Chapter 15 – Beau #3
“I hate this,” I say quietly, eyes squeezed shut.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know how to let someone do this for me.”
“Well,” she murmurs, gently tilting my head back to wet my hair, “you’re doing it now.”
She finishes soaping my chest, arms, and stomach with quiet, methodical movements—hands sure, touch featherlight.
She’s careful to avoid the spot just beneath my collarbone where the monitor clings to my skin, skimming around it without drawing attention to the way I flinch when the edge tugs.
My muscles twitch under her fingertips, overworked and frayed, but not seizing the way they were earlier.
“Turn,” she says gently, guiding me by the shoulder. “Time to rinse off.”
I shift with effort, gritting my teeth as I rotate toward the spray.
The motion sends a hot, electric burn through my lower spine, but I manage it.
Barely. She angles me just enough so the water sluices over my back and stomach but doesn’t hit my chest, shielding the monitor with one hand as if it’s second nature.
Her other hand skims down my side, steadying me as the water rinses away the suds.
It’s the first time since I hit the floor that I’ve felt even remotely human. And the first time I realize she knows exactly what she’s protecting, even if I can’t bring myself to say it aloud.
“Back to the bench. You’re up next for a shampoo,” she says, giving my hip a light tap.
I glance behind me, eyeing the seat like it’s Everest. “Ummm… yeah, that’s a lot easier said than done right now.”
“It’s either sit or I climb up there behind you and wash your hair from above.” She gestures to the narrow bench with a shrug. “And we both know how clumsy I can be. Do we really want to risk me slipping, braining myself, and leaving you naked and half-lathered on your bathroom floor?”
I manage a raspy chuckle. “No. I’ll sit.”
I brace a hand against the wall, her fingers wrapped tightly around my bicep as I lower myself, inch by careful inch, onto the slick stone bench. My knees creak and my back screams, but I get there, barely sitting upright, but still holding on.
“See?” she says softly, stepping between my knees, a little smile playing on her lips. “You didn’t die.”
“Yet,” I mutter.
She ignores me, reaching for the shampoo. Warm water pours down the back of my neck while she massages the lather into my hair. Her nails scrape lightly across my scalp, and I sigh despite myself—equal parts relief and raw ache.
“I’m supposed to be strong,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. “I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of people.”
Her fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their rhythm.
“You still are,” she says, rinsing the soap from my hair. “But even goalies need a damn backup sometimes.”
The water rolls down my scalp and across my face, trickling past my chin in rivulets. Every nerve still buzzes like a frayed wire, but it’s not as sharp as before. The pain is still there, but now, it’s not the only thing I feel.
She steps back before shutting off the water with a hollow thunk, and the silence that follows rings loud in my ears.
Alise slips an arm out past the edge of the stall, reaching for a towel hanging safely on the rack just outside the spray.
In one smooth motion, she drapes it around my shoulders, shielding me from the cool air.
She moves on instinct, like this is something she has done a million times before, and then she steps out to dry herself quickly.
When she leans in to blot the towel across my chest, her hands pause over the monitor. She doesn’t try to adjust or move it, just pats carefully around the edges, gentle enough that the adhesive doesn’t pull.
“Is it bothering you?”
“Not really,” I admit, heat crawling up my neck. “Just… raw sometimes. The edges tug if I move wrong.”
Her fingers linger, featherlight through the towel. “Then we’ll keep it dry and clean. No water, no pulling. Got it?”
I huff out a shaky laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gives me a look that says she’s not joking, then finally pulls back, drying her own arms and hair with quick, efficient movements.“You ready to get some clothes on?”
Her voice is light and teasing, but it takes me a second to register the words because we’re standing inches apart.
Both of us are naked and damp, steam curling around our skin like something sacred.
Her hair is flat, a part of it having gotten wet in the shower, and her cheeks are flushed.
Her chest rises and falls like she just remembered how close we are, like I just remembered, too.
She’s fucking beautiful, always has been. But here and now, taking care of me like it’s instinct? She’s devastating.
