Chapter 19 Cabin Fever #2
I stepped back, letting him inside, because avoiding the truth had stopped working.
He walked past me into the cabin, and I closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold and the dark and the option to run.
We stood there in the warm firelight, facing each other, both knowing this conversation would change everything.
“The team's really on break?” I asked.
“Yeah. One week. Then we're back.”
“And you drove two hours to drag me home.”
“I drove two hours because you disappeared and I needed to see you.” Grant's eyes didn't leave mine. “The rest is just logistics.”
I wanted to stay angry. Wanted to hold onto the hurt and use it as armor. But standing here with him, seeing the exhaustion in his face and the worry he couldn't quite hide, I felt the anger start to crack.
“I'm still mad at you,” I said.
“I know.”
“And I don't forgive you for benching me.”
“I'm not asking you to.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Grant was quiet for a moment. “I'm asking you to let me stay. We have a week before we need to be back. Let me make sure you're okay. And then we'll figure out the rest.”
I stared at him, jaw tight, heart pounding too fast in my chest. “You want to stay here? With me?”
“Yeah.”
“For a week.”
“If you'll let me.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I'm still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“And this doesn't fix anything.”
“I know that too.”
I turned away before he could see my face and limped toward the kitchen to find something resembling hospitality. “You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Because all I have is beer and questionable leftovers.” I pulled two bottles from the fridge and held one out to him. He took it, fingers brushing mine, and the contact sent a jolt through me that I tried to ignore.
We stood there in the kitchen, drinking in silence, the fire crackling behind us.
“How's the shoulder?” he asked finally.
“Fine.”
“Jace.”
“It hurts. It's going to hurt for weeks. Are you satisfied?” I took another drink, too fast, and felt the carbonation burn. “How about you? How's coaching without your star player?”
“Harder than I'd like.”
I looked at him then, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Grant set his beer down on the counter. “The team's adjusting. But it's not the same.”
“Good. I hope it's fucking miserable.”
“It is.” He stepped closer, and I felt my breath catch. “But not because of hockey.”
“Then why?”
“Because I can't stop thinking about you.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Because I wake up and check my phone hoping you've texted. Because I replay that drive back to Toronto and hate myself for not saying what I should've said.”
My throat tightened. “What should you have said?”
“That I'm sorry. Not for benching you—I'd do that again. But for making you feel like you don't matter to me.” Grant's eyes were too steady, too honest. “You do. More than you should.”
I wanted to throw it back in his face. Wanted to tell him it was too late, that he'd already proven where his priorities were. But the way he was looking at me made the anger crack.
“You're an asshole,” I said.
“I know.”
“And you broke my trust.”
“I know.”
“And I still want to punch you in the face.”
“Understandable.” Grant took another step closer, close enough that I could smell the cold air still clinging to his coat, the faint scent of coffee underneath. “But you're not going to.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if you wanted me gone, you wouldn't have let me inside.”
He was right. Fuck him for being right. I set my beer down and turned to face him fully, heart pounding, body already responding to his proximity in ways I couldn't control. “So what now?”
“Now you tell me what you need.”
What did I need? I needed to stop hurting. Needed to feel like I was more than my injuries. Needed him to look at me the way he was looking at me now—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
“I need you to stop being careful with me,” I said.
Grant's eyes darkened. “Jace—”
“I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to shatter if you touch me.”
“Your shoulder—”
“I don't give a fuck about my shoulder right now.” I closed the distance between us, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“I've been sitting here for a week going out of my mind, and you're standing in my kitchen talking about being careful like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting.”
“You're injured.”
“I'm aware.” I reached out with my good hand and fisted it in his coat. “But I'm not broken. And I'm so fucking tired of everyone treating me like I am.”
Grant's jaw tightened, and I watched him fight for control. Watched him lose. His hand came up to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and the gentleness of it made my chest ache.
“I don't think you're broken,” he said quietly. “I think you're hurt. And I don't want to make it worse.”
