Chapter 2 #2
The radiator clanked again, louder this time, like it was protesting the effort of existing. I should have been thinking about protocols. About whether I'd missed something. About what I'd say when they asked me why I hadn't insisted on immediate transport to the ER.
Instead, I kept thinking about the way he'd smiled at me.
Not the polite, professional smile athletes gave medical staff. Not the grimace-through-pain smile that said I'm fine, really. Something else. Something that felt like recognition. Something that felt like attraction I couldn't afford.
I sat up, scrubbing both hands over my face. This was stupid. Dangerous, even. I didn't know this man. Didn't know anything about him except that his body responded to injury in ways that defied every patient I’d ever treated. And that he was absurdly attractive.
I hated that I'd noticed. Hated that even in the middle of a medical crisis, some traitorous part of my brain had registered the sharp line of his jaw under the beard, the way his damp hair curled against his temples, the breadth of his shoulders under all that gear.
Hated that when he'd looked at me, I'd felt seen in a way I hadn't felt in months.
I stood abruptly, crossing the three steps it took to reach the kitchen area. The fridge hummed, struggling against the warmth of the radiator. I opened it without thinking, staring at the mostly empty shelves.
A carton of milk. Leftover pizza. Half a loaf of bread.
I closed the door. One of the perks of the job was free meals at the training facility, and good meals.
The chef—Velkan—was a law unto himself, and made every lunch feel like you were dining in a five-star restaurant.
Food designed to keep professional athletes healthy, so I barely went grocery shopping anymore.
Gavin used to keep the fridge stocked. He'd enjoyed cooking, enjoyed the ritual of it. Enjoyed the way I'd sit at the counter and watch him work, stealing bites of whatever he was preparing. I'd thought that meant something.
Thought the domesticity of it—the shared meals, the easy silences, the way he'd kiss me goodnight even when we were both exhausted—meant we were building something real.
Instead, he'd been building a story.
And I'd been the headline.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and forced myself to breathe through the familiar ache in my chest. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore. Not with romantic partners. Not with employers. Not with anyone who might benefit from my vulnerability.
The smart thing—the safe thing—would be to keep my head down. Do my job. Stay invisible.
Taranis Rees was not invisible.
He was a veteran player on a professional hockey team.
Someone people noticed. Someone with a public profile and probably a dozen reporters looking for the next story.
Getting involved with him—even thinking about getting involved with him—was the kind of mistake I couldn't afford to make.
I pushed off the counter and moved back to the couch, lying down again.
Tomorrow I'd go back to work. I'd check on him if he was there, make sure his temperature had normalized, confirm that whatever strange thing his body had done had resolved.
And then I'd forget about the way he'd watched me.
Forget about the quiet pleasure in his voice when he'd said yes, sir.
Forget about the fact that for the first time in months, I'd felt competent instead of condemned. I’d wanted to admit him when he didn't warm up enough, but he’d refused, and Coach had backed him up.
Then his teammate and Captain—Max Renaud—had appeared and said he would take him home and stay.
It had been a Sunday-afternoon game, sometimes common on a weekend, so they would have the evening together to make sure he was okay.
I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the building settling around me.
Somewhere in the distance, the baby stopped crying.
And I tried very hard not to think about jet-black hair with silver streaks and steady eyes and the kind of cold that should have been impossible.
I failed.
My phone buzzed again. This time I looked. Please tell me you're not sitting alone in that depressing shoebox again.
I stared at the message, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
Amy had been one of the few people at Denver General who'd believed me. No, that wasn’t true.
All the nurses had believed me. Except none of their supporting statements worked, because in the end, I'd been fired for breeching confidentiality.
And I couldn't argue because I had told my boyfriend.
It was a miracle I'd managed to get a job at all after that.
Nancy had shared that the Dragons had their own scandal, so I was lucky they weren't picky.
Another message appeared before I could respond. We've got free tickets tonight for that new place opening on 16th street mall. You need to get out of your head for five minutes.
I typed and deleted three different responses before finally settling on: I don't know. But I had a job now. I could afford a couple of drinks. Monday was a weird night to open, and I definitely couldn't have a late night.
Be ready at eight thirty, CINDER. Wear something that doesn't smell like a locker room.
I dropped the phone onto the futon and stared at it like it had personally betrayed me.
Going out meant people. Conversation. Pretending I was fine when I very much wasn't. But staying here meant another night of replaying the worst moments of my life on an endless loop. The radiator clanked again, as if weighing in on the decision.
I stood up and jogged to the shower.