I’m so fucking mad I could scream. How dare my brother and sister saddle me with that jackass for weeks? What were they thinking? They heard us arguing in the hospital. Now I’ve got to live with him for a few weeks with only momentary breaks for his classes, since I also go to his practice and games.

Lying in this bed is killing me, but I promised him I wouldn’t get up. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of berating me. I am a woman of my word. Even if I have to sit here and pee the bed. Of course, I won’t, but I would love to be able to hold that against him.

I refuse to need him. I’d rather fall down than have to hold myself against him again like out in the parking lot. The top of my head came to his chest, and my chest hit the brick wall of his abs. He is one solid man. I swear, for a brief second, I felt his hard dick against my stomach before he pulled away to adjust the crutches.

Stop it, Aran. You don’t need to start thinking about his dick. Why does he have to be my assignment? It’s obviously been way too long since I last had sex. Leaving Seattle and moving here really did a number on my love life. I still have a few girlfriends around from college, but they’re all engaged now. I could call them for a night out, but I can’t stand the thought of being a third-wheel. And I’m sure this bum leg just screams sexy. Humph, more like desperate.

You know, fuck him. The quicker I become independent on these wooden legs, the faster I can get rid of him. I think I’ll get up and cruise around the house. Get the feel for them. You know, take ‘em for a test drive. Make sure I can maneuver on them. I swing my legs out of bed, and grab the crutches. Holding them like he showed me, I tilt them at an angle back towards the bed for leverage and use the hand grips to lift up. Okay, I’m up. Damn, sweat beads pop out on my forehead from that little bit of work. But I did it. I don’t need him.

I make my way into the kitchen and do a few turns before opening and closing the fridge door. I make my way over to the sink and fill my thermal cup with cold water and pop a few pieces of ice into it when I pass the fridge again. See, take that Mr. Cocky Badass—I’m not helpless. I can do this on my own.

I swing around my island and head back towards the bedroom. I place the tips of each crutch on the carpet, being careful not to lose my balance with the different flooring textures. I swing my hips to project myself forward and miscalculate, and down I go.

“Shit,” I scream, landing right on the hip of my good leg. My sore ankle bounces off the carpet and lands against the edge of the coffee table, leaving both legs twisted in between the crutches. “Motherfucker,” I yell, as tears spring to my eyes. I try to scooch my butt onto the couch, but I’m drained and in pain.

The only things I can reach are the couch pillows, so I grab them and put one underneath my ankle and the other behind my back. My water bottle is just out of reach underneath the table. I use the crutch tip to roll it toward me, across the carpet. At least, I won’t be thirsty—just bored. Patience is not a virtue of mine. I attempt to lift my legs every few minutes, but the searing pain stops me.

There’s no way in hell I’m gonna get caught sitting here, but it’s already been an hour and I still can’t move. He’ll be pissed. And it’s as if the gods of fate sent him to me, because I hear keys jangling in the door lock. The front door swings wide and I’m the first thing he sees, lying there on the floor in a disheveled state with my foot propped up. My clothes are askew and my hair is a mess. Fucking great. Here it comes.

He drops his bags at his feet and stands there laughing. Like deep-belly laughing at me. At one point, he actually bends over and puts his hands on his knees, he’s laughing so hard.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” I growl.

He wipes away a few tears from his cheeks. “You. I knew you wouldn’t listen and stay in bed, but never in a million years did I think I would find you here in this state. What happened?” he asks.

“I tripped and fell, and now I can’t move. I think I really hurt myself. I’m sore everywhere,” I whine at him. “You’d think with this ass and hips, I would’ve bounced, but I didn’t.

He kneels down and gently lifts up my ankle in his hands to survey my ankle wrapping. “Does your ankle hurt?” he asks. “I don’t see any blood, so I don’t think you popped a stitch.”

“Well, thank god for that,” I reply. “No, actually, I landed on my hip and can’t seem to lift my leg without a fiery pain shooting through it.”

“Alright. I’m gonna carry you back to your bed, and I’ll look at your hip there. Okay?” he ask. He scoops me up so fast, I don’t even have time to get my arms around his neck; I grab onto his bicep. It’s like he just picked up air and threw it over his shoulder. Damn, that was a mistake. I hold on tightly, feeling the strong muscles of his arms tighten and bulge as heat rushes to my sex.

He places me on the edge of the bed and gently lowers my legs and feet to the carpet. He kneels again, lifting the leg of my shorts to look at my hip, but they’re too tight on my thighs.

“Um, Aran. I can’t look at your hip with these on. Can you remove them?” he asks, lifting his eyes to mine. I don’t see anything in his eyes that looks deceitful or lascivious. They look sad again, just like the first day I saw him. I nod my head.

