Page 64 of Misconduct Zone

Dylon grabs a towel, strides out of the room, and I get a peek at his ass.

I’m weak and obsessed with him. That is a deadly combination. Bracing my arms on the counter, I steady my breathing. It’s all too good to be true. Dylon is an amazing man. Funny and loyal and so fucking sexy. If I could live with the lies, we might be happy forever. Or our world could burn down in an instant.

I do not question his affection for me. He’s proven how deep his feelings are. I question the life we are building on a pile of sand.

My closet is on one side of the bathroom and the bedroom on the other. It takes several attempts to dress myself in sweats and a T-shirt, and after that, I decide I should get back in bed. Dylon tucks clean sheets around my mattress as I stare.

“You didn’t have to do this.” I lean on the doorframe.

“You’ll never get better if you keep sleeping in the same germs. Wanna try the living room for a while?” He hauls a new blanket from the hall linen closet and almost trips over the dirty sheets and comforter.

“I need a nap.” It’s ridiculous that, as a professional athlete, showering and dressing saps all my energy.

“I switched your pillows with the ones in my room, and I’ll spray yours with disinfectant unless you’d prefer I wash them.”

There is something about getting into clean sheets that provides comfort and peace. “Do not care,” I mumble, my eyes closing.

The time on my phone says I’ve slept for another five hours. I stretch, finally feeling human. I should text Von to see if he got sick as well. It’s strange that I’m the only one on the team who got sick.

There are so many notifications that I forget why I picked up my phone. Even feeling better, that is too much to tackle.

Dylon’s hushed, angry voice filters through my closed door. This time, I stand slowly, testing my balance and equilibrium. I am a little wobbly and smile at Dylon’s reference to sea legs.

His tone gets louder and more insistent, and my first instinct is to help him. He’s blocking the front door to our apartment. I hear but don’t see the person.

“Can’t I come check on you?” I recognize his mother’s shrill voice.

“We’re sick and I would appreciate a call first,” Dylon explains. He’s never refused her in all the time I have known him. Dylon’s family thinks they’re good people, but they use him. His rookie year, he gave them most of his signing bonus and salary. He had to hire a financial advisor when his rent check bounced, and then they complained about not getting as much money.

“I’ll stay in my room so she doesn’t catch what I have,” I offer, trying to ease the fury wafting across the room.

“That would be perfect.” His mom pushes past him, rolling an enormous suitcase in one hand and holding a bottle of wine in the other. “I’m here to spend time alone with my son.” She makes a shooing motion.

I resist the urge to tell her this is a dry house. If Dylon is going to drink, I’d rather know now and have him do it here, where he’s safe.

“Mom, I told you, you can’t bring alcohol into my house.” Dylon keeps the door open as if he thinks she’ll leave. “We don’t have a room for you.”

My heart’s heavy when Dylon calls the apartment “my house.” I’ve been trying to convince him for so long, but I am confused about how to feel.

“I’ll take your room.” She pauses, leaning on the handle of her suitcase.

Dylon’s eyes narrow. “You said you came to care for me while I’m sick, but you plan to kick me out of my room. I’ll put you up in a hotel.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Downtown or Midtown?”

“My own son is going to put me out on the street,” she accuses.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, Lars has a highly contagious infection, and I have a fever. You can’t stay here. You’ve never come to visit unless I pay for your flight and a hotel so I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

“My flight was last minute so you can Venmo me the cost.” She abandons her suitcase and struts into the kitchen. “Where’s your wine opener?”

Dylon flushes an angry red, and his eyes cut to mine. “Mom,” he snaps, “you are not drinking that here. Why can’t you be supportive of my sobriety?”

“You don’t have an alcohol problem. You made one mistake with pain pills, which you needed by the way, andsome peopleblew it out of proportion.” Her gaze cuts to me.

I should give them some privacy, but the woman is intent on sabotaging her son, and I’ll be here to help him resist if that’s what he wants.

“Get out.” He holds the door open and points to the hallway.

“Do not take that tone with me. After all we sacrificed moving to Detroit, all so you could play hockey, you don’t get to dismiss me. You’ve always been too much trouble and ungrateful.” Her chin lifts like a defiant child.

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