“Again, you could’ve bought me dinner first,” I mutter, attempting to keep it light and trying not to stare.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of something in her smile. Something warm. Something that makes me forget, just for a second, how much I hurt.
“Don’t tempt me,” she whispers under her breath, stepping closer and wrapping her fingers gently around my wrists, her grip steady and sure. “Okay. On three.”
I nod, and she braces herself beside me, one hand steady on my waist while I grip her shoulder like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
“One. Two. Three.”
We move slowly together, like we’ve done this a thousand times. A rhythm carved out of pain and quiet understanding. My legs tremble, pain lances through my hip and up my back, and I sway hard.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, not missing a beat.
And damn if she doesn’t. I bite back a groan, every nerve sparking, but I don’t pull away. She helps me out of the stall, drying my arms and legs with patient, deliberate care. I let her, even though everything in me screams to fight the vulnerability of it and pretend I don’t need her this much.
She gets me to the bed, then kneels beside me, drying my arms and legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She acts as if taking care of me isn’t a burden.
And I let her, even though every part of me wants to resist. I want to pretend I can still handle this on my own, but I can’t.
I watch her move around my bedroom, opening drawers and rifling through the mess with quiet efficiency.
She pulls out a pair of boxers and holds them up like a prize.
“I’m going to borrow these,” she says softly, disappearing into my closet and closing the door behind her.
And for a long moment, I just sit there, watching the door she disappeared behind. Suddenly, it hits me hard, in a way that leaves no room for denial. All the bullshit reasons I told myself for keeping my distance—fear, timing, that maybe she didn’t feel the same—none of it matters anymore.
None of it ever really did because I can’t do this without her.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve never been able to.
She has been the one who was always there for me, to help me put the pieces back together or to hold me up when I couldn’t hide away from the world any longer.
She’s the only one who’s ever really seen me.
Who’s looked past the armor, the jersey, the pressure, and cared anyway.
I want to erase all the lines I thought I had to draw between us.
If I’m being honest with myself, they were gone the second she stepped into that shower and held me like I mattered.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like or what the hell is even wrong with me.
My future is so up in the air right now that starting anything with anyone right now is a bad idea.
But the one thing I know with bone-deep certainty is that I’m not getting through it without her, and I don’t even want to try.
When she steps out of the closet, she’s dressed in one of my long-sleeve Henleys, sleeves pushed up, and a pair of boxers.
Her hair’s still damp, curling around her face like it’s reaching for something.
In her arms, she’s carrying a pair of sweats, boxers, and a clean T-shirt folded with more care than I probably deserve.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to sit around in a towel all night,” she says, offering the bundle. “I grabbed the softest ones you own and your favorite T-shirt Cole always used to try to borrow.”
“I knew if he took it, I’d never get it back,” I mutter, taking the clothes as if they’re made of glass. “Just like I doubt I’ll be getting anything you’re wearing back either.”
“Nope. Not a chance.” She huffs a laugh and steps closer. “Do you want help getting dressed?”
The words land somewhere in my chest and sit there like a boulder. I should say no. I want to say no, but my back’s locking up again, and my arms feel like they belong to someone else. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this with you.”
Her brows pinch slightly. “Do what?”
“This.” I gesture weakly between us. “You… seeing me like this. I need help to get my damn shirt on. It’s not exactly sexy.”
She moves slowly, deliberately, and kneels in front of me. “Beau, I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to get you warm and clothed so you can stop shaking.”
I look down at my hands—how they tremble even when I try to curl them into fists. “Okay. Yeah. Just… go slow.”
She starts with the boxers, helping me stand and guiding them up my legs without a word, steadying me when I sway.
The sweats come next as I brace a hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t even blink when I curse under my breath as the fabric brushes against tight, burning muscle.
Then comes the hardest part, lifting my arms to put on the T-shirt.
With more effort than I’d like to admit, we slide my arms into the sleeves, pulling the fabric over my head without jolting my spine.
