Page 98 of Too Safe

“Speaking of trouble.” She leans back with a salacious grin. “Do you have any weed? We could smoke before we watch Sarah Marshall.”

With a low groan, I cuddle her closer. “You’re like all my wet dreams come to life, Hot Girl.” I bury my face in her tits, which are barely restrained by the thin bralette she revealed when she stripped off her T-shirt. “We have to raincheck the toke up, though. Just until football season is over.”

Her brows shoot into her hairline, and she dismounts. After a quick readjustment of her top, she sits beside me instead.

“You’ll use illegal injectables and have Kylian alter your drug tests for those, but you draw the line at marijuana?”

I shrug and offer up the truth. “I don’t get peptide therapy to intentionally defy the rules or because I think I’m the exception. It honestly helps so much.”

Her expression softens, and she takes my hand in hers. She doesn’t lace our fingers together, but instead cradles it, tracing the ink and gently massaging each knuckle.

“How long have you had arthritis?”

Good question.

“I don’t really know. Forever, I think? I don’t remember ever not being in pain…”

I trail off and dip my chin. I’m not interested in getting into the sob story that is my early childhood. The words are true; there was always pain. Pain in my joints and limbs. Pain from the beatings. I sustained multiple injuries that went untreated for years. Bones that were never set. Ligaments and tendons that were probably torn. A holistic doctor once told me the trauma I suffered as a child caused my rheumatoid arthritis.

I don’t completely buy into that theory. But it sure as fuck didn’t help.

Realizing I’m in my own head, I offer her an apologetic smile.

“I’ve had it as far back as I can remember. Once I was placed with Gary and Brenda, things got better. It still took a while to figure out the combination of foods, exercise, medications, and therapies that worked best. I wouldn’t always tell them when the pain was really bad,” I admit. “I was worried that if they had to take me to too many appointments or if I complained too much, they would decide I wasn’t worth it.”

She doesn’t push. She continues tracing my ink, sitting with the admission and letting me feel it. After a minute, she interlaces our fingers, then lifts our hands to kiss my knuckles.

“I don’t know much about arthritis, so my questions might be annoying…”

“You’re fine,” I assure her.

“Is the pain constant? Or is it worse at certain times?”

“It’s always there, but it definitely flares. Sometimes it’s predictable—after a game, during a storm. Other times, it flares up for no damn reason. Those are the hardest.”

“Yet you still play football.”

It’s not meant as an insult. It probably seems odd to someone who doesn’t deal with chronic pain—that I’d willingly submit myself to an activity guaranteed to make things worse.

“There’s power in choosing,” I explain. “Putting my body through the wringer and leaving it all out on the field makes me feel alive. I’m gonna hurt either way. I might as well have fun doing it.”

Her sharp inhale catches me off guard.

“I’m trying to do more of that,” she whispers.

I survey our hands as I gently nudge her. “Of what? Leaving it all out on the field?”

She scoffs and side-eyes me, obviously aware that I’m teasing her. But then her expression softens, and she audibly swallows before answering, “Feeling alive.”

She doesn’t let her confession linger or leave space for me to follow up before directing the conversation back to me.

“I like that you’re doing it on your terms and not letting the thing you love be ruined by an illness you can’t control.”

“Exactly.”

She cuddles closer and nuzzles my arm. With one fingernail, she traces up and down my bicep in a featherlight trail that almost tickles.

“Does the same line of thinking apply to your tattoos?”I nod, pressing my lips together. I hadn’t considered that before, but it makes sense.

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