Kulti(95)

“I can tell.” Those brown-green eyes gazed at my face for a second, straying a little lower briefly, before finally taking a look around my small living room. “I called you,” he said absently.



“I put my phone on silent after I called Gardner to tell him I wasn’t coming in,” I explained. First, I’d slept like complete crap. A comfortable position to sleep in had eluded me the entire night, I’d been miserable. When my alarm went off at six and I’d rolled over to turn it off, my ribs had told me very calmly that there was no way I was going for a run, much less making it through practice.



Fortunately in the last four seasons I’d been with the team, I’d missed practice on only one occasion that wasn’t injury related. My grandfather had died, and I’d flown to Argentina for the over-the-top funeral thousands had attended. A country in mourning, a telecaster had called it that night when I’d sat in my hotel room watching the news recap the day. Gardner didn’t even hesitate to tell me to feel better and come back once my mysterious ‘virus’ went away.



I hated lying, but at least I had promised to visit the doctor and stay in bed.



“I see.” He took a couple more steps in, his eyes looking to the small kitchen and the counter island where I had two barstools in lieu of a table.



I stifled a yawn. “Are you okay?”



Kulti inspected me from head to toe, frowning. “I’m fine. I came to make sure you were alive.”



I had a brief flashback to the night before, when he’d rolled down the window as his car sat idling in the driveway, ordering me to take something for the pain. “I’m fine. I feel like roadkill, but I’m all right.”



“You missed practice. You’re not fine.”



He had an excellent point. “I have a doctor’s appointment at noon, just to make sure nothing is broken.”



His expression darkened as he walked around me to head into the kitchen. He stopped after taking two steps and looked over his shoulder, his gaze going to my legs. “Do you ever wear pants?”



“No.” I had shorts on, damn it. Plus, this was Houston. No female wore pants in the summer unless they had to.



He looked for a second longer, glanced up at my face, and then continued his journey into the kitchen. “Do you have tea or coffee?”



I pointed. “Both.”



He made an indiscriminate noise as he searched my kitchen cabinets.



All right. “Well make yourself at home. I’m gonna go shower and put on some pants, I guess.” I might have given him a dirty look at the mention of putting on bottoms, but he wasn’t paying attention. His back was turned.



Thirty minutes later, I was freshly showered, my teeth brushed, my hair… well, up in something that could be considered a bun, deodorant applied, jeans that could have passed for leggings and wearing a real bra on, I made an appearance back in the living area of my garage apartment. Kulti was sitting on the couch, drinking from a black coffee mug with an owl picture on it and watching television.



The fact that the man I’d had on my wall for nearly a decade was sitting on my couch, drinking coffee because he’d come by to check on me, didn’t really hit me much. I wouldn’t say it was normal, but I wasn’t choking up to talk to him or freaking out that I hadn’t dusted in a couple of weeks. It was just… okay. No big deal.



No big deal that Reiner Kulti was sitting here, hanging out.



“Are you hungry?” I was starving. By this point in the day, I’d normally already be on my second meal.



“No,” he replied, still not turning around from his focus the television.



I eyed him and started looking through my freezer for something easy to cook. There were some frozen turkey breakfast patties, fruit and a whole grain baguette. The frozen fruit I set aside to blend into a smoothie as I got the rest of it ready. Kulti didn’t say anything as I made my meal, but I knew he was fully aware of what I was doing.



When I was done, I had a blender filled with a weird smoothie of almond milk and leftover frozen fruit. I poured two drinks and put my makeshift breakfast sandwich on a plate.



“Here,” I said, holding a glass over his head from behind.



He took it from me without a word, setting the glass on the coffee table. Stiffly, I took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, plate on my lap, smoothie on the coffee table and sat there watching the survival show on the screen. Kulti manned the side table as I ate my food, making a mess all over myself, because it hurt too much to try and have manners.



“Why do you have so many recordings of this show?” he asked, browsing through my DVR.