Chapter 20

As it turns out,winning a game against an NHL team gives the Appies a little bit more than bragging rights. The team is all over the news. Parker has always worked wonders with our social media, but now the Appies are getting coverage on every mainstream news outlet. Headlines like The Family-Friendliest Hockey Team of All, The Magic of the Appies, and How TikTok is Changing the Face of Hockey.

It's amazing to see, but also, we're swamped. Parker is basically living at the arena—she really needs a team to help her with her job—and Grant and I are fielding dozens of new inquiries from brands who are interested in partnering with the team. We've even gotten calls from sports agents representing players who seem as interested in playing for the Appies as they are any of the NHL franchises.

I'm the newest member of the Appies staff, but I can tell from the looks on everyone's faces that none of them have ever seen anything like this.

I won't complain—I love the challenge of being busy. The only trouble is that all this work is making it much more difficult to accidentally on purpose run into my fake boyfriend.

We've still been texting, and he's left coffee on my desk every morning this week, but now, the team is on their way to Pennsylvania for three-in-three—three games in three days—and I'm stuck at home with a dozen new contracts to review.

I sigh and grab my laptop from the coffee table in my living room.

At least I can work from home while the team is on the road. Tonight, I'm in my new favorite Flex leggings and an oversized hoodie, curled up on my couch with a giant bag of Robin Egg Easter candy, a delivery pizza, and a forty-four-ounce fountain Coke Zero from the gas station around the corner because they have the best nugget ice.

Reviewing contracts while episodes of Schitt's Creek play in the background isn't the sexiest way to spend a Friday evening, but it could definitely be worse.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I put down my slice of pizza to grab it. It's probably Lucy, texting from the hospital. She's still working nights, but she's off tomorrow, so as soon as she wakes up from her weird morning sleep, she's driving to Harvest Hollow to see me. I have no idea how she handles a schedule that doesn't get her into bed until just before eight a.m. every morning, but she swears she's gotten used to it, and the pay increase for signing on as night shift supervisor was plenty of motivation.

We've been texting back and forth all afternoon making plans, going over everything we want to do and eat and talk about while we're together. But when I reach for my phone, it isn't Lucy.

It's Nathan.

And his message is only one word long.

Nathan

Help.

I frown at his message, a prickle of unease racing up and down my arms. I haven't heard from Nathan today, which is slightly unusual—we've been texting at least a few times every day—but I've been trying to keep my expectations in check. He's not actually my boyfriend, after all. And when he's with his team, I especially don't want to be demanding.

Summer

Can you be more specific? Help with what?

I give Nathan ten minutes to respond, then I start to worry. I waffle for a few seconds more before dialing his number. When he doesn't answer, I really start to worry.

Finally, I call Parker. She's on the same bus he is, so if he's in some kind of actual physical trouble, then she is too.

"Hey," Parker says. "What's up?"

"Are you guys okay?" I ask without any preamble. "Is everything okay on the bus?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I just got the weirdest text from Nathan. Are you sitting near him? Is he okay?"

"He's not here," Parker says. "He has the flu."

"What?" I stand up and start pacing around my living room.

"You didn't know?"

"I haven't heard from him. Not until just now."

"He must really be feeling awful if he isn't even texting you," Parker says.

Except he did just text me. And he clearly needs my help.

"Do you know if he's seen a doctor?" I ask as I head to my room to grab my shoes.

"The team doctor went to check on him this morning," Parker says. "She declared him absolutely too sick to play or travel—the guys are super pissed about that part—but she said he should be fine in a few days. What did his text say?"

"It just says help," I say, as I wrestle my foot into a sock.

"That's not good," Parker says. "Did you try to call him?"

"I did, but he didn't answer. Do you know his address?" Somewhere in my online files, I probably have his address, but if Parker can send it without me having to dig for it, that would be a lot easier.

"I don't know it, but someone will. Let me see what I can find out. I'll text you."

"Please hurry," I say. "I'm leaving my apartment right now."

"I'm glad you're going over to check, but I'm sure he's okay," Parker says. "It hasn't been that long since the doctor was with him."

"Yeah, I hope so," I say, but her reassurance doesn't do much to calm my racing heart.

"I'll text later to check in on you," Parker says.

I end the call and grab my keys off the counter. By the time I reach my car, Felix has texted Nathan"s address, as well as the code to get through his front door in case he doesn't answer.

