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  Chris almost sighed in pleasure when he felt Tim’s fingers thread into the hair by his temples, skimming over his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed. He was definitely going to miss this when he sobered up. Or maybe when Tim did. What was his deal tonight, anyway?

  “I don’t feel any bumps,” Tim said, sounding distressed. Chris forced his eyes open again and tried to make sense of the panic on Tim’s face. He was having a hard time focusing. “Shit. I didn’t think you’d hit your head. Did they go through the concussion protocols?” Tim asked, reaching for the nurse’s call button on the mattress. “I’ll get the doctor. It’s going to be okay, maybe they didn’t—”

  Chris grabbed Tim’s hand, surprising them both, based on Tim’s startled gaze.

  “I know I’m at the hospital. I meant, am I still in post-op, or did they move me to a room?”

  “You’re in a room,” Tim said, his shoulders coming down from around his ears. “I can’t take you home until tomorrow,” he added grumpily, smoothing another hand across Chris’s chest. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

  Chris let himself wallow in the comfort of Tim’s voice. The warmth of his touch. It didn’t mean anything, but it was nice to pretend, for just a second. Fuck, these drugs were great.

  “You should go home. Get some rest,” he said eventually, though that was the opposite of what he wanted.

  Tim frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay,” Chris said meekly.

  He stared down at the massive lump beneath the covers where his lower leg should be. Not that it wasn’t there, but it was kind of weird seeing it when he couldn’t feel it at all. He couldn’t even feel the gigantic cast they’d already warned him he’d be stuck with for the first week, but he could see the shape of it beneath the blankets. He considered trying to wiggle his leg, but discarded that idea. He’d take this pain-free thing for as long as he could milk it.

  After that, everything was going to get a lot harder. Even doped to the gills, he knew that.

  He swallowed and looked up at Tim, still hovering beside the bed. Did he plan to just stare at Chris all night? There was a very uncomfortable-looking chair pulled up beside the bed, with a tattered copy of Tim’s favorite Neil Gaiman novel hooked over the arm and a duffle bag filled with what looked like both their clothes beside it. There was no way Tim was going to be able to sleep in that damn thing, and they had practice tomorrow.

  Well, Tim had practice tomorrow. Chris guessed he was done with those, for the time being. Possibly forever.

  He let that thought float away and turned his face against the pillow. Tim lurched forward, like he was going to…what?

  Chris eyed him warily for a moment, his eyelids already drooping as the day and the drugs caught up with him. A hockey game, an ambulance ride, and the surgery were a lot to take in one afternoon, and that was without the talk with the doctor. The one who said he’d do the best he could, but…

  At least they’d been able to pin him back together here in Moncton. He couldn’t imagine what the ride from the middle of New Brunswick all the way to Montreal would have been like with his leg in so many pieces.

  That thought, for some reason, made him cold. He shivered, almost violently, and wondered if the drugs were doing weird things to his system. Tim resumed his fussing with the covers, as if by tucking them up as close to Chris’s armpits as possible, he could make it all better.

  Maybe it did help a little. There was something that would help even more, though, and Chris was just pathetic and needy enough that he was going to ask for it.

  Tomorrow, he’d blame the drugs.

  Gritting his teeth, he scooted his butt and his good leg as far over on the bed as he could, careful not to move the other leg at all. Tim put a hand on his hip to try to stop him, but Chris was already pressed up against the railing and settled back on the mattress.

  His muscles shook from the exertion. It was incredibly lowering. He was weak and cold and so done with everything at that moment that he couldn’t be bothered to care about whether or not he was doing the right thing when he said, “Come here.”

  Tim looked at him curiously. “Where?”

  Chris patted the empty space beside him and closed his eyes. If Tim would rather sleep in the chair, Chris told himself he’d understand. Of course he would. Maybe he’d even get up the energy to ask for another blanket and let himself be soothed by its weight and warmth. But that wasn’t what he wanted.

