Mads protested when I set her in the Jeep, clinging to my shirt and then frowning when she had a hard time getting a handful. “What kind of shirt is that?” she asked, disgruntled. It was cute as hell. “It’s a compression shirt.” “Oh. Why are you wearing that?” “Sore muscles.” She gasped. I pulled back, and she patted my chest and arms like she was searching for injury. “Are you hurt? What happened? Oh, was practice bad?”