Luckily, my GPS tells me I'm only a mile or so down the road from Nathan, so I'm there in less than five minutes. I try to call him again on the drive over, but he doesn't pick up.

Nathan's place is one half of what looks like a very nice duplex, at least from what I can see in the dark. There aren't any lights on outside, but the neighbor's lights reveal stamped concrete sidewalks, a nice front porch, and pretty landscaping.

I ring Nathan's doorbell, then knock twice, but I don't hear any sounds coming from inside. After thirty seconds of nervously bouncing on my toes, I pull out my phone to find the code Felix texted over.

"I hope you don't hate me for this, Nathan Sanders," I say under my breath.

And then I open his front door and let myself inside.

I move through the entryway and into an open living area, resisting the urge to look around. You can learn a lot about a man from the way he decorates his home, but I don't have time to snoop. Right now, all I want to do is find Nathan. Make sure he's okay.

The master bedroom is at the back of the house, past the kitchen. At first glance, the room appears to be empty. There's an enormous king-sized bed in the center of the back wall, and it looks like it's been recently slept in, but Nathan is nowhere to be found.

To the left of the bed, there's a short hallway that runs past what I assume is Nathan's closet and into the bathroom. The door is cracked, and there's a light on overhead.

"Nathan?" I call as I make my way forward. I've been walking with purpose up until now, anxious to find him, but my steps slow as I approach the door.

I can't just barge into Nathan's bathroom, can I? Even if he is sick. He could be naked, for all I know.

But then, he did text me.

And if he needs help, then does it matter if he isn't wearing any clothes? I can be an adult about this. I can handle whatever this is.

I knock softly on the door and call his name one more time. "Nathan? It's Summer. Can I come in?"

I hear a soft groan from inside, which finally gives me the courage to nudge open the door.

My heart sinks when I finally see him.

Nathan is curled up on the floor in front of his shower. His head and shoulders are on a bathmat, but the rest of him is on the cold, tile floor. At least he's dressed, wearing a t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.

I hurry forward, dropping my keys and my phone on the bathroom counter before crouching down beside him. I lift my hand to his forehead, which is definitely hot, and his eyes flutter open.

"Hey," I say softly as I slide my hand over his hair.

His eyes close again, and his tongue darts out to lick his dry, cracking lips. "You shouldn't be here."

I roll my eyes. "Why? Because you're doing so well on your own?"

He shifts, lifting his head the slightest bit, and the pungent smell of vomit reaches my nose. "Because there's barf in my hair." His voice is barely above a whisper, his words rasping on the way out like he's having a hard time thinking them, much less vocalizing them.

My heart squeezes, even as my brain starts cataloging the challenges of our current situation. Nathan is probably here because he wanted to take a shower, then realized he wasn't strong enough to do it.

But how am I supposed to help?

This man is enormous. Even if I could help him up and get him into the shower, what would I do once he's there? He's on the floor because he can't hold himself up. But I can't just help him back to bed with vomit in his hair.

I sink back onto my heels and attempt to think logically, but then Nathan shifts and groans, shivering like he's cold.

Okay. I'm in over my head here.

I rub a hand over Nathan's head, pushing his hair back away from his face. "I'm going to help, okay? I'll be right back."

I stand and reach for my phone, sending Lucy a quick text.

Summer

Can you talk? Kind of an emergency.

She calls me seconds after the text lands. I move back into Nathan's bedroom to answer.

"Hey. You okay? What's going on?" she says as soon as the call connects.

"Um, can you tell me how to decide if I should call an ambulance for the very sick, very feverish hockey player I just found curled up on his bathroom floor?"

"Okay, slow down," Lucy says. "And take a breath. You're fine. We'll figure this out."

I didn't even realize I needed to breathe until Lucy reminded me, and I do as she asks, pressing my hand to my belly, focusing on the reassuring feeling of air going into my lungs and expanding my chest.

"Breathing," I say. "I'm breathing."

"I assume we're talking about Nathan?"

"Yeah. The team doctor said he has the flu. I think he was trying to get into the shower because he's covered in vomit."

"He's feverish?"

"Yeah. Hot to the touch, and he's shivering a little, like he's cold."

"Do you know how feverish?" Lucy asks. "Does he have a thermometer?"

