Chapter 14
NICO
My heart stopped.
When I heard Jo’s voice, my whole body froze. Went into a panic.
I could barely understand her. Hardly hear her through her sobs, and my body was moving before my brain even told it to. Josephine was hurt, and I had to get to her.
Autopilot engaged.
Now, I sink to the floor with her, my legs splayed out and my back against the closed door, her quaking body in my lap, her head buried against my throat.
I stroke her hair, hoping to soothe her, help her to calm down, but I’m not sure what will, so I start talking.
Mindless stuff about Gus and how much he likes eggs.
I tell her about my relationship with Alma and how when we have dinner together, she cooks and I bring the wine.
I describe my memories of playing hockey in Canada and living with Alex, spending holidays with the Sheffields, and being the best man in Alex and Naomi’s wedding.
And when Jo finally lifts her head, face red and lips chapped, I curve my hands around her cheeks, wiping my thumbs under her eyes, and tell her, “A few weeks ago, I accidentally knocked out this woman at practice. It was scary. I worried I really hurt her, but it turns out, she’s much stronger than I knew.
But I still worry about her. I still clearly remember what it felt like when I saw the blood on the floor and her body there, lifeless.
I never want to feel that terror again.”
She blinks, breath stuttering when she inhales, and I lower my forehead to hers. “I felt it again today. When you called. I was so scared, Jo. I can’t…”
I struggle to push past the emotion stuck in my throat, words a jumble on my tongue.
I can’t lose her. I don’t know how it happened or exactly why I feel so protective over this girl, but I’d do anything to keep her safe. To make sure she never feels pain again.
Intellectually, I know it’s impossible, and yet there is some instinctive, almost primal need to be her defender. To be her support system. Her provider.
To be her man.
So I ask—plead—with her. “Let me be here for you. I know it’s hard. I know you don’t trust easy, but please, trust me. Let me take care of you. I need… I need you to let me in, Jo, please.”
“I’m afraid,” she croaks. Even though the details aren’t clear to me, it’s obvious whatever she’s been through in her past has left her beat up, but if she’ll allow me to, I’d be happy to take the blows. I’ll fight in her place.
I kiss her temple and damp cheek, gently nudging her chin up. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, I promise.”
She drifts her glassy eyes between mine, making her decision, and with a sad little quiver of her chin, she nods. Agreeing.
So, I shift to my knees, bringing her with me when I stand, then lead her to her bed, where I sit her on the edge and brush her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears.
She doesn’t try to hide or push me away when I drag my knuckle across her cheek and tell her I’m going to get a wet washcloth.
In her bathroom, I run it under cold water and snag a hair tie.
I’m not great at winding it around her long hair, but I tie it in a haphazard knot and then run the cool cloth over her face, throat, and leave it on her neck. “Feel okay?”
She nods, and I stand to get her some water and help myself to searching through her cupboards for some kind of pain reliever because it can’t hurt, before handing her two capsules and the glass of ice water.
Next, I DoorDash us breakfast and tell Anton in a Honda Accord I’ll tip him one hundred bucks if he can stop for a bunch of sunflowers on the way.
He happily and immediately agrees, and I convince Jo a shower might make her feel better.
It usually helps me feel better, and she nods silently, shuffling off to the bathroom with a handful of clothes.
I keep myself busy by cleaning, drying, and putting away the few dishes that were in her sink.
She has so few utensils and cookware that most of the small cabinet space is taken up with her photography gear.
Her place in general is so tiny, I wonder what she would do with space.
With rooms to fill up. What would she put there?
Jo seems happy—today aside—but I imagine how I could make her happier. If I could make her happier.
If I could give her room to explore and grow and fill up her space with things she loves.
I hope.
I’ll try.
By the time she opens the door to her bathroom, I have our breakfast sandwiches and croissants plated up, along with our coffees, and a big bouquet of sunflowers, courtesy of Anton, at her kitchen table.
When her gaze lands on it, she carefully strokes her index finger over one of the yellow petals and clears her throat, offering me a ghost of a smile, close-lipped and timid. “Thank you, Nico.”
It’s part of our game, a silly little flirtation that I drew out of my shy girl, but I don’t feel the normal pump of adrenaline I usually do. I can’t enjoy it. Not when she’s slumped over and her skin is blotchy from crying.
