Dean De Laurentiis

Dean hated crutches.
She hated them almost as much as she hated the "I told you so" look Summer had given her when the doctor confirmed the grade two sprain. She hated ice, she hated rest, and most of all she hated the idea of ​​being still.
"I don't need a babysitter," he grumbled from the couch in the team house, his leg raised and an ice pack badly placed on his ankle.
Summer crossed her arms.
"The coach said if you don't stay put, he'll bench you for the rest of the season. And since I know perfectly well that you're not going to do a single one of the things they told you to do, I got some help."
Dean raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
—What kind of help?
The door opened at that moment and you walked in, carrying a grocery bag and a folder. Dean recognized you instantly. He'd seen you a couple of times with Summer, but you'd never really spoken. Now you were there, in his living room, looking at him with a mixture of patience and resignation.
"She," Summer said, pointing at you. "She's going to spend a few hours a day here to make sure you don't do anything stupid. And you're going to listen to her."
Dean let out an incredulous laugh.
—Really? You brought your friend here to take care of me like I'm an old man?
You put the bag down on the table and looked directly at him.
—I prefer the term “temporary supervision.” And from what Summer told me, yes, you are exactly like a grumpy old man who doesn’t understand the word rest.
Summer covered her smile with her hand and quickly left, saying "I'll leave you two alone" which sounded a little too funny.
Silence settled in the room. Dean looked you over, still huddled on the sofa, his hair disheveled and his team jersey slightly wrinkled. He hated being at a disadvantage. He hated that anyone saw him like this: limping, grumpy, and lacking his usual air of control.
"I don't need you," she finally said.
—I know. That's why I'm here. Because you don't know what you need.
Dean clenched his jaw. That answer had annoyed him… and he'd kind of liked it.