Page 115 of The Goalie in Room 1

Cash stood at the island with one hand braced against the counter while he stirred whatever was in the skillet. His crutch leaned against the cabinet beside him, and his sweatshirt hung over the back of a stool as if both had always belonged there.

They did belong.

He glanced over his shoulder when the door closed. Surprise widened his eyes before the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re home.”

“I am.”

Cash looked at the clock on the wall. “Did the hospital catch fire?”

“Nope. At least not that I’m aware.”

“Someone finally revoked your privileges?”

“I finished my work and came home.”

“Weird.” He turned back to the stove, but the smile stayed on his face.

For weeks, I’d been coming home to a dark kitchen and Cash already settled in front of the television or asleep behind his closed bedroom door. If he was even home. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed walking through the door and finding him here. Music playing quietly. Dinner on the stove. Cash looking pleased to see me before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to make it obvious.

I crossed the kitchen, unbuttoning and rolling up my sleeves. Mushrooms and chicken simmered in the skillet, with pasta boiling on the back burner. “How long have you been standing?”

He huffed. “There he is.”

“I’m sorry. I’m worried.”

He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not long.”

I nodded, and though I tried, the words refused to be held in, and I muttered, “That isn’t a measurement.”

His blue gaze met mine as he said, “The same could be said for the amount of time you spend at work.”

His eyes grew round, then slammed shut, and his lips rolled into his mouth. The words hit like a sledgehammer. The blow hit so hard Cash seemed to feel it too. He looked back at the skillet while I took the spoon from his hand and told him to sit down. For once, he didn’t argue beyond muttering something under his breath that I didn’t catch. He reached for his crutch, moved to the nearest stool, and watched while I finished the sauce.

“What?” I asked when I caught him staring at me with his thinking groove cutting his brows in half.

“I’m a little shocked. You came home early. You took over dinner. I was just wondering why.”

I swallowed. “Because I wanted to come home,” I said, cutting the words “to you” off before I said too much.

March

I stood in the scrub room with water running over my hands, my phone propped up. I read the note twice.

Then a third time.

I missed Cash’s appointment.

I’d blocked the time on my schedule months ago, then lost it to an emergency surgery when another attending came down with the flu.

And my fellow handled Cash’s follow-up.

Again.

And again I received the update between cases through a notation in his chart. Imaging looked good. Strength and range of motion continued to improve. The brace had been discontinued.

Exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Everything okay, Dr. Vale?” the resident beside me asked.