Page 130 of Chasing Headlines
He paused, one hand on the door frame. “Or Schorr's right. There won't be enough of you left for a funeral.” He slapped the metal. “Good talk.”
He moved out into the hall. But before the door shut all the way, he poked his annoying nose back in for one last word. “Oh, and 'on rest' means no using that for the next three days either.” He pointed at the condom packet I still held in my hand. “Get well soon!”
I shut my eyes and let out a very un-manly whimper. “It was a good life. Mostly. Maybe I can just die now.”
As far as girlfriends go, I don't know that I'd ever had one that lasted much less veered into serious enough territory to include caretaking. One of the girls I, ahem, overnight 'dated' early in my junior year of high school, brought me soup once when I was ill. Which was definitely not on the same level as driving my half-conscious, somewhat nauseated carcass to the hospital. telling two coaches, a doctor, and the sheriff that we'd been too horny after our Friday night 'date' to take my bumped head—with makeshift stitches—seriously. Staying with me in the ER for several hours on a Sunday, and then dragging my sorry butt back to campus.
The fact that she still held all the appearance of maintaining her dignity throughout the awkward scenario that she cooked up to save my ass-bacon, when I felt like, well, a moron of epic proportions . . . Was all the more impressive.
She steered her small sports sedan into a parking space behind my dorm. “How do you feel?” She moved the shifter into park and turned off the engine.
A phantom force pounded an extra-large set of drumsticks on the back of my skull. “Physically?”
A sidelong glance in my direction. “I think we should stick to that. Don't you?”
“Things are still a little fuzzy. But not like they were. Definitely only one of things, now.” I still ached all over, didn't trust my stomach to handle food, and was seriously beginning to wonder if this chick actually . . . liked me.
“You're supposed to take it easy for the next three days.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Do I need to set up reminders for your meds in your phone?”
I sighed. “I can manage. But for the record, rest means I can't use this for the next three days, either.” I held up the condom packet. Because really, if I had to suffer . . .
She grimaced and looked away. “None of my business.” She pushed open the drivers' side door and exited the car. I blinked. My door sprung open. She ducked into the car, one arm slid around my ribcage and the scent of orange blossoms drifted around my head.
“Coach gave it to me. I think it says it's 'for her pleasure' on the back.” I tried to look at the print on the foil packet, but letters swam in front of my eyes.
I want you to sit in my lap.Did I just say that out loud?
My seatbelt retracted. She held out her hand and helped me to my feet. I liked the feel of her hand in mine. “We could try it out on day four.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“If I'm going to do the time. Might as well do the crime?”
She scowled. “Worst pickup line in evolutionary history. Truly proof you never evolved past neanderthal.” She shut the door. I leaned back against her car.
“Why'd you pick that excuse?”
“What would people believe?” She stuffed her hands in her jean pockets and shrugged. “The only thing that fit was we were too caught up in each other and spent the night. Anything else was borderline negligent. The shock value of my confession got them to stop asking questions about how you injured yourselfin the first place.” She shook her head. “Something I picked up from Dublin.”
“Ireland?”
She let out an amused breath. “No, friend of mine. Well, sorta. Mostly? Her parents are the type that?—”
“Name their kid after a city?”
“Yeah.” She tilted her head down to one side.
“There's a lot of blurry since I left practice.” I ran my fingers lightly over the stitches in my forehead.
“Sorry,” she said in a soft tone.
“My own fault. If there's one thing that's less hazy, it's that I may not have deserved . . . what happened. But my attitude hasn't been making anything better.”
“Only took headbutting a mechanical bull to knock that kinda sense into you? Imagine what an aluminum bat in the right hands could do.” She met my gaze with that smart, smirky little grin. The one that made me think of what I could do to her on day four—in my bed.
“You have a really smart mouth for a reporter.”
“Ah, but I'm not just any reporter. I am the official baseball reporter for the Van Weekly. Maybe. Comes with its own punch card.”