  Also, of course, he’d feel bad if Tim ended up pulling an all-nighter because of him. And there was the worry of Tim killing them on the way home tomorrow if he fell asleep behind the wheel.

  So, really, there were plenty of perfectly good reasons for doing this.

  Chris smiled faintly when the mattress dipped beside him. He kept perfectly still, not giving in to the urge to curl into the warmth of Tim’s body as he settled onto the bed. Chris opened his eyes at the sound of Tim’s sneakers hitting the floor, and watched those freakishly long, skinny feet slid down the bed. As soon as Tim’s shoulder pressed against his fully, Chris threw the blankets over Tim’s legs.

  Tim shut off the lights and Chris turned his head, surprised to find Tim looking back, his face close, his expression unsure. He appeared ready to leap from the bed at the least provocation.

  “It’s fine,” Chris said soothingly, as if it didn’t matter. As if he didn’t care. “I’m just going to pass out now anyway. You should get some sleep, too.”

  Tim flashed a quick grin. “Okay.”

  For a while after that, Chris drifted, not quite asleep, but sort of floating on a cloud of exhaustion and good drugs. When Tim wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, he let himself do what he’d wanted to all along, curling into that warmth as best as he could without moving his leg. Pressing his cheek to Tim’s chest, he threw caution to the wind and an arm across Tim’s waist.

  He smiled, probably dopily, and was glad no one could see his face. Then his thoughts got dimmer still, reality blending with half-formed dreams as he sank deeper into the bed and unconsciousness.

  In the morning he would tell himself he had imagined the press of lips to the top of his head and the gentle back-and-forth of fingertips along his arm.

  Chapter Two

  Tim barely resisted grabbing Chris as he staggered on his crutches, just a few feet shy of his bed. His cast, which reached all the way to mid-thigh, was Ice Cats blue—apparently the doctor was a fan—and gigantic.

  “I hate you so much,” Chris groaned, shooting Tim a dirty look.

  “I know, buddy,” Tim said easily, not taking it personally as he restricted himself to steadying his friend with a hand on his back. It had been a long morning of meetings with doctors and convincing the hospital to release Chris. Tim could see the beads of sweat forming on Chris’s temples, feel how his muscles shook. As much as the wheelchair to the car had made Chris squawk, it had been a godsend. Sometime around the front foyer of their building, Tim had started to worry he’d have to carry Chris up the stairs to their second-floor apartment, and god knew that would have meant creating a scene, since there was no way Chris was going to go quietly.

  Tim pictured himself carrying Chris down the hallway with old Mrs. Boudreaux watching, and grinned.

  “Why can’t I just sit on the couch, again?” Chris grumbled.

  Tim rolled his eyes and pulled one crutch away, helping Chris ease down onto the bed. “Because I have to go to practice in an hour, you’re exhausted, you’re high, and you have the bedroom with a bathroom attached?”

  He tried to say it patiently, but since it was the fourth time he was repeating it, he maybe missed the mark some.

  Chris scowled and harrumphed, but Tim also noted how he quickly scooted back against the headboard and almost melted into the bed the moment he was settled. Tim would bet anything that Chris would pass out the moment Tim left.

  In the meantime, he w
as pouting mightily, which should not have been as charming as it was.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that your face can get stuck that way?” Tim asked, turning away to lean the crutches against the wall by the head of the bed and letting himself smile when he knew Chris wouldn’t see it.

  Schooling his features, he turned back to Chris and pulled all the prescription bottles from his pockets to line them up on the bedside table. He noted how much paler Chris was now than he’d been in the car, and felt another rush of the protectiveness he’d been struggling with since he’d woken up with Chris half on top of him. Not that there was anything wrong with feeling protective. His friend was hurt and needed him. Of course he wanted to help. And Chris was so upset, so tired and broken that he’d practically cuddled with Tim all night, drooling on his shirt and clinging to his chest.

  Tim hadn’t slept much, but what sleep he had gotten had been solid. He figured he would have been up all night in the stupid chair, but being in the bed had meant he would know if Chris needed him, so he’d been able to relax and let himself conk out for a while.

