Free Skin in the Game by Jackie Barbosa

parked in a private room in a private wing with access only granted to family and the close personal friends on the list Warren had provided. Cade’s name was not, as it happened, on the list, but the security guard immediately recognized him and let him in without question. Giving the guy his autograph probably hadn’t hurt, either.
    Warren was in Room 426, an IV line poking out of his arm and one leg in a cast all the way up to his hip and suspended from one of those slings hanging from the ceiling. Cade winced at the sight of that immobilized leg as well as the stitched and butterflied cut above Warren’s right eye. His accident and injuries were obviously a lot worse than the Vikings’ publicists had let on.
    “Hey,” he said from the doorway, holding up the six-pack of Warren’s favorite Minnesota microbrew, “you allowed to have a drink or are you getting it all intravenously?”
    Warren cracked a grin. “Nah, this is just blood-thinners, not painkillers,” he said, tugging on the IV line for emphasis. “They’re afraid I might throw a clot. I seem to recall I’m not supposed to drink alcohol while I’m on them, but I’m sure I can get the nurse to approve one bottle of beer.”
    “I’m sure you can.” In fact, Cade would bet the nurses would let Warren Harris get away with just about anything, not only because he was rich and famous, but because he was both charismatic and good-looking. He and Cade had spent enough of their off-seasons together for Cade to know that when it came down to it, more women were interested in getting into Warren’s pants than his.
    Warren pushed a button on the remote attached to the bed railing and pointed to the chair beside him. “Have a seat. One of the advantages to the hospital VIP treatment is that it won’t take long for one of the nurses to come running.”
    Sure enough, a few seconds later, a petite middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?” Even though she was obviously almost old enough to be Warren’s mother, her tone held the brightness of a teenage girl with a crush.
    “My friend here brought a six-pack of beer instead of flowers. I know I’m not supposed to drink on this medication, but I wondered…”
    The nurse seemed to notice Cade sitting in the visitor’s chair for the first time, and her eyes widened a notch. “Aren’t you…?”
    Cade stood up and extended his hand. “Cade Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms.—” He quickly read the name badge slung around her neck. “Wallem.”
    She clasped his hand, her cheeks pink with pleasure that he’d bothered to discover her name. “No, the pleasure’s all mine. My husband isn’t going to believe it when I tell him I’m nursing Warren Harris and I met Cade Reynolds. Only the two greatest football players in Minnesota history.”
    Cade laughed. “I’m pretty sure Fran Tarkenton and Alan Page would disagree with that, but I’m flattered you think so.”
    “So, I can have that beer, then?” Warren interjected.
    Nurse Wallem smiled. “I’ll just notify the doctor, and he’ll order your IV drip turned down a bit. But only one,” she cautioned, wagging a warning finger before ducking out the door and leaving the two of them alone.
    Cade fished the bottle opener he’d purchased for the occasion from his pocket and cracked the caps from two of the longnecks.
    Warren took his and raised it for a toast. “To not being dead.”
    “I’ll drink to that,” Cade declared, clicking his bottle against his friend’s. After several healthy swallows, he decided it was time to broach the subject. “This looks like more than six weeks on injured reserve to me.”
    “Uh, yeah, no shit.” Warren gave an exasperated snort. “But you know how it is. They want to appease the fans. Don’t want to tell them the season’s flushed down the toilet until the water’s actually swirling in the bowl.”
    Cade nodded. It had been the same