Page 32 of Home Game

“You want me to lift it off?”

“Without hurting my shoulder.”

He didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s not like you don’t have the practice,” I complained.

He reached forward and lifted the shirt up from the front. He pulled it up over my head but my shoulder started to pull up.

“Wait,” I said as pain shot through my body. “My shoulder.”

“Okay, uh, lean over,” he instructed.

I did, and he grabbed the fabric from my back. He pulled the shirt halfway up my back until my shoulder screamed in pain.

“Stop,” I said, in agony. Now I was bent over, my shoulder twisting, stuck with the shirt halfway up my body, over my head.

“Zoey,” he said, a bit desperately.

“Get it off,” my voice sounded muffled. “Get it off.”

He tugged again, and I squeaked in agony.

“Hang on,” he said. And then I felt his hands bunch at the shirt's front and then with a mighty rip, he tore the green scrub shirt open.

I stood looking down at my exposed chest in shock and put my good arm across my breasts. He was standing in front of me, staring at my stomach with a mixture of horror and concern.

Mortified, I turned and hobbled back to the bathroom, my face in flames.

I stood under the shower, watching as brown rivulets of rusty blood swirled down the drain. I took inventory of my body. My concave abdomen was covered in purple-blue bruises, from my ribs down to my pelvis. My shoulder was also covered in dark bruising. My eye was still swollen shut, but my fat lip was receding. Bruises covered my legs and arms. From falling or being kicked, I wasn’t sure. No wonder Ryan had looked revolted by my body. I had never looked or felt worse.

I realized after I got out of the shower that I had no shirt to wear. I put on my underwear and debated my options. Wrapping myself in a towel, I decided I would have to ask him for yet another favor and borrow one of his shirts.

But when I opened the door, the hallway, living room, and kitchen were dark. The guy had gone to bed.

I shut off the bathroom light. Fine. I could just sleep in my towel and deal with the clothing situation in the morning.

CHAPTER 9

RYAN

I layon the couch in the dark. What a fucking day. I was so out of my depth with Zoey, it wasn’t even funny. What did I even know about her? She was a mixture of sullen mystery and secrecy. Pulling facts out of her was like pulling teeth, but when she told me something, I believed her.

There was no way she did drugs. And I bought her story about the diner, although the thought of her heading there, late at night, because the waitresses were nice, cut me up. When had her parents died? Didn’t she have any other family? How would we get her up and back on her feet? Did helping her make her my responsibility?

Krista was right. I didn’t do distractions and Zoey was practically a full-time job.

Why had I insisted she stay here? When she told me she was leaving, I could have easily given her some cash and let her fend for herself. But I knew if I did, I would just wonder how she was doing. She might as well stay here.

When I had ripped her shirt off her, I had gotten a glimpse of the level of abuse she had endured. Bruises covered her slight body. I had taken three hits to the face, and it had throbbed all day. She lookedlike someone had shit-kicked her with steel-toe boots. That, along with her face and a sprained shoulder, I had no idea how she wasn’t in the fetal position, screaming for more drugs. She was tougher than any guy I played hockey with. Her pain tolerance was almost scary. But despite it all, she remained feisty and tough. She had my respect.

Tomorrow we would get sorted out. I would go back to focusing on the Wolves and she could do whatever she needed to do to get back on her feet. I would talk to Krista about helping her replace her ID. Maybe I could open a bank account for her so she felt less dependent on me.

I woke up when a soft,warm body landed on me.

“What the fuck?” I opened my eyes, as tiny hands pushed against me, scrambling to get away.

I put my hands on her waist and physically lifted her off me. She screamed in fright, her good arm pathetically smacking against my shoulder.

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