  Still, he was pretty tired. So, maybe it was exhaustion that turned that protective urge into something that made him want to run his fingers over Chris’s unruly bedhead and tame the wild spikes. That made him want to tuck the sheets in closer, and get the quilt off his own bed, the one his grandmother had made him that was so soft and worn with age that the cotton was silky now.

  Because, as previously stated, Tim wasn’t stupid. And the burning desire to crawl into bed and pull Chris back onto his chest and spend the day like that? That definitely wasn’t bros. Tim didn’t know what it was, just that it was different. And new. And weird.

  His cellphone buzzing in his pocket for the zillionth time that morning distracted him from that whole line of thinking, which he definitely wasn’t going to pursue. Instead, he looked at the caller ID and sighed. He should probably answer one of Michelle’s calls, at some point.

  He shoved his phone back in his pocket.

  “What do you need?” he asked Chris.

  “I’m fine,” Chris said, apparently done with pouting and moving on to stoic martyrdom instead. “You should head to the gym before practice.”

  “Really? So, you’re cool with your remote over there on the dresser, and no food and nothing to drink? Instead you’ll just subsist on your sadness, maybe?”

  Chris narrowed his eyes. “I really hate you.”

  Tim laughed. “So you keep telling me. Maybe I’ll believe you one of these days, but for now, I know you loooooove me.”

  Tim didn’t really know what to make of the expression on Chris’s face. He turned for the kitchen instead, tossing the remote back over his shoulder as he passed the dresser.

  He cringed at the thwack of it hitting…something.

  “Hey!” Chris shouted indignantly, but Tim could tell it wasn’t real outrage so he kept going. “You could have hit my leg!”

  Tim rolled his eyes and shouted back from the hallway, “Quit your bitching. I’m going to slave over a hot stove for you.”

  “Oh my god,” Chris cried. “We’re going to die!”

  Tim chuckled and refused to comment. Just because he normally didn’t like to cook didn’t mean he couldn’t. He was perfectly capable of pulling together something a lot more palatable than anything the hospital cafeteria had on offer.

  Which wasn’t saying much. Chris’s breakfast had looked like the goo people used to sling on Nickelodeon when they were kids.

  Unfortunately, his belief that cooking was mostly a waste of time when there were a ton of places close at hand for take-out or delivery meant that the cupboards weren’t exactly overflowing with options.

  His mother would be appalled by his selections, but he promised himself that he would stop at the store on the way home and make up for it.

  Chris looked insultingly shocked when Tim came back into the bedroom with a bowl of Kraft Dinner and a very large smoothie. Tim tried not to act too smug when Chris took the smoothie from his hands eagerly and gulped down a quarter of it.

  He also manfully resisted the urge to wipe the smudge of purple from Chris’s lips. That would be weird.

  “That’s perfect. Is it—”

  “Banana, blueberry, strawberry, and mango with chocolate protein powder and chia seeds, just the way you like it.”

  Chris blinked up at him for a moment. He seemed to be doing that a lot. Maybe it was the drugs. “Thank you. It’s my favorite.”

  Tim rolled his eyes. “I know. Why do you think I made it for you, dickface?” He straightened the covers over Chris’s legs again, suddenly unsure of what he should do with himself. He needed to get going soon, but he didn’t want to leave.

  Chris caught his wrist, stopping his movements. “Thank you,” he said, looking at Tim in a way that made him feel kind of squirmy. “You should go to practice.”

  “Yes. Right. Practice.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the door.

  Chris nodded, then stared at him as he stood there, not moving. When Chris opened his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of, “What the fuck is your problem?”—Tim jerked into motion.

  He didn’t get far, stopping again in the doorway. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Tim narrowed his eyes and glared. “Promise.”

  “Okay, fine, I promise. Now go.”

  Tim nodded and tried not to let his relief show, then darted into the hallway and ran to grab his bag. He wasn’t late, but he was pretty sure that if he didn’t get his ass out of the door in the next few seconds, he was never going to leave at all.

