Chapter 8 #2
Jerry ignored him. He hauled himself upright. He swayed, his face a mask of pain, but he stood.
The Sterling Falls bench was banging their sticks on the boards—a salute. Even some of the Boston fans were clapping respectfully.
I didn't clap. I was crying. I didn't even realize it until I felt the hot track of tears on my freezing cheeks.
He skated to the bench. He didn't let the teammates help him. He moved stiffly, favoring his left side, clutching his ribs with one arm.
He disappeared down the tunnel.
I didn't wait. I turned and ran.
I ran out of the section, ignoring the usher who tried to check my ticket. I ran through the concrete concourse, past the popcorn stands and the souvenir shops. I needed to get to the locker room. I needed to see him.
Security stopped me at the entrance to the player tunnel. A burly man with a yellow jacket crossed his arms.
"No access, miss. Players only."
"I'm with the team," I gasped, out of breath. "I'm... I'm Jerry Vane's girlfriend."
The man looked me up and down. He saw the oversized jersey. He saw the tear-streaked face. He saw the sheer, unadulterated panic in my eyes.
"Wait here," he grunted.
He radioed someone. A minute later, the door buzzed open.
I pushed through.
The hallway was lined with rubber mats. It smelled of ammonia and sweat. It was quiet here, the roar of the game muffled by thick concrete walls.
I saw him.
He wasn't in the locker room. He was leaning against the wall in a dimly lit alcove near the equipment room, halfway down the hall.
He was still in his gear, minus the helmet. He was bent over at the waist, one hand braced against the wall, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.
"Jerry!"
He flinched. His head snapped up.
When he saw me, his face—contorted in pain—softened instantly.
"Heather," he wheezed.
I ran to him. I didn't care that he was covered in sweat and ice shavings. I didn't care that his pads were hard and cold. I slammed into him—gently—wrapping my arms around his neck.
"You idiot," I sobbed into his shoulder. "You absolute moron. You scared me to death."
He groaned, but he wrapped his good arm around my waist, pulling me into him. He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.
"I'm okay," he gritted out. "I'm okay."
"You are not okay!" I pulled back, scanning him frantically. "You got hit by a truck! You didn't get up! Jerry, you never stay down."
"Got the wind knocked out of me," he lied. "And maybe a bruised rib."
"Bruised?" I reached out, my hands hovering over his chest protector. "Jerry, you look gray."
"I'm fine," he insisted. His eyes were wild, the pupils blown wide. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, fighting the pain. "Did we win?"
"The game isn't over!" I yelled. "Who cares about the game?"
"I care," he growled. "I have to go back out."
"No!" I shoved his chest—the uninjured side. " absolutely not. You are done. You're going to the hospital."
"Heather." He grabbed my wrists. His grip was strong, desperate. "Listen to me. I can't go to the hospital. If I go to the hospital, the scouts see the report. If the scouts see a rib injury, my stock drops. My father pulls the plug."
"Your father can go to hell!"
"I have to finish," he said. His voice was raw. "I have to show them I'm not broken."
He looked at me. The vulnerability in his eyes was devastating. He wasn't asking for permission; he was asking for strength. He was asking me to hold him together so he could go back out and break himself again.
It was toxic. It was stupid. It was hockey.
And I understood, with a sinking heart, that I couldn't stop him.
"You're crazy," I whispered.
"I know," he said. He leaned his forehead against mine. He was shaking. "I need you to center me. I'm spinning, Heather. The pain is... loud. I need you to make it quiet."
"How?" I asked, tears leaking from my eyes.
"Touch me," he begged. "Just... touch me. Remind me I'm real."
I put my hands on his face. His skin was burning hot, slick with sweat and melted ice. I traced his cheekbones, his jaw, the rough stubble on his chin.
"You're real," I whispered. "You're here. You're Jerry."
He made a low sound in his throat—half pain, half desire.
He kissed me.
It was frantic. It tasted of salt and blood—he had bitten his lip when he hit the ice. It was a kiss of survival. He devoured me, pressing me back against the concrete wall, his heavy equipment caging me in.
I kissed him back with everything I had. I wanted to give him my breath. I wanted to take his pain.
His hand—the gloved one—tangled in the back of my jersey, pulling me so close I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. His hips ground against mine, the hard plastic of his hockey pants pressing into my stomach.
"You watched me," he murmured against my lips. "Did you see?"
"I saw," I gasped. "I saw everything."
"I wanted to kill him," he confessed. "When he hit me. I wanted to get up and shatter his jaw. But I thought of you. I thought... 'Heather would be disappointed if I got suspended.'"
I let out a wet laugh. "You didn't fight him for me?"
"I played the game for you," he said. "I scored for you."
He kissed my neck, sucking a bruise onto the soft skin there. A mark.
"I have to go back," he said, pulling away reluctantly. He winced as he straightened up.
"Jerry..."
"Help me with my jersey," he ordered softly. "It's twisted."
I reached out and tugged the hem of his jersey down, straightening the pads underneath. I smoothed the black fabric over his chest. Number 19.
"You're hurt," I said, my hand lingering over his ribs.
"I'll handle it," he said. The mask was sliding back into place. The Judge was returning. But his eyes stayed on mine for a second longer. "Wait for me? After the game? On the bus?"
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.
"Good."
He turned and walked back toward the ice. He was limping slightly, trying to hide it.
I watched him go. I leaned against the cold wall, my legs trembling, my lips stinging from his kiss.
I was terrified.
The door to the trainer's room opened down the hall. A man in a suit walked out. He held a clipboard. He looked at Jerry’s retreating back, then he looked at me.
He narrowed his eyes. He wrote something down.
It was the scout. The one from the NHL.
And he had seen Jerry limp.
My stomach dropped.
Jerry was going to finish the game. He might even win.
But the war was just starting. And I had a terrible feeling that the secret he was trying to keep—the injury, the pain, the cracks in the armor—was about to become public property.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging the oversized jersey tight. It didn't feel like a costume anymore.
It felt like a uniform.
I was on the team now. And we were in trouble.