But then when she sits down, I notice she’s wearing an Iron hoodie with my name and number on the back, and my stupid fucking ego soars. The last thing I should be doing is celebrating, yet I can’t help the growing smile I hide from her as I press a kiss to the top of her head.
We sit across from each other quietly sipping and eating, and Jo is the one person I’m not uncomfortable being quiet with.
I’ve always had the urge to talk, to fill the silence, but when it’s only me and her, I don’t care about proving myself.
I don’t care about showing off. I don’t need to convince her of anything.
She accepts me, exactly how I am. Whether I’m Nico Tremblay, professional hockey player and nepo baby, or merely the goofy guy eating a ham, egg, and cheese bagel.
Hopelessly obsessed with her.
Once we’re both done, and she looks relatively better, I ask, “You feel like talking about it?”
In answer, she points to her phone, a silent direction to grab it from the bed. I move to hand it to her, but she shakes her head. “The code is nine-seven-five-three.”
I suppose that means she really does trust me, giving me her passcode to unlock her cell phone. I put my own phone on the table between us. “If you ever need it, mine is six-nine-six-nine.”
That earns a reluctant curl of her lips. “Of course it is.”
I grin, but as soon as I open her phone, it drops because her notifications are nuts, starting with texts from her sister. I only have to scroll through three of them to understand what they are and what is going on, but Jo tells me, “My Instagram, my email, it’s all the same.”
I mutter a curse, bowing my head, because this is my fault.
I haven’t taken any precautions. I didn’t warn Jo about the rabid culture of the fans, nor was I careful yesterday when I spouted off Jo’s business information.
I’m just so goddamn proud of her, and I wanted the world to see her photos, know what she’s capable of.
But because of my carelessness, I inadvertently broke her.
Exactly like Malcolm said I would. “This is my fault.”
She doesn’t answer for a long time, but when she does, she’s resolute. “It’s not. You didn’t post those things about me. You didn’t send me those emails or texts.”
No, but I opened the floodgates. I gave them permission.
And fuck, why would her sister send her that hurtful, vile garbage? Her own fucking family.
I know there’s something amiss there, and I set her cell phone down to reach across the table for Jo’s hand. “I’m sorry about all this online stuff, and I will take care of it, I swear. But this… There’s more to all this, isn’t there?”
She hesitantly nods, chewing on her lip, and I wait patiently until she’s ready. “I was made fun of a lot. Bullied…pretty badly.”
The instant fury that ignites my blood has me standing up.
Instead of punching the wall, I kneel in front of her, wrapping my hands around her calves, careful not to squeeze too tightly, my adrenaline too high and needing to be expelled somehow.
Maybe later, I’ll go for a run or go back to the rink and hit a few pucks. Anything to get it out of me.
But right now, I can’t do anything except listen, watch as Josephine preemptively wipes at her eye.
“My brother was popular, played football, and my sister… She’s everyone’s favorite.”
I think of Danny and Lizzie and their smug faces—it was them. She doesn’t even have to tell me who bullied her.
“My sister was in pageants. My dad pulled extra shifts to pay for them, and my mom sewed her costumes. It was…” She slowly lifts her eyes to mine, and I lean closer to her at the sheen in them.
“If they’d ignored me, I wouldn’t have cared.
Some days, I prayed for them to ignore me, for the town to forget about me, but they never did. ”
She shakes her head, and I lift my hand to smooth her hair back from her face. She doesn’t stop me, but she does wrap her fingers around my wrist. “That’s why I don’t like tucking my hair back.”
“Why not?”
“It lets me disappear.”
Something inside me dies at her words, and I deflate.
Her grip on my wrist loosens, and I let my hand fall.
If she doesn’t want me to touch her, I won’t, but I need to do something.
Comfort her somehow. So I settle for resting my hand over hers, the tip of my index finger rubbing my ring on her finger.
“I wish you wouldn’t hide from me,” I rasp, my throat on fire with emotion, a mix of sorrow and resentment.
“I’m trying not to, but it’s hard.” When her voice cracks, so does my heart.
“I got you, Jo. You know that, right? I’m on your team, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She sniffles and slowly shakes her head before continuing her story. “Back then, I was an easy target, and I honestly don’t even know if they meant to be as hurtful as they were. To them, it was a joke. I was a joke.”