Chapter 8 #2
Players started trickling out. They were showered, wearing suits, looking exhausted but happy.
Jax came out first. He saw me. His grin faded slightly. He jerked his head toward the door, mouthing, He’s coming.
Then Dante emerged.
He was wearing a sharp charcoal suit that was tailored to fit his massive shoulders. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His hair was wet, combed back.
He was walking, but barely. He had a distinct, heavy limp.
He was talking to a man in a Blackwood polo shirt—Coach Vane. Vane looked angry. Dante looked stoic.
Then Dante looked up.
His eyes scanned the waiting crowd. They passed over the reporters. They passed over the puck bunnies hoping for an autograph.
They landed on me.
The mask broke.
For a split second, the stoic Alpha vanished, and I saw the exhaustion. I saw the pain. I saw the relief.
He said something to Vane, patted the Coach on the shoulder, and walked straight toward me.
He didn't stop. He didn't say hello.
He reached me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me.
"Come with me," he rasped.
He dragged me down the corridor, away from the exit, toward a service hallway. He moved with a desperate urgency, limping but fast.
He opened a door marked JANITORIAL. He pulled me inside.
The room was tiny. It smelled of bleach and mops. It was dark, lit only by the sliver of light coming from under the door.
He kicked the door shut.
Before I could speak, he had me pressed against the wall.
"Dante," I gasped.
He didn't let me talk. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. He made a sound—half-groan, half-growl—that vibrated in his chest against mine.
"You wore it," he whispered against my skin. "You wore the jersey."
"Of course I did," I said, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders. The wool of his suit jacket was soft, but the muscles underneath were rock hard and tense. "Dante, your knee..."
"Forget the knee," he commanded. "I need... God, Arabella, I need..."
He lifted his head. His eyes were still swirling with the aftershocks of the shift. They were a mesmerizing mix of gold and human brown.
"Are you okay?" I asked, reaching up to cup his face. His skin was burning hot. "I saw the hit. It looked..."
"It hurt," he admitted. "It hurt like hell. But then I looked up at the stands. I saw you. Wearing my number."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine.
"It centered me," he said. "The wolf wanted to tear that guy’s throat out. But looking at you... it reminded me that I’m more than the instinct. I had to win. For you."
"You didn't have to win for me," I whispered. "You just had to survive."
"Same thing," he murmured.
Then he kissed me.
It tasted like victory. It tasted like survival.
His mouth was hot and demanding. His hands slid down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me into the cradle of his body. I could feel the ridge of his erection against my stomach. The adrenaline of the game hadn't faded; it had transmuted into pure, unadulterated lust.
I kissed him back with everything I had. I opened for him, my tongue meeting his, my hands tangling in his wet hair.
"You scare me," I breathed against his mouth. "Watching you... it scares me to death."
"Good," he growled, biting my lower lip gently. "Fear keeps you sharp."
He moved his hands under the oversized jersey. His palms were rough against the bare skin of my waist. He groaned when he touched me, his thumbs digging into my hips.
"You're so small," he muttered, sounding tortured. "So soft. And I'm... I'm a wreck."
"You're perfect," I said.
He laughed, a harsh sound. "I'm broken, Ara. My knee is throbbing. My head is pounding. I'm running on fumes."
"Then let me hold you," I said. "Let me be the wall."
He went still.
He pulled back just enough to look at me in the dim light.
"You?" he asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "My little human scholar? You're going to hold me up?"
"Yes," I said fiercely. "I'm tougher than I look."
He stared at me. The amber in his eyes softened, melting into a warm, liquid gold.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I think you are."
He leaned down and kissed me again, softer this time. A thank you. A promise.
But the moment was shattered by a sharp knock on the door.
"Moretti!" Coach Vane’s voice barked from the hallway. "I know you're in there. Get your ass out here. The scout from the Seattle Kraken is waiting. And he wants to talk about your knee."
Dante froze. His body went rigid against mine.
The heat evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold dread.
"The Kraken," he whispered. "That's the team. That's the dream."
"Go," I said, pushing gently on his chest. "You have to go."
"He saw the hit," Dante said, panic leaking into his voice. "If he thinks I'm damaged goods... if he thinks I'm injury-prone..."
"You played through it," I reminded him. "You scored the winner. Tell him that."
Dante took a deep breath. He smoothed his suit jacket. He ran a hand through his hair. He stepped back, the mask of the stoic Captain sliding back into place.
But before he opened the door, he looked at me one last time.
"Wait for me?" he asked. "In the parking lot?"
"Always," I said.
He nodded, opened the door, and stepped out into the light to face his future, leaving me alone in the dark closet, smelling like bleach and the lingering scent of a man who was fighting a war on two fronts.
And I knew, as I leaned against the wall to steady my shaking legs, that the war was just beginning. The scout noticed the knee. And if the scout noticed, everyone noticed.
Dante’s armor had a crack in it. And I was the only one who knew how deep it went.