Chapter 9
Ezra
Pain was a familiar roommate. I had lived with it since I was fourteen, the dull ache in the joints, the sharp stab of bruises, the constant thrum of muscles torn and rebuilt.
But tonight, the pain in my left knee had a new quality.
It was sharp, insistent, and accompanied by a bone-deep exhaustion that made the edges of my vision blur.
But I couldn't go home. Not yet.
Tradition dictated that the Captain make an appearance at the Hive after a win against Providence. If I didn't show, the rumors would start. Sterling is broken. Sterling is hiding. And rumors traveled fast—fast enough to reach my father’s ears before dinner tomorrow.
So I stood in the corner of the Hive’s living room, leaning heavily against the wall to take the weight off my leg, holding a beer I had no intention of drinking.
The party was a roar of noise. Three hundred students packed into a space designed for fifty. The bass rattled the windows. The smell of cheap tequila and sweat was overwhelming.
People kept coming up to me. Slapping my back. Shouting congratulations.
“That goal, Cap! insane!”
“Did you see Kowalski’s face? Priceless!”
“Shot for the Captain!”
I nodded. I smiled the practiced, empty smile I had perfected in boardrooms.
But my eyes were scanning the room.
Amara.
She was easy to find. She always was. Tonight, she was a beacon in the sea of black and gold. She was wearing my jersey—still—but she had tied it in a knot at her waist, pairing it with black leather pants that hugged every curve. She was standing near the makeshift DJ booth, talking to Jules.
She looked… fierce.
She wasn't smiling. Her arms were crossed, her posture defensive. Every few seconds, her eyes would dart toward my corner, checking on me.
I’m watching, she had said.
And she was.
A guy—some junior from the lacrosse team—leaned in close to her. He said something, probably a pickup line he thought was charming. He reached out to touch her arm.
Amara didn't flinch. She just looked at him, said something short and sharp, and the guy recoiled like he’d been burned.
I felt a ghost of a smirk touch my lips. That’s my girl.
Wait.
My girl.
The thought wasn't alarming anymore. It was just a fact. Like gravity. Like the pain in my knee. She was mine.
“You look like you’re about to collapse,” a voice said beside me.
I looked down. Amara had navigated the crowd without me noticing. She stood in front of me, her brow furrowed with worry.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“You’re grey, Ezra. Literally grey. And you’re putting ninety percent of your weight on your right leg.” She reached out and took the beer from my hand, placing it on a nearby shelf. “We’re leaving.”
“I can’t leave yet. I have to—”
“You have to ice that knee before it swells to the size of a melon,” she interrupted. Her voice was low, firm. It was the voice of someone who wasn't asking. “I’ve already texted Miller. told him you were feeling sick from the painkillers. He’s covering for you.”
I stared at her. “You texted Miller?”
“I have everyone’s number now,” she said with a shrug. “Part of the job description. Consort duties include damage control.”
She stepped closer, sliding her arm around my waist. She was small, but she felt solid. An anchor.
“Lean on me,” she commanded.
“Amara, people are watching.”
“Let them watch,” she hissed. “Let them see that the big bad Captain has a girlfriend who takes care of him. It’s romantic. It sells the narrative. Now move.”
I chuckled, a low, rusty sound. I let myself lean a fraction of my weight on her. She took it without buckling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We moved through the crowd. It was slow going. Every step sent a jolt of fire up my leg. But having Amara tucked into my side, her heat seeping into me, made it bearable.
We pushed out the front door into the cold night air. The silence was instant and blissful.
The snow was still falling lightly, coating the world in soft white.
“My car is around back,” she said. “I parked in the fire lane. Leo’s going to kill me if I get towed, but whatever.”
“You drove Leo’s car?”
“Yours is too low. Getting you in and out of that Aston Martin right now would require a crane.”
I looked at her with newfound respect. She had thought of everything. The exit strategy. The cover story. The vehicle logistics.
“You’re good at this,” I murmured as we reached Leo’s battered Jeep.
She opened the passenger door for me.
“I’m a Vane,” she said, her eyes flashing in the darkness. “We survive. Get in.”
The drive to the penthouse was quiet.
Amara focused on the road, navigating the slick streets with surprising competence. I watched her profile in the dashboard glow. The determined set of her jaw. The way she chewed her lip when the Jeep hit a patch of ice.
I was exhausted. My body felt like it was shutting down, pulling resources to the injury. But my mind was hyper-active, replaying the last few hours. The goal. The way she had looked at me through the glass. The way she had just marched me out of the party like she owned me.
