Chapter 191: Supermarket

Reid paused, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register. "We haven’t drilled the final execution on the ice yet. Devin’s holding off until tomorrow morning because he wants to see if you can take the line. The rest of the guys are sweating it, praying you’ll be cleared."

​I looked up at him, testing my footing as my feet touched the cool floor. "And you?"

​"I’m not sweating anything," Reid replied without a single second of hesitation, his hand sliding down to cup my elbow, anchoring me firmly as I stood straight. His grey eyes locked onto mine with absolute, unwavering conviction. "I know you, Kain. I know you’ll be out there on Thursday. You’re stepping onto that ice, and we’re taking the win after Game 2."

​A small, genuine breath of relief escaped my lips. Seeing his total, unshakeable faith in me did more to steady my nerves than any anti-inflammatory ever could.

​"Let me get my shirt on," I muttered, pulling my compression top back over my head and carefully adjusting the collar to make sure the thick adhesive patches were entirely hidden. "I’m starving."

​Since it was just an abbreviated morning practice, we were free for the rest of the day. We walked out to the parking bay, keeping our distance as we passed a few straggling facility staff, and got into Reid’s car.

​We drove straight to our usual quiet diner tucked away three blocks from the arena—a low-key, booth-seated spot where the staff knew to keep the press away from the players.

Reid slid into the booth across from me, immediately ordering us a heavy, protein-packed breakfast: stacks of buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, and two large glasses of fresh orange juice.

​Watching me eat, Reid’s posture finally relaxed a fraction. The color was coming back to my face, and for the first time in three days, I wasn’t visibly trembling from nausea or systemic exhaustion.

​"Where to next?" Reid asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he watched me finish the last of my eggs. "Home?"

​"Supermarket," I said, leaning back against the vinyl booth. "Our fridge is completely empty except for water and sports drinks. Now that I can actually stand on my feet without collapsing, I’m cooking tonight. I can’t take another night of takeout."

​Reid raised an eyebrow, a warm, fond look softening the sharp edges of his jaw. "You sure, Cap? I thought I was supposed to be taking care of you."

​"Taking care of me doesn’t mean letting you burn the kitchen down trying to boil pasta," I rasped back, a tiny smirk finally breaking through my tired mask. "I’m manning the kitchen. You can carry the grocery bags."

​"Yes, Captain," Reid chuckled, his hand reaching across the small table under the napkin holder to squeeze my fingers tightly.

​Twenty minutes later, we were pushing a cart through the aisles of a high-end grocery store a few miles away from the sports complex. Reid stayed glued to my side, his massive frame acting as a subtle barrier against any stray shoppers who might bump into my sore hips.

Every time I reached for a heavy item—cartons of milk, bags of rice, or cuts of steak—Reid’s hand was already there, grabbing it before I could even lift my arms.

​"I’m not made of glass, McCoy," I muttered under my breath as he snatched a heavy jar of marinara sauce right out of my hand to place it in the cart himself.

​"Yes, but you’re still recovering," Reid corrected smoothly, not even looking back as he tossed a bag of fresh basil into the basket. "Nate said zero unnecessary pressure. I’m just following team orders."

​I let out a soft, resigned sigh, but I didn’t push him away.

​Looking at him as he carefully inspected a package of fresh lean beef, selecting only the best cuts for us, a strange, quiet warmth bloomed deep in my chest.

I definitely did not hate the overprotective Reid.

In fact, watching this towering Alpha—a guy who found joy executing bone-shattering open-ice hits—delicately inspect a bunch of organic green onions like they were made of spun glass was a sight I knew I’d carry with me for a long time.

​"We need garlic," I rasped softly, leaning my hip lightly against the side of the metal cart to take some weight off my sore legs. "And stop scowling at the produce. You’re scaring the elderly couple in the next aisle."

​Reid didn’t even blink. He dropped a mesh bag of fresh garlic cloves into the basket, his grey eyes sweeping over me with a sharp, possessive intensity before settling back on my face. "I’m not scowling. I’m selecting."

​"You look like you’re about to cross-check a box of tomatoes into the glass," I muttered, a genuine, quiet huff of laughter escaping my lips.

​"If those tomatoes were going to bump into your sore flexors, I would," Reid growled under his breath, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his strict composure.

He stepped in closer, his broad shoulder brushing against mine as he reached above my head to grab a bottle of olive oil, expertly shielding me from a teenager pushing a crowded cart past us.

​We finished loading the cart with fresh vegetables, heavy cuts of sirloin, and a few boxes of pasta. Every time I so much as glanced toward a heavy item, Reid’s large hand was already moving to retrieve it, making sure my arms stayed comfortably at my sides.

​By the time we checked out, Reid refused to let me touch a single plastic bag. He hauled the heavy groceries out to the truck in one trip, stowing them in the back before walking over to the passenger side to open the door for me.

​"I can open a door, McCoy," I grumbled as I slid into the leather seat.

​"I know you can, Cap," Reid murmured, leaning into the open doorway for just a second. His hand came up, his warm thumb gently smoothing over the side of my throat, making sure the thick adhesive patches hiding my neck were still perfectly flat and secure beneath my collar. "Doesn’t mean I’m going to let you."

​His touch was so steady, so fiercely protective, that the last lingering traces of tension in my shoulders completely melted away.