Chapter 5
I'm sitting on the treatment table in my boxers, watching my legs swing as I wait for Ally to walk through the door. I got here fifteen minutes early to make sure I didn't miss her, but she's late. I check the clock hanging over the door. Five minutes late so far.
It's not a problem, except Ally Hart is never late. The woman showed up early and had a full-blown conversation with Dash and Cade the first time she worked on me.
Now, it's radio silence.
She hasn't even texted to tell me she's running late.
I stare at the door, willing it to open, and for her to walk through it so I can—I don't know—grovel? Explain? Convince her that what happened wasn't a mistake. That it was inevitable, and also can we please do it again but this time without the tape so I can actually use my tongue properly?
Fuck, just thinking about it again is making me hard. I can still smell her. Can still feel her thighs around my head. The weight of her body trembling above me, taking exactly what she needed while I gave her everything I could.
It was the hottest fucking moment of my life, and now, she's ghosting me like I'm Derek Strokes. Which is insane, considering I had her coming apart with my mouth taped shut, while he probably thought getting her wet meant pushing her in the pool.
Fuck.
This was a mistake.
Her voice echoes in my head, and I hate it.
Hate that she looked at me like I was something to be ashamed of. Hate that she
ran out of that room like I'd done something wrong when she was the one who literally sat on my face and rode it like I was her personal playground.
She came so hard she forgot to be professional.
That wasn't a mistake. That was the most real thing that's happened to me in years, and I'm not going to let her pretend otherwise.
I want her. She clearly wants me, but unlike last time, I'm not going to let her leave without telling her how I feel.
The door swings open.
My heart jumps.
Only to crash when I see Mark Porter, our team trainer, walk through the door.
He's in his mid-forties and is built like a linebacker who decided to get a medical degree.
He's a great guy who's excellent at his job, but he's absolutely not the athletic therapy grad student with green eyes who haunts my dreams.
“Cross.” He sets his kit down on the counter with a heavy thud. “Ready to get taped up?”
I stare at him. “Where's Hart?”
“Hart?” He's already pulling out supplies, not looking at me. “She's not on your case anymore.”
The words hit me like a slap shot to the chest. “What?”
“She requested a transfer. You're with me now.” He glances up, reading my expression with the clinical detachment of someone who's seen every flavor of athlete meltdown. “Problem?”
Yeah. Huge fucking problem.
“Did she say why?”
“Yup.” Mark snaps on gloves. “Said your thigh was in need of more experienced hands.” He gestures at my legs. “Feet apart. Let's see what we're working with.”
I comply automatically, but my brain is stuck three sentences back.
More experienced, my ass.
She's running. I should've known this was coming. She did warn me as she ran out, but I didn't think she'd actually do it.
“Cross.” Mark's voice is sharper now. “You with me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I force myself to focus as he sprays the adhesive across my thigh.
It's colder than when Ally does it. Or maybe it just feels colder because it's not her hands.
Mark works efficiently, wrapping the tape in tight, competent bands.
He's good at this. Really good. But it's not the same.
The angle is different. The pressure is different.
Everything about it feels wrong in a way I can't articulate without sounding like a complete psycho.
“How's the pain level today?” Mark asks.
“Fine.”
“One to ten.”
“Three. Maybe four.”
He presses into the muscle, testing. I don't flinch. Don't give him anything.
“Seems stable,” he says. “You've been keeping up with the stretches?”
“Every single one.”
“Good. Hart's notes say you're a compliant patient when you're not being a dumbass.” He shoots me a look. “Try to stick with the compliant part.”
The mention of her notes makes my chest tight. She took notes. Professional, clinical notes about my recovery. Meanwhile, I've been lying awake every night replaying the sound she made when she came on my face.
Professional. Right.
Mark finishes the wrap and steps back, surveying his work. “That should hold. But take it easy today. No heroics.”
“Never.”
He snorts. “Sure. That's why you're famous for not pushing through injuries.” He packs up his kit. “Ice after practice. Elevate tonight. If it starts acting up, you tell me immediately. None of this 'I'll just play through it' bullshit.”
“Got it.”
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone thinking about what happened the last time I was on this table.
My fingers grip the edges.
She left. Ally fucking Hart looked at what happened between us and decided the best course of action was to run so far in the opposite direction she literally changed my therapist. I stare down at the tape on my thigh.
It's good work. Solid. Secure. But it's not hers.
“Fuck,” I mutter to the empty room. Then I grab my gear and head for the ice, because if I stay in here any longer, I'm going to do something stupid, like text her. Or show up at her dorm. Or both.