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“Then let me decide.” I leaned into his touch, felt him tense. “I'm asking you, Grant. Don't make me beg.”
Then his mouth was on mine, hard and desperate and everything I'd been craving since the night he'd walked out of my apartment. I opened for him immediately, tasting beer and want.
He kissed me like he was trying to prove something, and I let him, my good hand sliding up into his hair while my injured arm hung useless at my side.
The shoulder protested when I pressed closer, but I didn't care.
Didn't care about anything except the way he was touching me—careful even now, one hand cradling my face while the other settled on my hip, avoiding the bad leg.
“Bedroom,” I said against his mouth.
“Jace—”
“Now.”
Grant pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, breathing hard. “We need to be smart about this.”
I kissed him again and felt him groan into my mouth. “I'll tell you if it hurts. I promise. But if you don't take me to bed right now, I'm going to lose my mind.”
He studied my face for a long moment, searching for something—hesitation, pain, uncertainty. Whatever he found must have satisfied him, because he nodded once and took my hand. “Slow,” he said.
“We'll see.”
He led me toward the bedroom, and I followed. The room was small, barely big enough for the bed and a dresser, but it felt massive with both of us in it. Grant turned to face me, and for a second we just stood there, staring at each other in the dim light filtering through the window.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said.
“Not a chance.”
He closed the distance between us and kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, his hands moving to my waist to pull me closer. I went willingly, pressing against him, feeling the hard line of his body against mine and wanting more. Needing more.
Grant's hands found the hem of my shirt and started to lift it, then stopped. “Shoulder,” he said.
“Careful,” I agreed.
He helped me ease the shirt over my head and I gritted my teeth against the pull in my shoulder. Once it was off, he tossed it aside and ran his hands over my chest, my ribs, my stomach—mapping me like he was memorizing every line.
“You've lost weight,” he said.
“Haven't been eating much.”
His jaw tightened. “We're fixing that.”
“Later.” I reached for his coat, started pushing it off his shoulders. “Right now I need you naked.”
Grant shed the coat, then his shirt, and I let myself look. I wanted to touch all of it, taste all of it, lose myself in the weight of him until I forgot everything else.
He caught my wrist gently when I reached for his belt. “Let me.”
I stepped back and watched as he undressed the rest of the way.
His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with steady fingers despite the heat in his eyes.
The leather slid free with a soft whisper of sound that made my cock twitch.
He popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down, and I couldn't look away from his hands, from the deliberate way he moved.
When he pushed his jeans down over his hips, I saw the thick outline of his cock straining against his boxer briefs. The sight of it made my mouth water.
He stepped out of his jeans and kicked them aside, then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled them down.
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
I stared, drinking in the sight of him—the way his cock jutted out from his body, the heavy hang of his balls, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“Like what you see?” His voice was rough, strained.
“You know I do.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance between us, and his hands found the waistband of my sweatpants. “Your turn.”
I lifted my hips to help him, and he dragged the sweatpants down my legs, careful of the bad one. My cock was already hard, tenting my boxer briefs obscenely, and when he pulled those down too I hissed at the contact of cool air against heated skin.
“How's the leg?” he asked, eyes tracking over my body like he was cataloging every inch.
“Fine.”
“Jace.”
“It's fine. Just... don't put your weight on it.”
Grant's hand came up to cup my face again, grounding me. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
He kissed me, and this time it was different—slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to tell me something he didn't have words for. I melted into it, let him guide me backward toward the bed, and when the backs of my knees hit the mattress I sat down heavily.
Grant followed me down, one knee on the bed beside me, hands braced on either side of my hips. “Lie back.”
I did and he climbed over me, careful to avoid my bad shoulder and leg. The weight of him was perfect. His body pressed against mine, skin to skin, and I felt every point of contact like a brand.
His cock was a thick line of heat against my hip, and I reached down with my good hand to wrap my fingers around him. He was hot and hard and silky soft all at once, and when I stroked him he groaned into my mouth.
“Fuck, Jace—”