Chapter 79 Graham
Graham
Willow winces as she’s helped onto the padded table in the on-site med room, and it takes everything in me not to scoop her up and carry her the hell out of here. Somewhere quieter. Gentler. Somewhere the lights aren’t this harsh, and she’s not putting on a brave face for the rest of us.
Landon’s already at her side. He carried her in, jaw tight and eyes stormy, as if he was ready to take on the whole damn opposing team for what happened on that track.
Now he stands just to her left, arms crossed, tension humming off him.
He doesn’t say much, just keeps watching her.
Watching us, trying to figure out if he still belongs here.
Hunter is near her right, arms crossed too, but it’s different. Controlled. Focused. His attention is on the medic, tracking every movement like he’s ready to intervene if the guy so much as breathes wrong.
Carson's already found a stool and parked himself beside her, hand locked with hers. “Tell me again that you’re fine and I’ll eat your helmet,” he mutters, dry and affectionate.
Willow grins, wincing slightly. “Would pay to see that.”
Finn doesn’t speak, but he’s not far—leaning against the wall, camera around his neck. His fingers flex as though he wants to snap a photo but knows better. The intensity in his eyes is borderline dangerous, memorizing every second just in case.
Me? I’m trying not to growl.
Trying not to replay the moment she went down. The way she clutched her ribs. The fact that she skated the whole damn second half in obvious pain.
The medic presses gently along her side, and she flinches, her breath catching.
“Shit,” Landon mutters under his breath, his stance tightening.
Hunter shifts forward. So do I.
“Sorry,” the guy mutters. “Definitely some bruising. Could be a hairline fracture. You’ll need imaging to be sure, but she shouldn’t skate or train for a while. Rest. Ice. Pain management.”
Willow nods like he just told her to stretch after a run.
“She’ll rest,” I say firmly before she can argue. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Carson squeezes her hand. “And if we have to tape her to the couch? So be it.”
“You’d enjoy that too much,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.
“Not denying it,” he fires back.
Landon finally speaks again, voice low. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.” There’s hurt in it—not accusation, just the kind that comes from loving someone who never asks for help.
Willow looks at him, quiet. “It didn’t feel this bad until I stopped moving.”
He exhales, brushing hair gently off her temple. His fingers linger. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You and me both,” Carson says, leaning his head against her shoulder briefly. “But she did it. Won Nationals like a badass.”
Finn finally moves, stepping closer. He brushes his knuckles down her arm, then presses two fingers lightly to her wrist. “You’re still shaking,” he says softly. “Let us take care of you now.”
She looks around at all of us—her team, her chaos, her safety net—and for once, she doesn’t deflect.
She just nods.
“We’ve got you,” I say, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to her temple.
And when I glance over, even Landon nods too.
For now, we’re all in this together.
The bass thumps through the floor of the club, akin to a second heartbeat—louder than necessary, but Willow’s smile makes the noise irrelevant.
She’s glowing. And she’s absolutely beautiful like this.
Nationals champions. Her team earned every damn cheer echoing through the crowd on the dance floor.
Twinkle’s waving a neon cocktail around like a victory flag, and Cheese is teaching Knox a dance that has zero rhythm but a lot of enthusiasm.
Daisy’s somehow managed to commandeer a roped-off lounge booth just for the team.
And we’re here too.
More specifically, we’re with her.
Not hovering, but definitely not more than an arm’s reach away.
Hunter’s already claimed the end of the booth, scanning the exits as if he’s expecting trouble even while sipping something suspiciously pink and probably fruity.
Carson sits on the other side of Willow, tossing peanuts in his mouth and leaning into her space just enough that she leans back into him on instinct.
Finn perches nearby, camera on the table, one leg bouncing. Landon’s nursing a drink beside me, eyes drawn to her every few seconds, even when he pretends otherwise.
And Willow’s barefoot now—heels she insisted on wearing, ditched somewhere under the table, nursing a bruised rib and a glowing smile.
“Okay, what is this?” Daisy calls as she approaches the VIP booth, drink in hand and eyebrow arched.
Willow glances up, already looking sheepish as Daisy slides into the seat across from us, stretching her arms out along the back, taking up the space effortlessly.
“You brought the whole personal security detail, your stalker—no offense—and the ex?”
Willow chokes on her sip of water, sputtering.
Twinkle follows close behind, plopping down beside Daisy with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong—five hot guys trailing behind you like ducks is a whole look, babe,” she says, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “But you’re not even pretending anymore, are you?”
“I—” Willow starts, but Carson cuts in smoothly.
“She’s pretending to tolerate us,” he says, popping a peanut in his mouth. “Barely.”
Willow elbows him lightly in the ribs, which he overdramatizes with a grunt, before he tucks her into his side.
“She’s blushing,” Cheese sing-songs as she struts past, grinning wide and ruffling Willow’s pink hair like she has a death wish.
Willow yelps, swatting at her half-heartedly.
Knox raises her glass with a smirk. “Our little chaos queen caught herself a whole damn pack.”
Willow groans and hides her face behind both hands as laughter erupts around the table.
But she doesn’t tell them they’re wrong. And that feels right. Now we just need to make it official, after we have a little conversation that is a long time coming.
I glance over at her—curled between Carson and me, cheeks still flushed from her teammates’ teasing, that soft glow in her eyes that only shows when she’s truly happy.
It makes something shift in my chest.
The music changes, the beat slowing as the DJ’s giving everyone a chance to breathe. The crowd doesn’t thin, but bodies sway instead of grind now, lights dimming just enough for the mood to change.
I lean in, my mouth brushing close to Willow’s ear. “Dance with me?”
She turns, eyebrows lifting. “You serious?”
“Slow song,” I murmur. “Promise not to spin you or dip you or do anything that’ll make your ribs scream.”
She smiles, just a little, then nods. “Okay. But I’m not breakable.”
“Your possibly fractured rib says otherwise,” I say, offering my hand.
Carson chuckles as I help her stand. “Don’t keep her too long. She still owes me a dance.”
“I’ll be gentle,” I tell him—and I mean it in every way that matters.
The dance floor isn’t empty, but we find a space near the edge where the lights flicker softly and low. I pull her in carefully, one hand on her waist, the other resting lightly between her shoulder blades. Her arms loop around my neck, her fingers brushing the hair at the nape of my neck.
We sway.
No pressure. No rush. Just the two of us moving in time with the music and the thudding of my own damn heart.
After a minute, I murmur, “You didn’t correct them.”
She blinks up at me. “Huh?”
“Your team. About the pack including all five of us.” I pause, studying her face. “You didn’t say they were wrong.”
Willow bites her lip. “That’s because they weren’t.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“I think,” I say carefully, “we’re at the part where we should talk about making it official.”
She swallows, her breath hitching against my chest. “You mean… like a real pack? Like… all of you?”
“All five of us,” I confirm. “If that’s what you want.”
She doesn’t answer right away. I don’t rush her. I just keep moving with her, slow and steady.
Then she lifts her head, her voice barely audible over the hum of the music. “I think I do.”
“Think?” I tease, my thumb brushing against the small of her back.
“I know,” she whispers. “But I need to talk to Landon. And Finn. I need to make sure they’re ready for that—for this. Because it’s not just me anymore. It’s all of you.”
I nod, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “We’ll follow your lead, sweetheart. Whatever you decide—whoever you want—we’re in.”
Her smile is small, but it’s everything. “I want all of you.”
“Then we make it happen,” I say. “No pressure. No timeline.”
She leans her head against my chest, and we keep dancing, the rest of the fading into the background.