We pulled into the garage. She parked next to my car.
“Can you walk to the elevator?” she asked, turning off the engine.
“I played a period on it,” I grunted, opening the door. “I can walk twenty feet.”
I managed it. Barely.
By the time the elevator doors opened into the penthouse, I was sweating. The pain was a throbbing, rhythmic beast eating my leg.
Amara dropped her purse and immediately went into commander mode.
“Couch,” she ordered, pointing. “Sit. Pants off.”
I froze, one hand on the back of the sofa for support.
“Excuse me?”
She rolled her eyes. “I need to ice the knee, Ezra. I can’t do that through suit trousers. Take them off. Unless you want me to cut them off, which would be a waste of Italian wool.”
She turned and marched into the kitchen, presumably to get ice.
I stood there for a second, swaying slightly. Then, with a groan, I unbuckled my belt. I unzipped the trousers and shoved them down, kicking them off with my good leg. I was left in my black boxer briefs and dress shirt.
I collapsed onto the sofa, swinging my legs up.
Amara returned with a bag of frozen peas (I didn't even know I owned frozen peas) wrapped in a towel.
She stopped when she saw me.
Her gaze dropped to my legs. Her eyes tracked the muscles of my thighs, the dark hair, the white tape wrapping my left knee, and the expanse of black cotton covering my groin.
She swallowed. I saw the movement of her throat.
“Better,” she whispered.
She walked over and knelt on the floor beside the sofa. She placed the ice pack gently on my knee.
“Does that hurt?”
“Everything hurts,” I admitted, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the cushion. “But the cold helps.”
She adjusted the towel. Her fingers brushed the skin of my inner thigh, just above the knee.
My eyes snapped open.
She didn't pull away. Her hand lingered there, warm against my skin.
“You were amazing tonight,” she said softly. She was looking at my knee, not my face. “Terrifying. But amazing.”
“I was desperate,” I corrected.
“No,” she shook her head. “Desperation is messy. You were… precise. Even when you were hurt.”
She looked up at me then. Her eyes were dark, dilated.
“Why do you do it, Ezra? Is it really just for the ledger? Just to please him?”
I looked at the ceiling, tracing the shadows.
“It started that way,” I said. “But on the ice… it’s the only place where the noise stops. When I’m playing, I’m not the heir. I’m not the investment. I’m just… motion. Physics.”
I looked back at her.
“And tonight… tonight I wasn't playing for him. I was playing because you were watching.”
Her breath hitched.
“Ezra…”
“I heard you,” I whispered. “When I was down. I couldn't hear the crowd, but I swear I heard you scream my name.”
She moved her hand higher on my thigh. It was unconscious, I think. A seeking of connection.
“I thought you were broken,” she admitted. “I was so scared.”
“I’m not broken,” I said. “Just… dented.”
“Dented,” she laughed softly. A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly. “God, I’m a mess. I’m crying over a hockey player. My teenage self would be so disappointed.”
“Your teenage self didn't know what she was missing,” I murmured.
The air in the room shifted. It grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and desire.
Amara was kneeling between my legs. Her hand was on my thigh. I was half-naked.
“Amara,” I warned. “You should go to bed. We have the dinner tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” she whispered. “I’m too wired. I can still feel the bass from the arena in my chest.”
She stood up.
She didn't walk away. She sat down on the edge of the sofa, near my hip.
“Your shirt is ruined,” she observed.
I looked down. There was a smear of blood on the white cuff—probably from the fight I hadn't participated in but had been adjacent to. And it was wrinkled, sweat-stained.
“Let me help you,” she said.
Before I could argue, she reached out and undid the top button.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Amara…”
“Shh,” she whispered. “Just let me take care of you. You’re always taking care of everything else.”
She undid the second button. Then the third. Her knuckles brushed my chest with every movement, sending sparks of heat through my exhausted body.
She peeled the shirt open. She pushed it off my shoulders, down my arms.
I shivered. Not from cold, but from exposure.
She stared at my chest. At the bruises blooming on my ribs from a check in the first period. At the scar on my shoulder from surgery two years ago.
She reached out and traced the bruise with her fingertips. Feather-light.
“He hurt you,” she whispered fiercely. “Kowalski.”
“Part of the game.”
“I hate the game,” she said.
She leaned in. She pressed her lips to the bruise on my ribs.
I stopped breathing.
Her mouth was hot, wet. She kissed the purple skin, then moved lower, kissing the line of my abdominal muscles.
“Amara,” I groaned, my hands gripping the leather cushions. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for damage,” she murmured against my skin.