21. Stay With Me
Stay With Me
Eleanor
A sharp thud snaps me awake.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
1:22 a.m.
Groaning, I let my head flop back onto the pillow, until another thump rattles the door.
This time, I bolt upright. My heart pounds in my ears as I strain to listen. A few moments of silence pass, and I almost convince myself I imagined it. Until the noise comes again, heavier, like someone collapsing against the door.
I scramble out of bed, scanning the room for anything remotely weapon-like. My eyes land on the feather duster I left on the TV stand after cleaning earlier. Not exactly a bat, but it’s all I have. If I can’t fight, maybe I can dust the intruder into an allergy attack.
Clutching the makeshift weapon, I creep toward the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. I take one deep breath and yank the door open.
Nik.
He’s sprawled across the threshold, groaning and looking like a complete mess.
My stomach lurches. “Nik?”
I flick on the kitchen light, setting the feather duster on the counter as the harsh glow spills over him.
He squints and rubs his head, heavy with exhaustion.
“Noah, the ark, and the giraffes,” he mumbles, slurring as he tries—and fails—to sit up.
I blink at him, incredulous. “The… giraffes?”
One bloodshot eye cracks open, and he gives me a look like I’m the one not making sense. “Yes, Eleanor. You try fitting those things on a boat and tell me they’re not important.”
My brain stalls, trying to reconcile what I’m seeing. “Are you okay?”
I want to smack myself for stating the obvious. Of course he isn’t okay. He’s sprawled half-conscious in my doorway at one in the morning. Still… What else am I supposed to say?
“Peachy. Clearly,” he slurs, attempting a smirk that falls flat.
My breath hitches. “Are… are you drunk?”
I remember him telling me that he had a drinking problem long ago.
That it’s behind him now. A sharp pain stabs through my chest seeing him like this.
What could have pushed him back here? Irina?
The memory of her collapsing earlier still makes my heart race.
If I was shaken, then what was it like for him?
“Don’t remind me,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face.
Yep. Totally drunk.
He hiccups. “Do—do you think I could come inside? Half of me is frozen.” He chuckles at himself like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I peek my head out the door. Snowflakes float down in delicate spirals, already frosting the railing. “Oh—shoot—of course. Can you get up?”
He makes an attempt. Fails. Tries again and fails even harder. Each time he collapses back against the floorboards, he laughs like a kid who’s just discovered slapstick comedy.
I crouch beside him. “Here, I’ll drag you in. Lift your arms.”
He snorts, eyes squinting at me like I’m some great joke. “Are you sure, Elenochka? I might be too heavy for you.”
“Do you have any other options?” I arch my brow. “Now come on, I’m freezing here.”
That sobers him. His smile slips, and he gives a small nod before lifting his arms like an obedient child.
I hook my hands under his armpits and haul with all the strength I can muster—which isn’t much.
He’s heavy. Over six feet of dead weight slumps against me like a bag of rocks.
Honestly, it’s like trying to wrestle my old mattress onto my bed when I was sixteen.
Only the mattress never laughed in my ear while I did it.
After a few egregious attempts, I finally manage to haul Nik fully into my apartment. I kick the door shut behind me, sealing the freezing night air where it belongs.
When I turn back, he’s a heap on my floor, his head lolling to the side, limbs sprawled out like he’s just fallen from the sky.
Then it hits me that I’m standing here in my favorite cotton pajamas—the soft ones I always reach for because they’re comfortable but…
not exactly modest. My coach—of all people—is laying on my floor, and I’m practically indecent by my own standards.
My stomach flips. I bolt to the bathroom, grab my robe, and cinch it tight before reemerging.
Nik hasn’t moved an inch. Still faceup, still out of it, and still taking up half my living room like an abandoned rag doll.
I hover for a moment, arms folded. What on earth am I supposed to do with him? Ask him what happened? Part of me wants to demand answers, like why he’s here, why he’s like this… but another part of me knows that will only make things worse. He’s not sober enough to explain anything tonight anyway.
I crouch down beside him and start fumbling with the laces on his shoes. For some reason, they’re tied so tight it’s like he thinks they might fly off with a single step. After a few sharp yanks, a boyish laugh bubbles out of his lips.
“You are so weak,” Nik chuckles.
I know he’s drunk and that I shouldn’t take anything he says to heart. But still… that word. Weak. It leaves a hairline fracture in my heart. My voice comes out soft. “That’s not very nice.”
His head lolls in my direction.