“Can you stand me back up to do it? I don’t think I can roll and pull them down,” I explain. He stands and helps pull me up and I balance on one foot while I push my pajama shorts down. Once they get past my thighs, they simply fall to the carpet. I can’t believe I am standing here in my panties with his face just inches from my pussy.

He starts to poke on my hip, pushing in at the joint. “Does that hurt?” he asks. I shake my head no. He asks me to lift my leg and turn it out, then back in, backwards and forwards. I can move it, with just a little bit of pain now. Before it was too much to bear.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it. It doesn’t appear to be broken, but I’m not a doctor. Do you want me to take you back to the hospital to have it checked out?” he asks.

“No, I really don’t want to go back there. I just want to lie down and sleep,” I tell him. “I’ve got a massive headache now.”

“Well, that’s probably from the concussion. That’s gonna happen over the next week or two,” he reminds me. He helps pull my pajama shorts back up to my thighs and I finish pulling them all the way up. We move backwards a step and he settles me back onto the bed. He leaves the room, but comes back quickly with a few Aleve and a cup of water.

“Since it’s close to dinnertime, do you want to eat now or would you rather rest and eat later when you wake up?” he asks.

“I think I’ll rest. I’m not really that hungry,” I explain. I lay down and turn my back to him. A few seconds later, I hear the whisper of the door being pulled across the carpet and then the latch catches.

Who am I kidding? There is no way I’m gonna be able to sleep while he’s out in my space, doing god knows what. I’m not a good roommate. I don’t trust that easily. I’m anal about people touching my stuff. I don’t have a whole lot of things since this is only the third place I’ve ever lived in 24 years. Most of what I do own is stuff given to me by my family; mainly my mom’s possessions that a daughter should have. And I don’t want people touching it.

My stomach churns with worry. C’mon Aran. What’s he gonna do? Toss it around and break something? Dribble a ball and knock shit over? You’re being ridiculous. I take a deep breath and slowly release it, counting to ten. I decide to check out what’s going on in Jetty Beach, so I pull my Kindle out from under the pillow. I want to finish Claire Kingsley’s new book and I guess there’s no better time than the present.

I get lost in the book for almost two hours, when I hear the bedroom door push open. The clock says it’s almost 7 pm. He looks surprised when he sees me reading and not resting. He’s carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of something, a glass of ice water, and some crackers. I sit up in the bed and pile the pillows behind my back as he places the tray in front of me. “Mmmmm, chicken noodle soup. My favorite. Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome. I figured that’s probably all you can handle with your pain meds. Some of those things make me sick to my stomach, so I thought we’d start on light, salty foods and see if that bothers your stomach,” he says.

He moves over to sit in the corner chair again, propping his feet up on the ottoman. Suddenly, he reaches over and grabs my Kindle that’s still open on the bed. I want to try to snatch it back, but I’m too afraid I’ll spill the tray, so I let him take it. “Do you always touch other people’s stuff without permission?” I ask.

“It’s just a book. Are you afraid I’ll find out you read smut?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought most women read that stuff anyway, so there would be no surprise there.”

“I really don’t care if you know what I read. I think men would understand women better if they read ‘smut’ as you like to call it. Book boyfriends are the best boyfriends anyway,” I mumble.

He tosses it back down on the bed after reading a little of it. I was right at a really hot sex scene between Finn and Juliet. I hope he learned something. “So, what did you do while you were gone today?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Team conditioning and we watched video playback of the game. I got to watch the full video of me and #18 landing on you,” he says. “I still can’t believe that happened. What were you thinking, sitting so close?”

“I was doing my job, and getting the shots that I need,” I argue. He’s trying to piss me off. “Those photos come before anything else. It might be the first time I get hurt, but I’m sure it won’t be the last. Photogs get hit all the time…by balls, players, fans, and reporters. It’s part of the job,” I say, moving the tray off my lap and setting it to the side.

“You’re getting drafted this year. I know it,” I say. “You’re probably gonna go first round, and I want the best photo of your college career. It’s going to get me a job at Sports Illustrated.”

“Oh, fucking great,” he barks at me. “So, you’re gonna use me to advance your career too.” He stands and tries to walk out of the room.

“What?” I ask incredulously. “No, wait. Don’t go. You need to understand. It’s my job. You’re a public athlete. You put yourself out there with your talent. The other photogs there are doing the same thing. Do you see that?” I beg him to understand.

He leaves anyway, slamming the door behind him. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam too.

Fucking great. Shit, Aran. You could have worded that less ambitiously. He chose to be a college athlete. It’s his choice to enter the draft. I have a career too. Nothing that I said was out of line. He’s got his dreams, and I’ve got mine. Nothing is gonna hold me back from making them a reality. Sorry if it hurts his pride. Fuck him.