Alise completes each step with tenderness and care before taking a small step back.
Not too far, just enough to give me some space, but close enough in case something happens.
Her hands linger at the hem, smoothing the shirt down carefully around the patch on my chest. She doesn’t say anything about it, but the way she moves tells me she hasn’t forgotten.
“There,” she says, voice quiet. “All dressed.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, trying not to let my face show how much that hurt.
“Are you ready to get horizontal again?” she asks, a half smile on her lips.
“Please.” I sigh.
The walk to the couch is slow, but not impossible now.
My legs are steadier, if only barely, and Alise stays close.
Her hands are a constant presence at my lower back, guiding me like I’m still in the net and she’s directing the play.
When I reach the couch, I collapse onto it with a grunt and a grimace.
She cushions me with pillows, tugs a blanket up over my legs, then disappears for a moment.
I close my eyes, exhausted, only to feel the dip of the cushion as she settles in beside me again.
“Here, take these.” She holds out a glass of water and two pills. “It will help with whatever pain you have left.”
I don’t even hesitate to grab the pills, popping them into my mouth before finishing the entire glass.
My body relaxes, folding into hers as she wraps her arms around me on instinct.
My heart stutters, not from lust, but from something deeper.
Something that aches. The monitor under my shirt presses against her temple when she settles on my chest, reminding us both that something is wrong with me.
She leans in, brushing a hand over my hairline. “How’s your pain?”
“Still sucks,” I rasp, voice rough. “But less stabby. More… sledgehammer now.”
She laughs softly. “Progress.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not looking at her. “For everything. For earlier. For the rink. For saying the wrong shit when I didn’t know how to say the real thing.”
She leans in and presses her lips to my temple. “I know.”
“I keep pushing you away, and you just… stay.”
“Yep,” she says. “So maybe stop pushing.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s me. But the next thing I know, her lips are on mine, and the whole damn world goes quiet.
Her lips meet mine softly at first, the barest brush of skin on skin.
A whisper of breath and heat and hope. Her mouth tastes like mint, the tears she refused to let fall, and the stubborn strength that kept her here.
It’s not a rushed kiss. Not frantic or fueled by desperation.
It’s a slow, aching unraveling. The kiss that feels like a confession of everything I’ve been holding back spills through the cracks of my mouth into hers.
Her hand cups my cheek. Mine curls into her hip.
Her lips part under mine, and I kiss her like she’s the only thing tethering me to this earth because she is.
The kiss deepens without warning, and I’m drowning in it.
She exhales against my mouth, shaky and sweet.
Her fingers twist into the front of my shirt, skimming dangerously close to the outline of the patch.
Instinctively, I shift, tugging the fabric tighter across my chest to keep it hidden, but she doesn’t push.
She just stays, grounding me in the kind of touch that doesn’t demand anything but honesty.
Her scent is everywhere, wrapping around me like the blanket we’re under, warm and clean and safe. Her skin is soft against mine, her knee pressing gently into my side as she shifts even closer.
When I part my lips, she follows—tongue slipping against mine, slow and deliberate, like she’s memorizing me from the inside out. I groan quietly into her mouth, not from arousal, but from sheer relief, like this is the only thing that doesn’t hurt.
I can hear her breathing, quiet and ragged, falling in step with mine, beat for beat. The low rustle of the blanket, the quiet creak of the couch beneath us, the soft whisper of her nails scraping my scalp when she slides her hand into my hair. I can feel her everywhere.
When we finally pull apart, I keep my forehead pressed to hers. My eyes stay closed, afraid that if I open them, she might disappear. Her fingers trace soft, absent-minded patterns on my chest. I can still taste her on my lips. Still feel the phantom press of her kiss in every nerve ending.
“Stay,” I whisper, hoarse.
She shifts beside me, fitting herself into the curve of my body as if she’s always belonged there. Her head rests on my chest, her hand curling just over my heart.
“Try and make me leave.”
And I don’t because, for the first time in days, with her in my arms, I feel whole.