"I have no idea. I haven't looked for one." I pace back and forth beside Nathan's bed, my eyes darting to the bathroom every five seconds. I can still see him through the open door.

"See if he has one," Lucy says. "If he doesn't, there's one in the first aid kit in your car."

I pause my pacing. "I have a first aid kit in my car?"

"You absolutely have a first aid kit in your car. It's in your trunk. I gave it to you last Christmas. Actually, you should just go get it because it also has Liquid IV in it, and Nathan could probably use that."

I sneak back into the bathroom and grab my keys, then race toward my car. "Got it. On my way."

"Unless his fever is really high, like 105 high, he's probably just dehydrated," Lucy says as I go. "I'd just clean him up, give him a Liquid IV, then see if you can get some Tylenol in him to break the fever. If the fever doesn't break, or he can't keep liquids down, you might need to take him to the ER."

"But not yet?" I ask as I open my trunk in search of Lucy's first aid kid. I immediately recognize the black zipper case she gave me for Christmas—the one I put in my car and promptly forgot existed. I've never been so grateful that my sister is both a planner and a genius.

"See what his temperature is first," she says. "And don't panic. People get sick all the time, though the flu is particularly bad this year. But you're there now. You'll help him. And if he needs more help, the paramedics can be there in a matter of minutes. He's going to be fine."

"Right. Not panicking," I say as I let myself back into Nathan's house. "But Lucy, how am I supposed to clean him up? I can't just put him in the shower. There's no way he can stand up."

"Can you call one of his teammates? They're all as big as he is, right?"

"His teammates are all on their way to Pennsylvania."

"Then just help him," she says simply. "Find something for him to sit on in the shower and help him."

"And just ignore his very muscular, very naked body?"

"It's just a body," she says. "Everyone has one. This is not a sexual situation, it's a practical one. You can be discreet, but you can't leave him with vomit in his hair. At the very least, give him a sponge bath. If you're lucky, his shower has a hand sprayer. That would make things a lot easier." Lucy sounds like she's moving, the familiar background sounds of the hospital floating through the phone. I should let her go. If she isn't on a break, we've already been on the phone too long.

"I gotta run," Lucy says. "But you can do this. I'll check in when I'm on my break."

The fact that she's being so chill about this goes a long way to helping me feel chill. "Okay. Thanks, Lu. You're the best."

Back by Nathan's side, I unzip the first aid kid with renewed determination. It's been less than five minutes since I first arrived, but it still feels like he's been lying on the floor forever, and I'm anxious to get him up, to help him be more comfortable.

I press my palm to his cheek. "Hey," I say. "I'm going to take your temperature, okay?"

He opens his eyes long enough to frown at me and tilt his head away. "Summer, please just…go. I"ll be fine."

"You'll be fine faster if you let me help."

"I don't need your help." He winces and groans, like the effort of stringing so many words together is too much.

"You clearly need something, and everyone else who cares about you is halfway to Pennsylvania. I'm all you've got, so stop being an idiot and let me take your temperature."

He scowls, but finally opens his mouth and lets me slide the thermometer under his tongue.

"Am I dying?" he says after it beeps and I remove it. "I feel like I'm dying."

"103.6, which means you are not dying." A wave of relief washes over me. It also means he's not going to the hospital. At least not yet. "But I'm guessing you are dehydrated, and I would really love for your fever to break." I lift his arm, tucking both of my hands under his elbow and tugging gently. "Come on. Can you sit up for me? You can't stay on your bathroom floor forever."

Slowly, he pushes himself upright and leans against the glass door of his shower. "Ohhh, my head is spinning," he says, then he winces. "And I smell really bad."

"You do," I say gently. "But we're going to fix that."

He shakes his head. "Please just go. You can't—I don't want…" He swallows, and it looks like it takes him a great deal of effort. His eyes are a little sunken in, and his face is pale, despite the fever blush brightening his cheeks. Poor guy must be so dehydrated. "I don't want you here," he finally rasps out.

I roll my eyes, ignoring the sting of his words. I'm guessing it's only his pride that's making him say them, but it sucks to hear them anyway. "Then you shouldn't have texted me. Now I'm here, and you're stuck with me," I shoot back. "At least until you're back in bed and feeling better. You might as well stop fighting and make it easier on us both."

He's still for a long moment, his eyes closed, and I get the sense it's really hard for him to keep them open.

"I texted you?"

