Fake Skating(73)

“I was being charming,” he said, grinning unrepentantly.

“You were being a douche,” I corrected.

“Come on, let’s not fight, baby,” he teased, his voice deep and quiet as he grinned down at me.

“Baby?” I said with a laugh, my stomach flittery as he looked at me like I was someone he was allowed to call baby.

“Do you prefer honey?” he asked, lowering his voice even more. “What’s your favorite pet name, Goldilocks?”

What is happening? I thought as I scrambled to remember my actual name.

“How about we go with Collins,” I said, embarrassed by how out of breath I sounded.

His flirty grin slipped away and he cleared his throat.

Gave a nod.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” he said, his jaw flexing before he gave another nod. “Let’s take a bookstore picture, Collins, so we can get on with it.”

“Good idea,” I said, working hard to pull off a smile as I took out my phone to grab a selfie. In an instant, things between us felt tense and awkward again, which was probably why I failed to notice the three steps behind us that led to the store’s coffee shop.

I missed the step and stumbled, but Alec had quick reflexes. His long arm shot out and he pulled me back, but when he did, he let out a loud noise like a groan, and then he stopped, holding his arm.

“What happened?”

He gave his head a little shake and said through clenched teeth, “Nothing. Hang on. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” I said slowly. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he bit off, obviously in a lot of pain. His left hand was clamped over his right shoulder like he was holding it in place.

“Is it your arm or your shoulder?” I asked, stepping closer as he stood there, clutching his arm with a grimace on his face.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, then managed, “It’s my shoulder, and I’ll be fine in a second.”

His face was bright red, like the pain was killing him, and I noticed a couple of people in the coffee shop looking at him.

I touched his good arm and gently moved him toward the hallway that led to a back area.

“What happened?” I asked as soon as we were out of foot traffic.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but his jaw was clenched and it seemed like he was struggling to even form words. “I hurt my shoulder a few games ago, and sometimes if I raise my arm too high or in a bad direction, it messes with me.”

“What can I do?” I asked, because he was still growling out words instead of speaking. “Do you need some Motrin, or do you want me to go get some ice?”

“It’ll be better in a sec,” he said. “But thanks.”

“Is it, like, a muscle pull or a strain or something?” I remembered Grandpa Mick telling him to ice his shoulder—was this the same injury? “What’d the doctor say?”

“It just needs to heal—fuck me,” he ground out. “It’s going to be a little touchy for a few days.”

He could barely speak, so it seemed like more than “a little touchy” to me, which was saying something, because he’d always had a high tolerance for pain.

He’d giggled about his black eye, for God’s sake.

But right now he looked like he was suffering, and I hated it.

“Is there something maybe we can get to help?” I asked, wanting to do something—anything—to make him look less… terrible. My stomach hurt as I watched him swallow hard. “My grandma used to use, like, Aspercreme on her arthritic knee.”

“Sometimes I use Icy Hot,” he said, and I could tell that it was starting to feel marginally better. He was speaking more and grunting less. “I don’t know if it actually helps or if it just convinces my brain it’s helping.”

“Okay, well, you stay here and I’m going to run down to the Walgreens by the food court.”

“The pain is in my shoulder,” he said, and he almost looked like he might smile. “I can manage walking.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, and then he did smile. “This isn’t new, so you don’t need to look so freaked out. I deal with this every day.”

“Oh my God, you do?” How awful. “How long has this been bugging you?”

“A few weeks,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s notfine,” I said, carefully grabbing his good arm, gently pulling him alongside me. I didn’t know what kind of an injury this was, but he shouldn’t be in this much pain. Something wasn’t right, and I was going to lose it if his face didn’t go back to looking… not like this. “Let’s go get you some Icy Hot, but a few weeks isn’t okay, Alec.”

What if it was serious? Could something be broken?

We didn’t say anything as we walked to the Walgreens, which thank God was close. We went right to the Icy Hot—he obviously knew where it was located within the store—and I pointed to another product. “Have you tried these?”

I read the back of the lidocaine patch and said, “Not only does it mess with the temperature to trick your brain like Icy Hot does, but it works on the nerve, so it might be better, actually.”