Chapter 8 #2
"I'm fine," he panted, breaking the kiss to trail hot, wet open-mouthed kisses down my jaw to my throat. "I needed to see you. I needed to smell you."
"You scared me," I whispered, my hands running over his shoulders, checking for broken bones. "That hit... I thought you were dead."
"Takes more than a bear to kill me, Mouse," he muttered, biting lightly at my pulse point. "Did you see? Did you see me get back up?"
"I saw," I said, my voice shaky. "You're an idiot. You should have stayed down."
"Never," he growled. "Not while you were watching."
He pressed his hips into mine. He was hard. Rock hard. The adrenaline of the game had translated directly into arousal. It was a common phenomenon—survival instinct turning into procreation instinct—but with a Shifter, it was magnified by ten.
"Oakley," I warned, though my body was betraying me, arching into him. "We're in a broom closet."
"I don't care," he said, one hand sliding down to cup my ass, lifting me until my feet dangled. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively. "I want to be inside you. right now. I want to feel you clinch around me so I know I'm still here."
"You are here," I soothed, framing his face with my hands. "Look at me."
He pulled back, panting. His eyes were wild. The gold was swirling so fast it looked like liquid fire.
"I saw you," he rasped. "When I hit the glass. You were right there. You looked terrified."
"I was terrified."
"Don't be," he said fiercely. "I always get up. For you. I will always get up."
The vulnerability in his voice—the raw honesty of it—broke my heart.
He leaned his forehead against mine, his breathing slowly starting to regulate. He didn't put me down. He just held me, suspended against the door, his large hands rubbing soothing circles on my back.
"Does it hurt?" I asked softly, touching the bandage on his cheek.
"Everything hurts," he admitted. "My shoulder is throbbing. My head feels like a drum."
"Let me look at it."
"Later," he murmured. "Right now, I just need this. Just you."
We stood there in the dark closet for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. The sounds of the stadium muffled outside. It was just us. My heartbeat syncing with his.
"You played amazing," I whispered.
"I played angry," he corrected. "But we won."
"You won."
"We," he insisted. "You're part of the ritual now. The text before the game. The look. If you weren't there... I don't think I could do it."
"That's a lot of pressure, Captain."
"You can handle it," he said, kissing my nose. "You're tough."
Someone tried the door handle. It rattled.
"Occupied!" Oakley roared, his voice booming in the small space.
Footsteps scurried away rapidly.
I giggled, the tension finally breaking. "You just terrified a janitor."
"Good," he said, finally setting me down on my feet. He straightened his tie, wincing slightly as he moved his left arm. "Let's go. Before Varon sends a search party."
He opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear.
We walked out, hand in hand. He didn't let go when we reached the main corridor. He walked me right past the reporters, past the lingering fans, to where the team bus was idling.
"I have to ride the bus back to the Lodge," he said, looking torn. "Team rule. But come over? After? I have ice packs and bad movies."
"I'll be there," I promised.
He squeezed my hand one last time, then turned and climbed onto the bus.
I watched him go, feeling the now-familiar ache of separation.
But as I turned to head to my car, a shadow detached itself from the wall near the exit.
A man in a tan trench coat. Older. Sharp features. He was holding a notebook.
He stepped into my path.
"Miss Sommers?" he asked. His voice was smooth, like oil.
I stopped, my guard going up instantly. "Yes?"
"I'm a scout," he said, flashing a badge. "Detroit Red Wings. I've been watching young Mr. Thorne for two years."
"Okay," I said slowly. "Why are you talking to me?"
The scout smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Because I saw the way he looked at you after that hit," he said. "And I saw you come out of that closet just now."
My stomach dropped.
"Oakley is a special talent," the scout continued, closing his notebook. "Generational. But he has... baggage. His family history suggests instability. We need to know his head is in the game. Not in the clouds. Or in a skirt."
I bristled. "His head is fine. He scored two goals."
"He also took three penalties and nearly fought a ref," the scout countered. "Distraction is dangerous for a player like him. If you care about his future, Miss Sommers... make sure you aren't the reason he crashes and burns."
He tipped his nonexistent hat and walked away into the night.
I stood there, frozen. The cold wind bit through my coat, but I didn't feel it.
Make sure you aren't the reason he crashes and burns.
The joy of the win evaporated. The warmth of the closet faded.
I looked at the bus pulling away, catching a glimpse of Oakley’s silhouette in the back window.
I was his anchor. But anchors could also drag you down.
And for the first time, I wondered if loving him was going to save him... or cost him everything he had worked for.