  And that was just fucked up. Chris was a grown man. He’d be fine. And Tim could call and check on him when he got to the rink. And between drills, too, if he had any concerns.

  Maybe at some point in all that, he’d figure out what the fuck was wrong with him.

  Chris woke up a few hours later, glad he’d taken the time to eat the macaroni and cheese and drink his entire smoothie before he’d passed out again. As it was, he was hungry, had a terrible taste in his mouth again, and his leg was aching. He checked the time and was relieved to find he could take more of his drugs, wishing they’d kick in faster than he knew they would.

  Because while he could ignore his hunger for a while yet, and his need to drink something, the call of nature wasn’t going to be put off for very much longer.

  He should have asked Tim to help him before he’d left, but he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Tim had already done so much. Dragging Chris’s sorry ass to the toilet seemed above-and-beyond the call of duty. And requesting he be left snacks at his bedside was just pathetic.

  His cast was huge and heavy, covering his leg from his toes to mid-thigh. But he was a professional athlete, damn it. He could fucking crutch wherever he needed.

  Pride was a bitch.

  So was falling on his ass in the living room.

  He did well standing up by himself, and getting in and out of the bathroom, so he figured he could handle a little change in scenery. He was tired, though, by the time he got to the living room, and when he tried to lower himself onto the couch, he missed the damn thing entirely. He managed to catch himself with his hands and not totally twist up his bad leg, but now he was stuck between the heavy couch and the even heavier, book-filled, coffee table.

  He lay there in nothing but his huge fucking cast and his Curious George pajama pants—which Tim had brought to him in the hospital before gleefully cutting off one leg—and wondered what he’d done to deserve this.

  Then Tim got home from practice.

  “What the fuck?”

  Chris jerked with surprise, then hissed as the quick movement jostled his leg. He didn’t have time to recover, or explain, before two hands were thrust beneath his armpits.

  He should have objected, but instead he blinked stupidly, momentarily dumb with awe as Tim’s biceps flexed and he lift
ed Chris right off the floor and planted his ass on the coffee table.

  Then Tim stepped back and glared at him, his hands planted on his hips.

  “I just wanted to sit on the couch,” Chris said, for lack of anything better to say while his heartrate returned to normal.

  “You just wanted to sit on the couch,” Tim repeated flatly, clearly unimpressed. “And you couldn’t have waited for me to get home?”

  Chris shrugged. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here,” he explained, though it was a sort of a lie since he hadn’t even considered it. “You might have gone out after practice.”

  “I might have gone out after practice,” Tim repeated again, now epically unimpressed, if his tone was anything to go by. “If you’d looked at your fucking phone, you moron, you would have known I was coming straight here after you didn’t answer it three times.”

  “Oh, uh, sorry. I was asleep.”

  Tim’s shoulders dropped from around his ears. “I figured, but you still scared the shit out of me.”

  Before Chris could come up with any response to that, Alexei and Mike appeared in the doorway, which Tim had apparently left open in his rush to save Chris’s sorry ass.

  “Everybody okay in here?” Mike asked.

  “Hey guys,” Chris said brightly, hoping even a shred of his dignity was still intact but seriously doubting it. “What are you doing here?”

  “They wouldn’t let me drive home,” Tim muttered.

  Chris looked between his friends in confusion.

  Alexei explained. “He was freaking out, but still so tired he almost nodded off in the showers anyway. So we brought him home.”

  Apparently, Chris wasn’t the only one with little dignity left.

  Perfect.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said, planting his hand and getting ready to stand. He tried not to let his arm shake, but failed. The surgeon had warned him that the trauma of both the accident and the surgery would throw him off in more ways than just the leg, and he was starting to get the picture. He felt as weak as a baby, goddamn it.

  Before he could ask, two sets of hands were lifting him and setting him on his good foot. “Thanks,” he repeated, nodding at Tim and Alexei.