hills.
But I have Gray, who only leaves me to attend finish up his finals and attend practice. Then he’s back. He’s made me meals, fluffed my pillow, nagged me to drink my juice like a good little Mac, and given me antibiotics when I needed it for my bronchitis.
And every night, he sleeps by my side, spooning me for comfort, and rubbing my back when my hideous, hacking cough gets the better of me. As if by silent consensus, neither of us mentions that having phone sex and sleeping together every night might be crossing the line of friendship. It feels too good to have him there, and he doesn’t appear to want to leave.
But now lying in bed with the morning light stretching across my pillow, I know I’m well. Nothing hurts. No more cough from hell. I glance at the closed bedroom door. From the other side of it come the sounds of Gray in the kitchen. He’s been feeding me copious amounts of steel-cut oats topped with blueberries in an effort to “promote healing.”
Oatmeal and I have a tempestuous relationship. Somehow, every time I attempt to make it, the f*cker revolts and turns to glop. Not Gray’s oatmeal. It’s like the pinnacle of oatmeal. What all little oats hope to one day become: f*cking delicious and nutritious—Gray’s words, not mine.
Truth is, I knew I was better last night. I think Gray knew, as well. And we’d both ignored it. He’d fussed over me, carrying me to the couch and wrapping me up in a blanket. And when we’d settled into bed, there had been a moment of awkward silence, our bodies going tense in the cool darkness, before he pulled me close in that way of his—possessive yet tender. “Try to get some sleep,” he’d murmured gruffly. I hadn’t been sure if he was talking to me or to himself.
And I’d pretended to still be that sick, fitful woman who needed comfort, not the one who relished the feel of his hard body pressed against mine, the needy girl who wanted to turn in his arms and explore those fine, firm muscles. At length.
But how could I take advantage of his care? I never pegged Gray as the nurturing type. Which isn’t fair. Gray is a kind man. And the more I know of him, the more I understand that he goes out of his way to make others happy. But, in my admittedly small experience, most men don’t do well with illness. I think of his mother who died from cancer. It makes my heart hurt to imagine a younger Gray caring for his dying mother. He rarely speaks of her, or anything deep.