Holy hell, I feel lightheaded this morning.
I allow myself ten more seconds of ogling before I push myself upright—only to immediately fall down again. I guess my weakness is due more to low blood sugar than to my inability to control my body’s response to Matt. Or maybe it’s just my body thoroughly betraying me on all levels.
The thump serves to rouse Matt from his sleep. He blinks, slowly, gradually gaining consciousness. I avert my eyes when his hand drifts lower to cup himself. He halts halfway there, as if suddenly remembering my presence in his bed.
He turns his head lazily toward me. “Hey.”
“Good morning.” I try to smile but even that seems like too much of an effort. Is it any wonder I’m cautious? Because here I am in a gorgeous guy’s bed, and I have to tell him I’m not healthy enough to leave. I battle back my embarrassment.
“Sorry about that.” He gestures with his head toward his crotch. “Habit.”
“No worries,” I reply as if seeing a guy fondle himself is a regular occurrence in my life. “So I have to ask you a favor.”
“Sure. What do you need?” He rolls over and props himself on one elbow.
“Can you grab my backpack? There’s a black acrylic case, about the length of a pencil. I need that.”
He leans forward, concern etched in his strong, sexy face. “You okay?”
“I’m a...” I take a breath because even after all these years, I hate telling people I’m a diabetic, but he’s going to open the case and look at the needles and wonder if I’m a drug addict. Besides, what does it matter what Matt Iverson thinks of me? It matters because you like him more than you should. I shove that voice aside and say levelly, “My BG feels low but I need to test it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. One moment he’s on the bed and the next moment he has my case in hand. I fumble with the latch. Without a word, he snaps the case open and holds up the glucose meter. “Tell me what to do.”
“You sure?”
“Goldie, I deal with this shit all day long. We’re always getting injected with something. Cortisone, platelet injections. Can’t be a football player and be scared of a needle.”
I search his face to see if he’s hiding any disgust or dismay, but all I can find is readiness. This is ordinary to him, and the risk list I’ve been adding to—the one with all the pictures of his past liaisons, the one scribbled with the warnings of Ace—starts to look badly imbalanced.
“Prick my finger and press the strip against the blood.” I bite my lip. “I don’t have any communicable diseases, but you might want to get some gloves.”
“Nah, I trust you.” He handles the equipment with ease, pulling out a lancet, taking the sample, and then shoving the strip easily into the meter reader. “So what’s BG stand for? I’m guessing not ‘big guy.’”
“Blood glucose. You’re good at this,” I observe. “If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you can go into medicine. Be a nurse.”
“What do you mean if this doesn’t pan out? I’m a football god.” He winks at me. “Small ‘g.’”
I believe it. Despite the tiny number of college players moving on to the pros, Western has sent more players to the NFL than any other college in the country. It’s why Ace came here even though he knew he wasn’t guaranteed a starting position.
“What about after football?”
“Well after my fifteen years of dominating at the inside linebacker position, I’ll retire from the pros and focus my time on terrorizing my kid’s friends.”
The glucose meter beeps and he turns the screen so I can see the readout. I make a face. It’s lower than it should be.
“Two boys to follow in your football god—small ‘g’—footsteps?”
“Nah. I want to have tea parties and a reason to dress up silly and post pictures on Instagram that will go viral and have everyone saying how awesome a dad I am.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” I check the meter again, but the readout hasn’t changed. I grimace. “Can I ask you another favor?”
“Yep, and you don’t need to ask for permission, either.”
“I need a glass of orange juice or skim milk.”
“We have OJ for sure. Probably not skim milk though.” He pats his firm stomach. “Growing boys and all.”
My eyes linger there far too long to be polite. When I finally pull my gaze away from his ripped torso, I find him grinning at me. There’s something devilish on the tip of his tongue.
He doesn’t disappoint. “I’m pretty to look at, aren’t I?”
“Yes, yes you are,” I laugh with relief that he doesn’t mind I was totally perving on him.
“You lie here and think about how awesome I am while I go and get your juice.” He walks out, uncaring that he’s still sporting a bit of wood in his shorts. I guess that’s what it’s really like to live in a house full of guys.
He returns in no time, bringing a plate of eggs, toast, a huge mound of bacon, a glass of orange juice, and a Gatorade.
“You were only gone a couple minutes,” I say suspiciously as I struggle into a seated position. He drops the plate on the side of the bed and hauls me upward, slipping a pillow behind my back before taking a seat by my side. He hands me a glass.
“I stole it from Hammer.” He sweeps my hair out of my face as I sip on the orange juice. “You okay?”