Page 21 of Wanting the Winger

Shit!Literally—shit incoming.I have to get out of here.I casually take my phone from my bag and pretend to read a text.

“Oh, crap.”

“What is it?”Suki asks.

“One of the research assistants at the lab forgot to do final checks.”I lie.“We have to make sure everything is off that’s supposed to be off and everything’s on that’s supposed to be on.He has another thing and can’t get back there to do it, so I have to.”

“Fuck that guy,” Dex says.“Fire him immediately.”

I force a smile, but inside I’m freaking out.There have been a few times when I was trying to make it to my home bathroom and I didn’t get there in time.Bash knows I have IBS, but he’s never seen me at my worst during a bad flare or a pants-shitting incident.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go.”I stuff my phone into my bag, begging my intestinal tract to let me make it back to Bash’s.“You guys were so nice to include me, and this has been amazing.I really hate to leave.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Suki says.“Go do your thing and come back.”

Shit.That wasn’t a well-thought-out excuse.I can’t come back.It’ll be a minimum of a few hours before this episode is over—maybe even longer.

“I might.It’ll depend on how long it takes me to get everything done at the lab.”

I practically run to the door, the gurgle gaining momentum.This is the absolute worst.

“See you!”I wave over my shoulder as I bolt for my Camry, parked in front of the house.“Thanks!”

I start the car up and stomp on the gas pedal, my tires squealing as I peel out.

Please, Intestinal Gods, let me make it to Bash’s house in time.I won’t eat cheese for the rest of my life if I can just make it there on time.

ChapterSeven

Bash

“Putyour arm around my shoulders, fuckstick.”

Carter shoots a death glare my way.“I’m fine.Just get out of my way.”

I wave my hand at the wide-open space in front of him.“No one’s stopping you.Since you’re fine, might as well run.”

Leo laughs from my other side.Isaac is already in Carter’s garage, raiding the chest freezer for one of the M&M ice cream sandwiches he loves.

“Laugh it up, bastards,” Carter grumbles as he limps toward the door that leads into his kitchen.“It could have happened to you, and I wouldn’t be laughing.”

“Yeah...no,” Leo says.“I play pickleball all the time and I’ve never injured myself.”

“I just twisted my ankle.It’s not an injury,” Carter snaps.

We’re making light of it because we all know how stressed he really is.Any injury could keep us off the ice.Even though it’s the offseason, our contracts forbid us from doing things like skydiving, mountain climbing and skiing anytime.Our teams have a lot riding on us staying healthy.

The four of us were playing pickleball.And even though we are too competitive, it’s generally a safe activity.Carter just lunged a little too far to the side and his foot got caught in a weird way.

He went down like a ton of bricks.And of course, he wouldn’t let us carry him to the car or call our team doctor.His right ankle is so swollen that Leo had to drive his SUV home.

Leo and I exchange a look as Carter approaches the step that leads into his house.Neither one of us has to say anything.I cut in front of Carter to open the door and Leo takes his back.

Once I’m inside, I face Carter and bend my knees, offering him my arm to grab for support.Leo’s got more brute strength than anyone I’ve ever known.He ducks down and forces Carter to put an arm around his shoulder to help take the weight off his ankle.

The savory smell of grilled beef fills the air.That’s right—it’s fondue night.Once we get Carter into a chair, I’m going to dive face-first into that cheese fountain.

“Take it slowly,” I say.

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