The second my blades hit the ice, something clicks.
All the frustration, all the anger, all the confusion about Ally and what the hell just happened between us—it funnels into pure, focused energy.
I push harder than I have in weeks. I'm faster and more aggressive than I probably should be.
Coach McKibbon's running a neutral zone drill, and I'm flying through it, making all the pain in my chest disappear.
“Cross!” Cade yells as I blow past him. “What the hell, man? Save some for the actual game!”
I don't respond. I just push harder into the next turn, my edges biting into the ice with a satisfying scrape.
Every stride is Ally walking out of that training room.
Every sprint is her requesting a transfer without even telling me.
Every sharp turn is the memory of her riding my face while I did everything I could to make her come.
“Shit, Cross!” Dash calls from the net as I fire a shot that nearly takes his helmet off. “What's gotten into you?”
Ally Hart. That's what's gotten into me because she decided professional boundaries matter more than whatever the hell this thing between us is.
I steal the puck off Parker's stick—more aggressively than necessary—and drive toward the net.
Dash is ready this time, but I deke left and roof it. The lamp lights up.
“CROSS!” Coach's whistle pierces the air. “Line change! Now!”
I skate to the bench, breathing hard, my thigh starting to send warning signals that I'm aggressively ignoring.
Like i said before, the pain there is better than the feeling in my chest.
“How's the thigh?” Coach asks when I reach him. He studies me for a long moment, then glances down at my legs.
“Fine.”
“You sure? You're favoring it.”
“I'm not—”
“Don't lie to me, Cross. I've been coaching hockey longer than you've been alive. I can see when someone's compensating.” He crosses his arms. “So I'll ask again: how's the thigh?”
I test my weight on it subtly. There's a dull ache that wasn't there before, but nothing I can't handle. “It's good. Tape's holding.”
Coach doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go. “We've got Southern Collegiate tomorrow night. Home game. They're third in the conference, and they're going to come at us hard.” He pauses, watching me carefully. “Can you play?”
The question hangs between us. I should probably say no.
Should probably admit that my thigh is already starting to hurt and Mark's tape job—good as it is—doesn't feel as supportive as Ally's.
Should probably take the night off and let my body actually heal, but if I say no, Coach is going to ask why, and then he's going to pull up my treatment records and see that I just got switched to a new therapist.
He'll want to know why, and I don't have a good answer for that. At least, not one that doesn't involve the words “face” and “riding” in the same sentence.
“I can play,” I say firmly.
Coach holds my gaze for another beat, then nods. “Fine. But if that leg starts acting up—and I mean at all—you come off. No arguments. We need you healthy for playoffs more than we need you for one regular season game.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now get back out there and stop trying to murder Bridges.” I push off the bench and glide back onto the ice, where Cade is waiting with a puck by his stick and a curious expression.
“So,” he says as I coast up beside him. “Hart finally broke you, huh?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Please. You're skating like a man possessed, and you nearly decapitated Dash with that shot. Something's up.” He grins. “Let me guess, she turned you down?”
If only it were that simple. “She transferred me to Mark.”
“Shit, man.” He glances toward the training room doors like Ally might materialize. “I get it. Must be hard to move from the hottie with the warm hands to Mark.” He winces underneath his helmet. “He's a good guy, but those hands are rough.”
I flick the puck off his stick, sending it across the ice. “You done?” I ask.
“No,” he snorts. “And I won't be until you tell me what you did to make her run.”
“Nothing.”
“Sure,” he drawls out. “That's why you're acting like this is an actual game with something on the line.”
I grumble in response.
“Here’s my advice, unsolicited and free,” he says. “Stop skating like you’re trying to punish the ice. You blow that leg, Coach benches you, and then Mark gets to see your ugly crying face every day.”
I scoff. “I don’t cry.”
“You absolutely do. You just call it ‘sweating aggressively,' and expect the rest of us to go along with it.”
Asshole.
Coach's whistle blows. “Cross! Bright! Stop gossiping like teenagers and get in position!”
We separate, moving into formation for the next drill, but the pain is building now, and by the time practice ends, my thigh is seizing up.
I feel it, but I bite my tongue before I let anyone see it. I want to play tomorrow.
I need to—to get my frustration out, and get my mind off her.
I take my time and wait until everyone else has left before I even attempt to move through the locker room.
As I peel off my gear, my thigh is actively screaming.
I move carefully, deliberately, each step a reminder that Ally Hart isn't just good at her job.
She's irreplaceable, and I just lost her.