“Christ,” Bridger swore. “You just stole the deal, didn’t you?”
“Hartley gave me the idea,” Dana grinned, “when he said legalized cheating.” She winked at me, and I made sure to smile. But everything Hartley had just said was eating me alive. His girlfriend was fooling around, and he didn’t even care?
My little hope fairy made an appearance then. I hadn’t heard from her lately, but there she was, whispering in my ear. Maybe they’ll break up, she said, her tiny wings tickling my ear.
Right. Not likely.
Bedtime might have been awkward. But it wasn’t, because Hartley was incapable of awkward. No matter what, he was always just Hartley, with the lopsided smile and the “fuck it all” attitude.
“Why is there an enormous bed in your den, anyway?” I asked, digging my PJs out of my bag.
“After I broke my leg, I couldn’t get up the stairs to my room. My aunt was moving, and her new apartment wasn’t big enough for this thing. It’s a California king. So she brought it here to get me off the living room couch.”
“That was nice of her,” I said.
“It sure was. You want the bathroom first?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “I take forever.”
“Suit yourself.”
By the time that I took my turn and got back to our room, he was already snoring.
I shucked off my braces and tucked myself in. He hadn’t been kidding. There was a vast expanse of mattress between Hartley’s sleeping body and my own. I lay there, listening to the comfortable sounds of his sleep. Drifting off, I wondered how Stacia would feel about the rooming assignments. I knew I wasn’t really competition for her. But a girl could dream.
Sometime later, I woke up to the sound of a gasp. Disoriented, my eyes flew open in the dark. Hartley was standing next to the bed, his head bent forward, his arms on the mattress.
“What’s the matter?” I croaked.
“Calf. Cramp,” he bit out.
“Which leg?”
“Good one. Can’t put enough weight on the other one to…argh.”
“Give it to me,” I said, sitting up. I knew a thing or two about leg cramps.
With a grimace, Hartley sat on the bed and spun his good leg toward me.
“Press your heel here,” I said, patting my blanketed hip. When he’d anchored his bare foot against me, I grabbed his toes with both hands and flexed the ball of his foot back toward him. He let out his breath in a great tumble. After a minute, I slid my hand under his calf and probed with my fingers. “Ouch,” I said, finding the knot.
“Happens all the time,” he said.
“Overcompensating for your bad leg is straining your good one,” I said. I made a fist with my hand and tried to knuckle into it.
“Agh,” Hartley said.
“Sorry. I have superhuman strength.” He grimaced as I flexed his foot. “What do you do when you’re alone?”
“Suffer. And yearn for the competent hands of Pat the Therapist. Although you’re no slouch.”
“My father taught me. He’s good with things like this,” I said. “Wait — now I’ve got it.” The knot in Hartley’s muscle relaxed under my hand.
He exhaled. “Jeez. Thanks.”
“Keep that flexed,” I cautioned as he pulled his leg back onto his side of the bed.
“Don’t worry, I will.” He settled himself onto his back, his extra pillow under his knee. “Sorry for the midnight drama.”
“No worries.” We were quiet for a couple of minutes, but I could tell that neither of us was sleeping.
Another minute of silence passed, and then Hartley rolled to face me. “You never told me it was a hockey injury. You said ‘accident,’ and so I thought it was a car.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, rolling to mirror him. We stared at each other for a second. “The thing is, Bridger was right. Hockey is only the seventh most dangerous sport. Cheerleading and baseball have greater injury rates. So do football, soccer, and lacrosse.”
“So you’re saying that you have to be spectacularly unlucky to have a bad hockey injury?”
“Exactly.”
“Unfuckingbelievable,” Hartley said. We lapsed into silence, and I found myself wishing the bed weren’t so large.
There’s a mere two feet between us and that luscious mouth, my hope fairy whispered.
“I love your mom,” I blurted, dragging my mind out of the gutter.
“She’s great,” Hartley smiled. “And she likes having the house full of people. I’m not just saying that.”
“I can tell. And Bridger’s little sister is a cutie. She loves your mom, too.”
Hartley propped his head on his hand. “Yeah. But she’s Bridger’s biggest problem.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, their dad died about two years ago. And his mom isn’t holding it together.”
“She’s depressed?”
“She’s a drug addict.”
I sucked in a breath. “That’s dark.”
“Tell me about it. Bridger is worried that his mom will lose her job and fall apart. He might have to drop out if things get too ugly.”