Chapter 8 #2
His eyes were hollow. Dark circles under them. His hair was wet with sweat, sticking up in spikes. There was a cut on his cheekbone, weeping blood.
"You shouldn't be in here," he rasped. His voice was wrecked.
"I don't care."
I walked into the room and closed the door behind me. I locked it.
Ben watched me. He looked like he wanted to push me away, but he didn't have the energy.
"We lost," he said dullly. "I let in the first goal. And then I got taken out by a scrub."
"You didn't let it in," I said, walking toward him. "It was a deflection. And you didn't get taken out. You got assaulted."
I stopped between his legs. The table was high, so we were almost eye level.
I reached out and touched the cut on his cheek. He hissed, pulling back slightly, then leaning into my touch.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, looking at his knee.
"Like hell," he admitted. "But it's stable. I checked the drawer test myself."
"Of course you did." I shook my head, smiling sadly. "You're insane."
"I have to play on Saturday," he muttered, staring at the floor. "The scout... he saw me go down. If I don't play, he'll think I'm fragile."
"He saw you skate off on one leg," I said fiercely. "He saw you get up when most people would have called an ambulance. If he thinks you're fragile, he's blind."
Ben looked at me then. Really looked at me. He took in the oversized jersey, the flushed cheeks, the fierce protective glint in my eyes.
"You're wearing my jersey," he murmured. He reached out, gripping the fabric at my waist.
"You told me to."
"Yeah. I did."
He pulled me closer. I stepped in until my thighs hit the edge of the table.
"I was terrified," I whispered. "When you went down... Ben, I couldn't breathe."
"I looked for you," he said. "When I was on the ice. I looked for the WAG section. I needed to know you were still there."
"I'm always there."
He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and buried his face in my stomach. He wrapped his arms around my waist, holding on tight. His skin was hot, damp with sweat. He smelled like adrenaline and violence.
It shouldn't have been sexy. It should have been gross.
But it was the hottest thing I had ever felt.
"I need you," he mumbled into the fabric of the jersey. "God, Ivy, I need you right now. The adrenaline... it's too much. I can't come down."
I ran my hands through his damp hair, scratching his scalp. "I'm here. I've got you."
He pulled back, looking up at me. His pupils were blown wide. The despair was gone, replaced by a frantic, jagged hunger.
"Kiss me," he demanded. "Make me forget the score. Make me forget the scout."
I didn't hesitate.
I leaned down and crashed my lips against his.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was a collision. He tasted like salt and Gatorade. He opened his mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, demanding, claiming.
His hands slid up my back, under the jersey. His palms were rough against my bare skin.
I gasped, arching into him.
He groaned, lifting me effortlessly. He set me on the edge of the table next to his bad leg.
"Careful," I panted, breaking the kiss. "Your knee."
"Fuck the knee," he growled, kissing my neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there. "I don't feel it right now. All I feel is you."
His hands were everywhere. Cupping my breasts through my bra, squeezing my hips. He was frantic. He needed to touch, to confirm he was alive, to ground himself in sensation.
I let him. I wrapped my legs around his waist (avoiding the bad knee) and pulled him closer.
"Ben," I whispered, my head falling back. "We're in the locker room. Anyone could walk in."
"Door's locked," he muttered against my skin. "And I don't care. Let them watch."
He pulled back, looking at me. His eyes were dark, burning with intensity.
"You're the only real thing in this whole damn arena," he said. "The only thing my dad didn't buy. The only thing I earned."
"You earned me?" I asked, breathless.
"Every day," he vowed. "I earn you every day."
He kissed me again, deeper, slower. His hand slid down to the waistband of my leggings.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Sterling? You in there? Coach wants a word. And the Scout is asking for you."
It was the Trainer.
We froze.
Ben closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine. He let out a long, shaky breath.
"Reality calls," he whispered.
"Don't answer," I said, clutching his shoulders.
"I have to." He pulled back, his expression hardening. The mask sliding back into place. "It's the Scout, Ivy. This is it."
He hopped off the table, wincing as his left foot hit the floor. He grabbed a pair of crutches leaning against the wall.
"Help me with my shirt," he asked quietly.
I grabbed his dress shirt from the hook. My hands were shaking as I helped him button it over his damp skin.
He looked at me one last time.
"Go home," he said softly. "Wait for me. I'll be late."
"I'll wait," I promised.
He unlocked the door.
He hobbled out into the hallway, transforming instantly from the desperate lover back into the stoic Captain.
I watched him go.
And then I saw him.
Standing at the end of the hallway, talking to Coach Sullivan, was a man in a suit. He looked expensive. He looked bored.
And next to him... was my father.
My blood ran cold.
My father was shaking hands with the Scout. He pointed at Ben as he limped out.
They were talking. Making deals.
Ben didn't see him. He was focused on walking straight.
But I saw.
And the knot in my stomach tightened.
The game isn't over, I realized. It's just beginning.