Page 62 of Misconduct Zone

Lars is in and out of consciousness for the next few hours, but when Doc comes back and tries to roll him away from me to examine him, Lars bares his teeth, and if he had the capability of breathing fire, Doc would be incinerated.

Coach and Mr. Dimon stand in the doorway, witnessing the scene. I attempt to sit up so we don’t look like a couple spooning in bed.

He gets to choose if and when he comes out so I need to protect him. Protect our relationship. But for someone who can’t lift his head, he’s holding me like a vise.

The only thing I can do is make light of it. “I always said my charm is irresistible, and this guy’s proving me right.” The high, loud laugh gives away my discomfort.

Coach grumbles about me exposing myself unnecessarily, but Mr. Dimon simply raises an eyebrow. My mask lies on the bedside table.

“I get this looks awkward, but he dragged me out of my downward spiral and saved my hockey career. Once he’s conscious, I’ll pay my way back to the team and meet you at the next game.” I’m practically a child bargaining for an unrealistic outcome.

“He’s flu and Covid negative, but it is a serious viral infection. To contain the spread, I suggest quarantining myself, Grayson, and Dylon away from the teamfor at least twenty-four hours to monitor our symptoms,” Doc says pragmatically.

“Will he be able to fly tomorrow?” Mr. Dimon gestures to Lars.

“I don’t know. It will depend on his symptoms.” Doc adjusts the IV.

Mr. Dimon decides the team will fly back as scheduled, but he will stay with me, Lars, Gray, and Doc until Lars can fly. Once that’s settled, they leave us alone.

The next few hours change my perception of our relationship.

Lars wakes enough to guzzle a drink even after I warn him to take it slow. His system can’t handle it, and he vomits it back up tenfold.

He’s on his knees with his head in the toilet, hollering in Swedish, and I recognize a few swear words. I interpret it as “I do not need help.”

I ignore his words and continue to hold the cold compress to his forehead. “This is payback for you helping me through my withdrawals. You can hate me now and thank me later.” I keep my voice light and slightly teasing.

He grumbles more unintelligible words.

“I understand why you felt so helpless and insisted on staying with me even when I was a total jackass and deserved to be left for dead for the way I treated you.” I run my hand through his sweaty hair and massage the back of his neck.

“Go away.” He hits my leg again before more sports drink splashes into the toilet.

“I’m here for you for better or worse, in sickness and health, until the hockey gods strike me down,” I say, using a washcloth to wipe his mouth and pretending I didn’t basically spew wedding vows at his pale face.

I help him back to bed, and he insists on sleeping alone. When he moans, “Dyl, Dyl,” in his sleep, I cautiously crawl next to him and he once again embeds his face in my armpit. I imagine I smell rank, but I’m not pushing him away.

Weirdly, this reminds me of when we first met. Lars was well respected and liked on the team, but I noticed he didn’t have friends. Sure, he would hang out, but no one knew much about him. I made it my mission to gain his trust. At first, he flinched every time I touched him, but one fist bump and back slap at a time with light-hearted jokes, he got used to me.

Fully awake Lars might push me away, but sleepy Lars clings to me, and that solidifies my resolve to break down the wall between us.

Chapter 32

Lars

They knocked me out for the flight home, and the last few days have been a blur while I battled a viral infection. My constant is Dylon and his musky scent, under the coconut-lime body wash, has become home. The fog clears bit by bit each day. I don’t understand how Dylon has spent so much time with me. He should have left to stay in the team hotel for our home game.

“You’re awake.” Dylon sets a tray of food on the bed next to me. “How are you feeling?” His hesitant smile makes me yearn for his dimple.

My voice cracks so I clear my throat. “Better?” My voice goes up at the end like it is a question.

He brings the back of his wrist to my forehead. “No fever. I’ve gotten good at determining that based on touching your skin. Drink?” He hands me my favorite sports drink.

I’m assaulted by memories of him helping me throw up, go to the bathroom, and shower. “You do not have to take care of me. I am better now.” I decide I’m not lying, instead I’m relieving him of his misguided sense of duty. He doesn’t owe me anything.

The sharp inhale of breath hurts as I think about the conversation we must have. He lied for a reason, and facing the demise of our relationship all but breaks me.

I cannot live through another betrayal, but I’m not ready to confront him.

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