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for saying it. Having Tamara hold his hand shouldn’t have been bad. It was all his brain had told him he wanted the last few weeks.
    Off limits, he reminded himself and again, he let out a litany of curses.
    “Do you need more painkillers?” the medical attendant asked.
    Shaking his head, he moved his arm back over his eyes. Slowly breathing in and out. In and out, but all he was able to focus on was her voice in the background. A beautiful voice. He imagined her saying his name, begging him to—
    A male voice brought him back from his thoughts. “Mate, we’re just going to hook you up to the IV-drip before getting you onto the gurney. Right?”
    Oliver nodded towards the paramedic, but then turned to look at Tamara, who had taken his other hand into hers and moved them to her chest.
    He cocked a brow at her.
    The drive to the hospital was a big haze. Whatever the paramedic had given him, it was working damn well, with Oliver hardly remembering anything about the drive. Dozing on and off, he willed his mind to replay his run to figure out what had gone wrong. But it was useless. The fog in his head simply didn’t want to lift, making it impossible for him to focus on a clear thought.
    Once at the hospital, it didn’t take long to see the doctor, but unfortunately, the doctors confirmed the earlier diagnosis of the damage. Oliver had an injury to the anterior cruciate ligament. The term sounded bad, and he scrolled through his brain to decipher what it actually meant. Anger and frustration that the medication played havoc with his ability to think clearly were taking over.
    “What does that mean?” he heard Tamara ask.
    He turned to look at her questioningly. “Sweet Jesus, how did you get in here?”
    She smiled. First at him, and then more timidly towards the surgeon. Yet, she didn’t reply.
    “It’s often seen in athletes,” the surgeon replied to Tamara. “One wrong move—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but nodded towards the knee.
    Oliver knew what he meant anyway. One wrong move could mean anything, but in his case, he mightn’t be playing baseball for a while.
    “So now what?” Tamara asked.
    Annoyed, Oliver shot her a look. “Out!”
    Both the surgeon and Tamara looked at him in surprise.
    “My knee, my injury, my questions.” He raised his eyebrow slightly. “My privacy.”
    Tamara stared at him, and despite the drugs playing with his capability to think, he held her stare. Their eyes locked for a long moment before she shook her head.
    “No,” she whispered with a sound in her voice that even in his dazed mind told him something wasn’t right. Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm. That was when he noticed her struggle with tears. Good grief, it was just a knee injury! He leaned his head back into the seat, closed his eyes, and lifted a finger towards the surgeon.
    “Tell her.”
    As he listened to the doctor explaining what lay ahead for Oliver, the warmth of her hand seeped through his shirt. The words about his injury were a blur, the touch of her hand occupying his mind.
    The sound of steps told him the surgeon was leaving the room. He knew by now that Tamara’s shoes made more of a different click-clack sound.
    “Please tell me he’s not leaving me alone here with you.”
    “He’s getting your prescriptions and some painkillers to take home.”
    Her voice was shaky, and he opened his eyes to look at her.
    “It’s just a knee injury, cupcake,” Oliver said.
    Tamara was visibly shaken. Despite the deep breath she’d taken, the reply came out as barely a whisper. “I have no intention of leaving a hospital alone again.”
    Not quite clear on the sense of her words, he closed his eyes again. He tried to reach for her hand on his arms, but even the little move caused some discomfort. He’d have to deal with Tamara once he got hold of his faculties again. This wasn’t the moment.
    An hour later, the knee was bandaged, and with the crutches