Page 7 of The Blame Game

With a shaky exhale, Dom did so.

Shea slid two pillows under his calves to keep his legs bent at a ninety-degree angle and his lower back as flat as possible, then studied Dom’s face. His mouth was still held in a tight grim line.

“You want ice?”

“Yeah,” Dom rasped, then covered his eyes with his forearm.

Shea patted his knee, then walked into the kitchen.

The refrigerator and freezer didn’t hold much since the place was only used by clients and their “stylists” but there was a pretty comprehensive first aid kit, so he snagged that from under the sink, grabbing a pristine dish towel on his way out.

When Shea returned to the bedroom, Dom lay in the same position Shea had left him in, his skin sheened with sweat, his color a little gray.

Shit, this was a guy who had won a Stanley Cup with a fractured foot and played three full seasons with nagging tendonitis of the wrists.

If a back spasm was taking him out like this, it must be bad.

Shea rummaged through the first aid kit, pulling out an ice pack. He cracked it to activate the gel, shaking and massaging it until it was fully cold.

He wrapped it carefully in the towel, then tapped Dom’s hip. “I’m going to slide this under you. Don’t try to lift—just tell me when it’s in the right position.”

After a little bit of tweaking, they got the ice pack properly situated. Dom let out a shaky breath, his tense muscles softening a little.

“Better?” Shea asked.

“Yeah.” Dom looked him in the eye. “Still hurts like hell but the spasm has pretty much passed.”

“Good. You want something for the pain?”

Dom lifted an eyebrow. “What’ve you got?”

Shea laughed. “Nothing like what your team stocks, but I have some over-the-counter stuff. Have they been treating you with Toradol?”

“Yeah. I’m on day nine.”

Shea tried to hide a wince. Five days max was recommended but pro teams weren’t exactly known for being stingy with the meds if it got guys to play. Especially during the playoffs.

Since it was currently mid-February, that wasn’t a great sign. “Are you taking anything else?”

“No.” Dom looked away.

“Are you telling me the truth? That includes OTC stuff like aspirin and ibuprofen. I need to know.”

“Yes!”

“Well, I don’t love the idea of you taking more NSAIDS on top of the Toradol but I’ll give you some ibuprofen. You need to drink water and eat something though or you’ll end up with holes in your guts or a failing liver or kidneys.”

“Jesus Christ you’re bossy,” Dom groused.

“Yeah, well, that’s my job.”

They both froze.

Shea cleared his throat and ripped open a packet, dumping two pills into Dom’s palm. “Take the damn medication, finish the bottle of water, and rest while I make you something to eat.”

“What about your other clients?” Dom shot back.

Shea bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at Dom to stop being ridiculous because there was no one else. He shouldn’t have joked about it earlier. God, sometimes it was tough to keep his story straight though.

---