I sigh and sink back onto my heels. "You did. And I'm here now."

He slumps to the side, his head falling against the wall, and for a second, I worry he's passed out. But when I lean forward, taking his face in my hands, he leans into my touch. He's still with me, just really weak. "Nathan, honey, come on. I need you to think. Is there anything in your house you could sit on in the shower? A bench, maybe? Something that could handle getting wet?"

He opens his eyes, and I half expect him to argue, to tell me there's no way he's showering with me here to help him. But he must have used up all his fight because he breathes out a long sigh, then drops his head back. "Metal barstools."

Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.

"In the kitchen?"

He nods.

"Perfect. I'll be right back."

I hurry to the kitchen and grab a barstool, then stop to get a couple of towels from the linen closet in the hallway. I have no idea how I'm actually going to make this work, but I keep reciting Lucy's words in my head. This is a practical situation, not a sexual one. He needs help, I'm helping him. It doesn't have to be weird.

Luckily, Nathan's shower is glorious, big and spacious with two shower heads and a third hand sprayer. I set the barstool down in the center of the space, then step back to assess. If I play this right, I should be able to stand in the shower with him and not even get wet. At least not completely.

I turn on the water to let it warm up, then peel off my hoodie and take off my socks and shoes, leaving me in leggings and a black tank top.

"Okay," I say, crouching down in front of Nathan one more time. "Time to do this." Slowly, I roll his t-shirt up his body, doing my best to keep the vomit-stained side from touching the rest of him.

He shivers again, his teeth chattering together in a way that makes him seem childlike, though there's nothing childlike about his torso. It's just as perfect as it was the first time I saw it. Big and broad—and, I'm guessing, exceptionally heavy.

I place my feet on either side of his legs, which are extended in front of him, and slip my arms under his, wrapping them around his back. "Okay, we're going to stand up now," I say. "Just lean on me. Hopefully we won't both topple over."

Nathan is silent as he slowly pushes his feet under him, then stands. As soon as we're upright, his weight shifts onto my shoulders, and I have to brace myself to hold him up. His back curves as his head drops right into the crook of my neck, so close that I can feel his exhale brushing across my skin.

"Spinning," he says, his lips close enough that I feel their movement. "I'm spinning."

"Just hold still a minute," I say. "I've got you."

He relaxes a little more, and I flex my quads, pushing through my feet. Back in my college days, I could easily squat over two hundred pounds, but Nathan feels ten times heavier than that.

"You smell good," he says, his tone begrudging, like it actually pains him to admit it.

I let out a little chuckle. "Anything smells good next to you."

"True."

"You ready to do this?" I rub a hand over his back, grateful that, at least for now, it seems like he's done fighting. Keeping one arm around him, I reach over and open the shower door, then grab the clean towel I pulled out of his linen closet when I prepared the shower.

Don't make this weird, don't make this weird, don't make this weird.

"Here," I say, wrapping the towel around his waist on top of his pajama bottoms. "This will be better than wearing your clothes, and I'm not washing your hair for you if you're totally naked. It's your one job, all right? You just have to hold the towel. I'll take care of everything else."

He takes a step backward and hits the wall, shaking his head. "You don't have to wash my hair. I can—" His words cut off when he wobbles to one side, and I jump forward to catch him.

"Nathan, stop it," I say firmly. "I'm here. I'm helping. And you're starting to piss me off by refusing to let me. You can't do this alone. Now swallow your pride and get over yourself, or I'm going to wash your hair in cold water instead of hot. I promise I'll go as soon as you're safely back in bed. Let's just do this so that can happen sooner than later."

With a resigned huff, Nathan stands upright, gripping the towel long enough to step out of the pajama bottoms and the boxer briefs he's wearing underneath. "So bossy," he mutters as we move toward the open shower door, and I smile. I've definitely heard that one before.

Nathan lets out a low moan, and I pause, moving my hands to his side to stabilize him. "You okay?"

He nods, but he grabs my arm, his grip tightening as he drops his head back onto my shoulder, like the small amount of effort it took to walk four steps completely exhausted him.

"Summer?"

Without thinking, I lift a hand to his back, rubbing circles over his bare shoulder blades. I can't keep myself from touching him, from at least trying to comfort him. "Yeah?"

"I don't…want you to go," he says, and my hand stills. "I just…think you should go because of how much I want you to stay."