Chapter 8 #2
His face was pale. There was a bruise forming on his jaw where the helmet strap had dug in. His eyes were haunted.
"You are not a liability," I said fiercely. "You are the best player on that ice. You took a cheap shot and you got up. You didn't hurt anyone. You didn't kill Number 44, even though he deserved it."
"I wanted to," he admitted.
"Wanting to and doing it are different things," I said. "That's what makes you human, Stan. The choice."
He looked at me, his eyes searching mine.
"Why aren't you scared of me?" he asked. "You saw it. You saw the monster."
"I saw you," I said. "I see you, Stan. All of you."
I leaned forward. I placed my hands on his chest, over the Kodiak logo. I could feel his heart hammering—thump-thump-thump—rapid, powerful.
"And right now," I whispered, "I see a guy who is hurt and scared and needs to come down from an adrenaline overdose."
"How?" he asked. "How do I come down?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "What do you need?"
He stared at my mouth.
"I need to feel alive," he rasped. "I need to know I'm still here."
He reached out and grabbed my waist. He pulled me forward, hard, until I was pressed against his chest.
"Kiss me," he commanded. "Make it hurt."
I didn't hesitate.
I crashed my lips onto his.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't romantic. It was desperate. It was a collision of teeth and tongues and fear.
Stan groaned, his arms wrapping around me like steel bands, crushing me to him. I felt the hard plastic of his chest protector digging into my ribs, but I didn't care. I needed the pressure. I needed the pain to know this was real.
He tasted of blood—he must have bitten his tongue—and Gatorade. He tasted like survival.
His hands moved down my back, gripping my ass, lifting me up so I was straddling his lap on the floor.
"Rachel," he panted against my mouth. "God, Rachel."
I tore at his jersey. "Take it off. I need to touch you."
He complied, ripping the jersey over his head, then the shoulder pads. He threw them aside. He was in a moisture-wicking undershirt, soaked in sweat.
I ran my hands over his arms, his shoulders, checking for breaks, checking for damage, but mostly just needing to feel the solid reality of him.
"You're okay," I murmured, kissing his jaw, his neck, the pulse point that was fluttering madly. "You're whole. You're safe."
"Because of you," he said.
He grabbed my face, holding me still.
"You are my anchor," he said. "Do you understand? You are the only thing keeping me on this side of the line."
"Then hold on to me," I whispered.
He kissed me again, slower this time. Deeper. He poured all his fear, all his rage, all his confusion into the kiss. And I took it. I drank it down.
We stayed like that for a long time—minutes? hours?—locked together on the floor of the equipment room, surrounded by the smell of hockey gear, finding shelter in each other's arms while the game raged on outside without its Captain.
Eventually, the door handle rattled.
"Stan? Miller? You in there?"
It was Doc Halloway.
We broke apart. Stan looked at me, his eyes clear now. The amber was gone. They were just brown. Warm, human brown.
"Yeah, Doc," Stan called out, his voice steady. "Just getting some ice."
He helped me up. He smoothed my hair. He adjusted my collar.
"You okay?" he asked me.
"Me?" I laughed shakily. "I'm fine. You're the one who got hit by a truck."
He smirked. The arrogant, cocky Stan was back. Or at least, the mask was back.
"Trucks bounce off me, Little Bit."
He opened the door.
Doc Halloway was standing there, looking suspicious. He looked at Stan's disheveled hair, at my flushed face.
"Concussion check," Doc said gruffly. "Follow the finger."
He moved his finger back and forth. Stan tracked it perfectly.
"Pupils are equal and reactive," Doc muttered. "You seem... stabilized."
"I told you," Stan said, glancing at me. "I just needed a minute."
"Right. A minute," Doc said dryly. "Well, get dressed. Game's over. We won. Rizzo shut them out in the third."
"Good," Stan said.
As we walked back to the main locker room, Stan leaned down and whispered in my ear.
"Wait for me by the bus. I'm driving you home."
"What about the team dinner?"
"Screw the dinner," he said. "I'm spending the night with my tutor."
My breath hitched. "Studying?"
"Anatomy," he promised.
11:00 PM - The Parking Lot
I waited by the team bus, shivering in the cold. The wind had picked up.
The players were trickling out, carrying their bags, laughing, high on the win.
Then, the door to the arena opened, and a man walked out.
He wasn't a player. He was wearing a suit. He had a clipboard. He looked like money.
He walked straight up to Coach Wolfowitz, who was standing near the bus.
I was close enough to hear.
"Coach," the man said. "Impressive win."
"Thanks, Mr. Vance," Wolfowitz said. "To what do we owe the pleasure? I thought the scouts weren't coming until playoffs."
"I was in the area," Vance said. "Wanted to see Kowalski. Heard great things."
My heart stopped. Vance. The Vance. The head scout for the Detroit Red Wings.
"And?" Wolfowitz asked, his voice tight.
Vance shook his head. "He's got the size. He's got the skill. But I saw what happened in the second period."
"He took a bad hit," Wolfowitz defended.
"He hesitated," Vance said. "And after he got up... he looked unstable, Coach. I saw the look in his eyes. We need players with ice in their veins, not fire. He looked... volatile."
Wolfowitz was silent.
"I'm passing," Vance said. "Taking him off the list. Too high risk. Sorry, Coach."
Vance walked away, getting into a sleek black car.
Wolfowitz stood there, looking defeated.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
Stan walked out a moment later. He was smiling. He saw me and his face lit up.
He didn't know.
He didn't know that the very thing he was fighting—the fire inside him—had just cost him his dream.
And I was the one who had to tell him.
Or... did I?
If I told him now, it would destroy him. It would validate every fear his father had planted. It might push him over the edge.
I looked at his smile. I looked at the way he was walking toward me, like I was the prize he had won.
Protect him, my instincts screamed.
"Hey," he said, wrapping an arm around me. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah," I forced a smile. "Ready."
I decided to lie.
Just for tonight. Just let him have the win. Just let him be happy.
God help me.