Page 33 of The Best Parts of Him
I’m not being a pest, fuck you very much. I’ve been busy.
Brie:
He lives!
Ryland sighed and dropped his head back. “Please tell me why I put up with my family.”
Miles chuckled. “Don’t pretend you don’t love them.”
“Only some of the time,” he joked, secretly pleased that they worried about him.
“Liar. Go shower. You’re rank.”
That surprised a laugh out of Ryland. “I can always count on you to tell me the truth.”
Not wanting to seem like an eager puppy, he deliberately ignored the texts from Dabbs and went to shower. His shoulder felt okay when he removed the sling, but overhead motions would be more painful than usual for the next little while, so he made sure to shampoo with his left hand.
His non-dominant hand. Meaning it took twice as long to shampoo and rinse.
By the time he’d dressed, he was swearing again, this time at Connor Mavis, the asshole from Minnesota who’d tackled him like he thought this was a rugby game. The fuck had Mavis been thinking? He’d gotten a major penalty, but still. Talk about an illegal fucking move.
Ryland’s early-in-the-season injuries were becoming a bad habit. How was he supposed to win the cup if he had to sit on the fucking bench?
As he made his way out to the players’ parking lot, he opened Dabbs’ text.
Dabbs:
Shit, Ry. Are you okay? Dislocated shoulder?
Ryland connected his phone to the Bluetooth in his car, then called Dabbs before navigating out of the lot and toward the freeway.
Dabbs answered on the first ring. “Hey.”
Was it Ryland’s imagination or was that relief in Dabbs’ voice?
“You okay?”
“Good guess on the dislocated shoulder,” Ryland said, jumping on 315 to head north.
“Educated guess based on the way you were holding it. How’s it feeling?”
“Not bad. But I’ve got to sit out the next two to three weeks.”
“Rehab?”
“Yup,” Ryland said on a sigh. “I mean, it’s my third dislocated shoulder in as many years, so I know the drill by now. Sucks, but I’m fine.”
“Not sore?”
“Not at the moment. My AT gave me some over-the-counter pain meds.”
“Will you head home while you’re convalescing?”
Ryland smiled at the word—convalescing—and ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as he thought about it. He shook his head. “Nah. There’s a shortage of athletic therapists in Maplewood, and I don’t feel like driving an hour to Burlington every day just for an hour of rehab, only to drive an hour back after.”
“I hear you. I hope Cosmo managed to cheer you up.”
As he exited the freeway and stopped at a red light, Ryland replayed Dabbs’ words in his head.
