Page 24 of Player Misconduct
He meets my eyes, quiet and steady. “Doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t walk away when things get bad.”
And that—God help me—does something to me.
I look away, staring down at my hand again. The strip of tape gleams pale under the overhead light, and though I shouldn’t encourage this, it’s the only thing solid in all this chaos.
“Fine,” I mutter, because fighting him takes too much energy. “But if I start showing symptoms, I’m calling the CDC myself to get you pulled out as soon as possible.”
He grins. “So romantic. You’d kick your husband out of our honeymoon suite on our first night of wedded bliss?”
“You’re not my husband.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Tell that to the rings.”
I press my palms to my face, groaning. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low now, that soft, teasing rumble that sneaks under my defenses. “But you’re smiling again.”
I lower my hands and glare at him–He’s right. The corner of my mouth has betrayed me.
He picks up one of the paper dinner bags. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, though my stomach growls anyway.
He grins wider. “I’m going to need something more than this to eat tonight since we skipped team dinner to get to the airport. I’m starving.”
“Where are you going?” I ask as he stands.
“I saw a vending machine by the lobby. I’ll get us some drinks and snacks for tonight.”
“The vending machine? You have no idea how old that stuff is.”
“It’s American food. It’s loaded with preservatives. Should be good for years and a zombie apocalypse,” he says, peeking through the blinds at the courtyard below. The pool and hot tub sit still and empty, reflecting the overhead lights. “Any requests?”
“We’re supposed to quarantine,” I remind him. “I don’t think that includes the vending machine.”
“The CDC cleared out. They won’t be back until morning to check up on us.”
“I’m fine. A bottled water would be nice, though, if they have it.”
He nods and grabs his key card. “Water and snacks. Got it.”
Then he’s gone, door clicking softly behind him.
The silence he leaves behind hums in the air, and I stare at the pale ring around my finger, still feeling the warmth where he must’ve touched my skin to wrap it there.
It fits perfectly.
The quiet is too loud.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the room changes. It’s like the air grows heavier—too still, too clean, humming with the white noise of the wall-mounted AC. I should use the silence productively: inventory the med kit, double-check the CDC’s guidelines, text Penelope with a status update. But instead, I just sit there, staring at the strip of tape around my finger.
The longer I look, the more absurd it becomes.
It’s just athletic tape. It’ll fray by morning.
But somehow, I don’t take it off.
I try to distract myself by unpacking the basics—scrubs, travel toiletries, the medical forms I’ll need when this is over—but it’s impossible not to imagine the worst. What if the man on the plane did have something viral? What if the fever starts tonight? What if Aleksi was exposed because of me?
