Page 23 of Tough Score

"Are those crutches?" Reeve asks, his eyes wide with interest.

I can already tell that the coloring in his cheeks is better today than it was yesterday after surgery. But post-surgery pain is the worst twenty-four to forty-eight hours after surgery so things will get worse before they get better, especially if I can't get his pain meds filled today.

"Yes, why?" I ask but he's already starting to stand out of the wheelchair on one leg, his other leg lifted enough not to touch the ground.

He groans out in pain, but his face shows he's determined.

"Whoa, whoa," Brent calls out, trying to keep the wheelchair steady.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Slade says, trying to get around Brent and the wheelchair before Reeve crashes to the ground.

I bolt around the kitchen island, headed straight for him. "Reeve, hold on, let me help you."

"I've had enough of being carted around in a wheelchair by this maniac. Thank God he decided on a career in the NHL and not in NASCAR. His car wouldn't make it even one lap around the track still in one piece. Plus, I'm starving. The hospital food sucks."

I pull the crutches off the couch where I leaned them up against it earlier. I part the two crutches and then hand Reeve each one, standing close by until they're tucked safely under his armpits, just in case he loses balance.

"Thanks for picking all this stuff up," he says, his amber eyes connecting with mine, a soft smile across his lips.

The height of the crutches will need to be adjusted because he's so tall, but he's already hobbling his way over toward the kitchen. He tries to hide the groans of pain each time he takes a step with the crutches, but I hear them.

"What?" Brent says, gaining our attention again and tosses his hands up. "I ran him into one gurney on the way down the hall. No one was even on it, and now he refuses to give me a 5-star review for my transportation services."

"Yeah, can you believe the nerve?" Slade teases, heading for the living room.

"You ran me into a parked truck in the parking lot," Reeve says, already scouring through the fridge for something to eat.

"Such a baby. You grazed the bummer at best." Then Brent looks over at me when he realizes that he won't get sympathy from Reeve or Slade. "Typical goalie. Such an ice princess. He doesn't know anything about being slammed against the sidewalls. If he did, he wouldn't be grumbling about a low-speed fender bender with hospital equipment."

I laugh and then I notice Slade dropping the pillow, sleeping bag and backpack on the couch in the living room.

"What's all that for? Reeve didn't have that in the hospital with him, did he?" I ask, though I know the answer based on what he had in the ambulance when we showed up.

"I'm staying the night tonight--doctor's orders. They want someone with him tonight," Slade says.

"Overkill. I'll be fine," Reeve mutters from the kitchen, with a mozzarella cheese stick in one hand and a chocolate protein shake in the other.

"Well, if someone has to stay, I'll do it. You don't need to. My apartment isn't ready yet, so I'll take your spot on the couch."

Brent and Slade both look at Reeve for his answer.

When my attention shifts to him in the kitchen, he's standing there as if he just stopped eating when I proposed the new sleeping arrangement.

"I just got hired to help during his recovery,it makes more sense. And my uncle Oakley's apartment is over fifteen minutes from here so if he needs something, I won't have to drive across town," I say, looking at all three of them since no one has answered.

Slade and Brent keep their eyes on Reeve, waiting for his answer.

"Plus, she actually knows what the fuck she's doing with the meds. Slade would end up giving you too much of something and you'd end up foaming at the mouth of having the runs for a month--some shit like that," Brent shifts his gaze to me. "Oh... sorry for the cursing."

"It's fine," I chuckle.

I'm used to the locker room talk, so cursing is the least offensive thing I've ever heard.

"I can read a prescription bottle, Brent; I'm not stupid," Slade says.

"I wouldn't be so sure. The jury's still out, and they're taking a long weekend."

Reeve and I both laugh--our eyes connecting--and then he downs the last of his protein shake.