CHAPTER 18
NATHAN
Emily laughs, and I forget every useful thing I have ever learned.
Not permanently.
Probably.
But for one second, all tactical intelligence leaves the room.
She sits across from me in the hotel lounge, one hand wrapped around peppermint tea she clearly doesn't like, wearing a Canada sweatshirt and black joggers, hair loose around her face, mouth curved in a laugh she probably did not mean to give me.
It hurts her.
I see the tiny catch after.
The way her breath changes. The way one hand shifts toward her left side, then stops because she remembers I am here and refuses to give pain an audience unless it has earned a credential.
My body wants to move.
Of course it does.
I stay in my chair.
This is apparently my new specialty: suffering in furniture.
Emily notices the stay.
Her smile fades, but not all the way.
“Your face is doing something,” she says.
“My face has been under review.”
“By whom?”
“Family, teammates, journalists, probably several internet accounts by morning.”
“That is a lot of oversight.”
“I’m hoping for a performance improvement plan.”
Her mouth twitches again.
Good.
Then her hand tightens on the cup.
Bad.
The tea is lukewarm now. The ice upstairs is probably melted. The lounge is too quiet for a place attached to a hotel full of athletes, coaches, staff, and reporters all pretending they are not refreshing the same clips.
Rain taps steadily against the windows. Outside, the city lights blur in gold and red streaks across wet pavement. Inside, the low table between us holds her phone facedown, my empty hands, and every question neither of us should ask after midnight.
I glance at the tea.
Not her side.
The tea.
Interesting tea. Suspicious tea. Toothpaste with ambition.
Emily’s eyebrow rises. “You’re staring at my cup now.”
“It has become emotionally significant.”
“It has?”
“I’m trying not to look at anything else too hard.”
The words leave before I can sand them down.
Emily goes still.
Not frozen.
Listening.
I should regret saying it.
I do not.
She sets the cup on the table with careful precision. “Anything else?”
My throat works.
There are many possible answers.
Your side.
Your face.
Your mouth.
The way you said you were scared and trusted me enough not to leave the room afterward.
I choose the one that does not set the lounge on fire immediately.
“The door,” I say.
Her gaze flicks toward it.
“Why?”
“To make sure you can still see it.”
Silence.
Then she looks back at me.
The city light catches in her eyes, turning them darker than they are.
“That was a very Nathan Bellows answer,” she says.
“Good or bad?”
“New.”
I take that.
I take it like water.
We sit with the rain for another few seconds.
Emily leans back, then shifts too quickly and goes pale around the mouth.
This time, the catch is not tiny.
My hands curl against my knees.
Open.
Curl.
Open.
She closes her eyes, just for a beat.
The lounge air changes.
Not dramatically. No music swells. No one rushes in with a clipboard.
But something honest enters the room.
Pain that doesn't care how proud she is.
“Emily,” I say.
Her eyes open.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask whether you want me to ignore that, get someone, or find something useful that is not me becoming a full medical weather system.”
She stares at me.
Then she exhales through her nose. “That was a lot of options.”
“I panicked with structure.”
“Very on-brand.”
“I can shorten it.”
“Please.”
“Company, help, or silence?”
Her face changes.
The joke leaves first.
Not all the guardedness. Not the caution. Those are not going anywhere tonight. Maybe not soon. Maybe not ever in the way I wish they would.
But something in her shifts toward me.
Not much.
Enough.
“Heat,” she says.
The word is quiet.
I hear it like a whistle.
“Heat?”
“There should be heat packs at the front desk. Or with hotel security. Tournament hotels usually stock them now.” She looks away, jaw tight. “Ice helped earlier. Now it’s stiffening.”
I stand slowly.
Not fast enough to look eager. Not slow enough to make her regret asking.
“Do you want me to get one?”
Her eyes return to mine.
“Yes.”
There it is.
A yes.
Small.
Practical.
Earth-shaking.
I nod once. “I’ll be right back.”
“Nathan.”
I stop.
She lifts a finger. “No announcing my ribs to the lobby.”
“No.”
“No finding Morgan.”
“No.”
“No using this as a reason to become unbearable.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
I almost smile.
“Medium unbearable?” I ask.
“Low.”
“Ambitious, but I’ll try.”
Her mouth curves despite herself.
I leave before I can ruin it by looking too grateful.
The lobby is quieter now. A night clerk stands behind the desk, typing something into a computer. A janitor pushes a mop near the entrance, where rainwater has tracked across the polished floor. The tall plant by the window remains emotionally stable, which I respect.
I ask the clerk for a heat pack.
Only that.
No athlete. No ribs. No team. No crisis.