Before I go back to wrestling with his stubborn shoe, he catches my hand in his much larger one, stilling me. His eyes are heavy and unfocused, but he manages, “I—” He hiccups, “I meant to say you’re so beautiful.”
Goodness, he’s really drunk. My face burns anyway. “Um.” I clear my throat, scrambling for safer ground. “Why are your shoes tied so tight?”
“Louie.”
I tilt my head. “Louie? You mean your dog?”
He sloppily nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Remember—he loves shoes.”
I shake my head, muttering, “Of course.” The stubborn knot gives way after one last tug, and I wrestle his first shoe free. Triumph surges through me.
“Victory,” I whisper under my breath.
Nik snorts, eyes still half-closed. “You’re stronger than you think, Elenochka.”
That nickname does something to me. My chest coils, and I quickly busy myself with his other shoe so I won’t have to look at him. This one comes off a little easier, and I set both shoes neatly by the wall.
I sit back and stare. Without his usual composure, or the stern lines of coach or the teasing grin he sometimes wears, he looks almost boyish. His messy hair flops over his forehead, his long frame sprawled carelessly on my living room rug. Vulnerable, human, and just as breakable as I am.
I pull the tie on my robe a little tighter, too aware of the quiet between us.
“Do you think you can manage to get to my couch?” I ask. Couch is a generous term for what I have. It’s more of a glorified futon, but it’s all I can offer. I can’t bear leaving him on the floor, though I’m not strong enough to lift him again.
He lazily nods. “I can… crawl.”
I move the coffee table out of the way, bracing myself.
Very messily, and even more awkwardly, he army-crawls toward the couch. With a few nudges and some guidance from me, I get him somewhat settled. He’s far too big for it. His legs dangle halfway off, arms sprawled over the sides.
I grab an extra pillow and tuck it beneath his head. Just as I reach for a blanket, his arm shoots out and clumsily wraps around my hand. “Don’t go,” he slurs.
I freeze, my pulse acting like a trapped bird. His grip is weak but insistent, like he’s clinging on to something steady in a world that spins too fast.
“I… I’m right here,” I reply softly, sliding onto the floor beside the couch so he won’t have to let go. The cold from the hardwood seeps through my pajamas, but I don’t care.
His eyelids droop, but his fingers twitch around mine. “Stay… please,” he mumbles, voice barely more than a whisper.
I swallow, trying not to let the lump in my throat betray me. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper back.
For a moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the snow tapping against the window. Even in his drunken, slurred haze, there’s a tenderness in him that cuts through the fog of anger, fear, and worry that’s been weighing me down for weeks.
I gently brush a strand of hair from his face, careful not to startle him. His hand squeezes mine again, and I don’t want to let go either.
“Your hands are so soft, Elenochka,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
I stiffen. “I, uh… use lotion.” I grimace.
He isn’t flirting—he’s drunk— but I can’t deny the effect he has on me. It feels more than just a coach and athlete.
He brings my hand to his nose and inhales. “They smell good too… you always smell good. And you look—goodness you always look beautiful. I can barely concentrate half the time.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast I have no hope of hiding it. I’m grateful his eyes are closed. “Oh.” My voice wobbles. What do you even say to that?
“You drive me totally crazy,” he slurs, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“I—I’m sorry?” I stammer, unsure whether to laugh or retreat.
He cracks an eye open. “That light is driving me totally crazy, too. Can you shut it off, baby?” His eyes close again.
Baby. He actually called me baby, and this time it wasn’t because of some character in a movie.
My heart skips a beat. I quickly pull my hand from his and pad to the kitchen, switching off the light. On the way back, I grab a blanket and gently drape it over him, trying to cover as much of his frame as I can—but he’s too large. At least he’s wearing socks.
He snatches my hand in a swift motion. “Where are you going?” He hiccups. “You said… You said you wouldn’t leave.”
I nod, though he isn’t looking at me. “I just need to grab my pillow and blanket.”
He releases me softly, snuggling into the pillow I’ve given him. “Kay.”
I retrieve my pillow and blanket and place my pillow on the floor. I don’t want to sit on the hard ground all night. Once I’m settled, his hand finds mine again, fingers lacing together naturally.
He opens both eyes, illuminated only by the dull amber glow from the window. I can feel his drunken gaze on mine. “You really are beautiful… I hope you know that,” he whispers.
I gulp nervously, my cheeks heating even more. “Th—thank you,” I stutter, not sure what else to say. My heart hammers, and every inch of me leans into the warmth of his hand.