When Sparks Fly

“You’re the only person I would do this for.” I feel his warm exhalation on the back of my neck and then the soft press of his lips at the top of my spine. He releases me and slides out from behind me, jumping over the back of the couch. “I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”

The sudden loss of his proximity and his body heat makes me shiver. And for some reason, I feel that loss as more than a drop in temperature. It settles in my chest too.

10

FRIEND ZONE

DECLAN

I really need my body not to be an asshole. I stand with my fists propped on the vanity as I will my erection to deflate. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl at my reflection.

Half of my best friend is wrapped in fiberglass. Her body is covered in bruises. She can’t even wash her own hair, and I have a hard-on over rubbing her back. It doesn’t make any damn sense. Maybe it’s a guilt hard-on. Maybe I should let the guys take shots at my junk with a soccer ball the next time we play. Which won’t be for a long time. Not for me. I refuse to get back on the field until Avery can get back out there with me.

I run a hand down my face—my bruise-free, undamaged face—and work at getting a handle on myself and my stupid hormones. Every time I look at Avery, I’m reminded of my stupidity. Of the selfish choice I made.

I think about the way she looked when I first walked into that hospital room. How puffy her face was, the black and blue bruises that colored her eyes and her cheeks, the full cast on her left leg and the one on her right arm. The way they had her in traction to keep her stable. How frail and broken she looked. How scared I’d been. It does the trick, deflating my traitorous, inconsiderate erection. When I’m under control again, I return to the living room. Avery is snuggled into the corner of the couch, arm propped on a pillow, leg elevated, head lolling forward—totally passed out while How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days plays on the screen.

The bruises are starting to heal, and she’s starting to look more like herself again. Even as battered and beat up as she is, she’s still beautiful—broken, but breathtaking nonetheless. I shake my head, trying to understand what the hell my problem is these days.

I don’t want to wake her, so I let her sleep through the rest of the movie before I move her back to her bed and tell her I’m sorry for the thousandth time.

* * *

The next day I spend hours in the kitchen making all of Avery’s favorite foods and enlist the guys to pick up things like chips and candy and her preferred chocolate bars. She can’t drink, so I make sure we have root beer and stuff to make smoothies, since that’s her jam.

Just before the guys come over, I help her move from her bed to her corner of the couch—which I’ve already arranged so she’s comfortable and has everything she needs.

Jerome and Mark arrive after six with pizza, beer, and a whole bunch of bags. They envelop her in awkward hugs.

“Guys, be gentle,” I warn.

“It’s fine, D. I’m good,” she assures me and pats the couch, inviting the guys to take a seat. “Tell me what’s going on. Did you guys play against the Jockstraps last week? Did you kick their asses?”

“We sure did, won by two goals. But everyone misses you.” Jerome pulls a giant cellophane-wrapped basket out of one of the bags and sets it on the coffee table. It’s filled with all of Avery’s favorite snacks. “Everyone chipped in and got you a recovery package. There’s a card too.”

“Oh wow! This is awesome!” She manages to tear the card open with one hand, reading through all the names and “get better soon” and “we miss you” messages from the team.

Her eyes get all watery, and she sniffles, holding the card to her chest. “This is so great. Tell everyone I said thanks. Deck, can you grab me a pair of scissors so I can get into this and check out all the stuff?”

“I can open it for you if you want,” Jerome offers.

“No, no. I’d like to do it. It’ll take longer, but it’s good for me to do things on my own, even if it’s as simple as opening a basket of goodies.”

My stomach twists at her somewhat embarrassed smile.

I grab the scissors from the kitchen and hand them to her. The guys are crowded around her, Mark sitting on the edge of the coffee table and Jerome on her right.

Her tongue peeks out, and she uses her leg to brace the basket and her casted arm to stabilize as she snips through the ribbon and peels the cellophane back. It takes her forever to get into it, but she doesn’t ask for help. It’s obvious that we all want to offer assistance, but the guys bite their tongues, because this is Avery and she’s always been the kind of person who likes to do things on her own.