Just a heat pack.
He disappears into a back office and returns with two disposable ones and a small towel.
“Need anything else?” he asks.
My first instinct is yes.
A medical degree. A time machine. A full personality upgrade. The ability to love someone without turning fear into a project.
“No,” I say. “Thank you.”
I carry the heat packs back like they are evidence in a trial.
Emily is where I left her.
That matters more than it should.
She hasn't picked up her phone. It still lies facedown on the table. Her tea sits untouched. She has one arm across her middle now, loose enough to pretend casual, tight enough to tell the truth.
I hold up the heat packs. “Acquired without incident.”
“No lobby-wide announcement?”
“No.”
“No Morgan?”
“No.”
“No unbearable detour?”
“I did have a private emotional moment with a plant.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“It was brief.”
“That’s between you and the plant.”
I sit across from her again and place the towel and heat packs on the table. “Do you want to handle it?”
She reaches for one.
Her fingers brush the package, then pause.
Not because she cannot do it.
Because the motion will hurt.
I see the calculation move across her face.
I look at the table.
Not her hand.
Not her side.
The table.
Deeply interesting wood grain.
“Nathan.”
My eyes lift.
She looks annoyed.
Embarrassed.
Brave.
All at once.
“You can help,” she says.
The words barely clear the space between us.
They do.
My chest aches.
I make myself breathe normally because if I react too much, she will have to manage my feelings, and I would rather be thrown into traffic by Ava.
“How?” I ask.
She swallows.
“Open the pack. Wrap it in the towel.”
I do exactly that.
Slowly.
The heat pack crackles as I bend the inner tab. Warmth spreads through the fabric, subtle at first, then stronger. I wrap it in the towel once, then twice.
“Too hot?” I ask.
She reaches out and tests it with her fingers. “Fine.”
Then she looks at me.
The air narrows.
“I can place it,” she says.
“Okay.”
She does not move.
I wait.
Rain taps the glass.
The hotel hums.
Somewhere in the lobby, the elevator dings.
Emily’s eyes close for half a second.
“I can,” she says again.
“I believe you.”
Her eyes open.
That answer lands.
It changes the shape of the moment.
Not because I said yes, you can, in a way that challenges her.
Because I mean it.
Because I do believe her.
Because helping is not the same as believing she cannot.
Her throat moves.
“But?” I ask softly.
She gives me the look. “There was no but.”
“There was a punctuation pause.”
“You are very irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
She looks down at the towel-wrapped heat pack.
Then back at me.
“But I don’t want to twist right now,” she says.
The words come out clipped.
Controlled.
Still true.
I nod.
No smile.
No relief.
No making the yes bigger than she can stand.
“Where do you want it?”
She shifts slightly in the chair and tugs the hem of her sweatshirt up just enough to create access over the fabric of her shirt beneath. No skin. No drama. Just the left side high under the ribs, where the wrap sits hidden and the pain has been writing its complaints all week.
“Here,” she says, touching two fingers lightly to the spot over her shirt.
My hands are steady.
A miracle.
I move slowly enough that she can stop me before contact. When she doesn't, I place the towel-wrapped heat pack exactly where she indicated.
The warmth meets her side.
Her breath catches.
Not from pain this time.
Or maybe from both.
My fingers remain on the towel for one second, only to make sure it stays positioned.
Then I let go.
She places her own hand over it.
A clean transfer.
Her body.
Her call.
Her heat pack.
Apparently my romantic life now contains excellent procedural boundaries.
I sit back.
The space between us returns.
Not the same.
Emily stares at the table.
Her lashes cast shadows under her eyes. She looks tired enough to be breakable and stubborn enough to take offence at the word.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“Do not look proud of yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking that the towel fold was very professional.”
“Dangerously proud.”
“I’ll work on humility.”
“You should.”
The corner of her mouth moves.
Mine does too.
For a few seconds, the lounge lets us breathe.
The heat must help because her shoulders lower half an inch. She leans back more fully this time, not all the way, but enough. Her hand stays over the towel, fingers spread as if holding the warmth in place.
I should leave.
The thought arrives clearly.
Not because I want to.
Because this is the right time.
She asked. I helped. She thanked me. The moment can stay clean if I stand now, say good night, and let her go upstairs with her body still fully her own and my feelings still mostly contained.
I open my mouth.
Emily speaks first.
“Did you really think I would choose you back then?”
The question stops the air.
No soft entry. No warning.
Classic Emily.
I look at her.
She is still staring at the table, not at me.
Her fingers flex once over the heat pack.
The answer matters too much for speed.
So I take time.
“Yes,” I say.
Her eyes lift.
The truth is out now.