Chapter 9
Nick
Pain is a frequency. It has a pitch, a rhythm, a timbre. Sometimes it is a dull, throbbing bass line that you can ignore if the music is loud enough. Other times, like tonight, it is a high-pitched screech of feedback that drowns out every other input in your brain.
My left hip felt like it was filled with ground glass. Every time the car went over a pothole in the snow-packed road, a fresh spike of white-hot agony shot up my spine, settling at the base of my skull.
"You're grinding your teeth," Jess said softly from the driver's seat.
"I am adjusting my jaw," I lied.
"You're grinding. And you're gripping the door handle like you're trying to rip it off."
I forced my hand to relax. "We are almost there."
"We should be going to the hospital, Nick. Or at least the penthouse. Why are we going to The Hive?"
"Because," I said, staring out the window at the blurred streetlights, "if I go straight home, the narrative shifts. Vance is hurt. Vance is fragile. Vance skipped the celebration. I need to walk through that door, hold a beer, and smile. Fifteen minutes. That is the cost of doing business."
Jess sighed, a sound of pure frustration. "You're an idiot. A high-functioning, masochistic idiot."
"And you are my driver. Turn left."
She turned left, the Rover crunching into the unplowed driveway of the massive Victorian house that served as the hockey team’s off-campus headquarters.
The bass from the party was already vibrating the windows of the car.
It was a victory party. The Blackwood Sentinels had won. I had played the hero.
Now, I just had to survive the encore.
"Okay," Jess put the car in park. She turned to me, her green eyes scanning my face with a terrifying level of perception. She reached out, her cool hand cupping my jaw. "Fifteen minutes. If you look like you're going to pass out, I am dragging you out by your tie. I don't care who's watching."
"Agreed."
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I opened the car door.
Getting out was a production. I had to swing my good leg out, brace myself on the frame, and haul my body upright. The pain was breathtaking. It washed over me in a wave, making my vision spotty for a second.
Then, Jess was there.
She tucked herself under my left arm, wrapping her arm around my waist. She was small, but she was sturdy. She took the weight I couldn't carry.
"Lean on me," she whispered. "Make it look like you just can't keep your hands off me."
"That won't be difficult," I muttered, inhaling the scent of her hair. Vanilla and winter air. It was the only thing grounding me.
We walked up the steps. The front door was open, spilling noise and heat into the night.
Entering The Hive was like walking into a blast furnace. The air was thick with the smell of cheap keg beer, sweat, and pheromones. The music was deafening. Bodies were pressed wall-to-wall.
When we crossed the threshold, a cheer went up.
"Cap! Cap! Cap!"
Jax Miller was standing on a coffee table, shirtless, holding a bottle of champagne. He pointed at me. "The man! The myth! The guy with the adamantium hip!"
I forced a smile. It felt like a rictus mask. I raised a hand in acknowledgment.
"Keep moving," I murmured to Jess. "Find a wall. I need a wall."
She navigated us through the crush. People reached out to slap my back, to grab my hand. Every jostle sent a fresh jolt of pain through my hip, but I kept the mask in place. I nodded. I smirked. I played the part of the invincible Golden Boy.
But my grip on Jess’s waist was iron-tight. I was using her as a crutch, and she knew it.
We found a spot near the fireplace. I leaned my back against the mantle, taking the weight off my leg. Jess stood between my spread knees, effectively shielding me from the room while making it look intimate.
"Water," she commanded a passing freshman. "Now."
The kid scrambled and returned with a bottle of water. Jess cracked it and handed it to me.
"Drink."
I drank. The cold liquid helped clear the fog in my head.
"You look pale," she whispered, her hands resting on the lapels of my suit jacket. She smoothed the fabric, her thumbs brushing my collarbone. It was a soothing, possessive touch.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're a liar."
"Hey, Vance!"
I looked up. It was Carter. He was drunk, swaying slightly, a girl under each arm. He looked at me, then at Jess. His gaze lingered on her legs, clad in tight jeans, then moved up to where she was pressed against me.
"Nice game, Cap," Carter slurred. "Although, gotta say, you looked a little slow in the third. Old war wound acting up?"
The room seemed to quiet down in our immediate vicinity. The sharks were circling. They smelled blood. If the Captain was weak, the hierarchy shifted.
I felt Jess stiffen. She was about to snap at him.
I squeezed her waist, silencing her.
"I was slowing down so you could catch up, Carter," I said, my voice bored, projecting over the music. "I noticed you were lagging on the backcheck. Again. Maybe spend less time on the keg stand and more time on the treadmill."
The crowd laughed. Carter flushed red.
He took a step closer, his ego bruised. "Yeah? Well, at least I don't need my girlfriend to hold me up."
He gestured to Jess. "She's practically carrying you, man. What's the matter? Can't stand on your own two feet?"
The insult wasn't to me. It was to her. He was implying she was a prop. A crutch.
The pain in my hip vanished, replaced instantly by a white-hot surge of adrenaline and rage.
I pushed off the mantle. I ignored the scream of protest from my leg. I took a step forward, closing the distance between me and Carter. I towered over him.
I reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fist. I didn't shove him. I just held him there, staring down into his watery, drunken eyes.
"She isn't holding me up," I said, my voice a low, lethal rumble that cut through the bass. "She's holding me back."
Carter’s eyes widened. He tried to pull away, but I held fast.
"And unless you want to find out what happens when she lets go," I whispered, "I suggest you walk away. Now."
I released him. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He mumbled something and disappeared into the crowd.
I stood there, chest heaving, the room spinning slightly.
A hand touched my chest.
"Nick," Jess whispered. "Okay. Point made. Alpha status retained. Can we go now?"
I looked down at her. Her eyes were wide, shining with a mix of fear and adrenaline. She looked at me like I was a monster, but also like she wanted to climb me like a tree.
"Yes," I rasped. "Get me out of here."
The drive back to the Meridian was silent.
It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers. It was the heavy, pressurized silence of a bomb waiting to detonate.
I sat in the passenger seat, head back, eyes closed. The adrenaline from the confrontation with Carter was fading, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. My hip was throbbing with a dull, nauseating persistence.
But beneath the pain, there was something else.
The feeling of Jess’s hand on my thigh.
She hadn't removed it since we got in the car. Her fingers were curled into the fabric of my dress pants, high up, near the crease of my hip. It was a anchor. A source of heat.
Every time she shifted gears or tapped the brakes, her hand moved slightly, sending sparks through my nervous system that bypassed the pain receptors and went straight to the pleasure centers.
We pulled into the underground garage of the Meridian. The concrete bunker was cold, lit by harsh fluorescent strips.
Jess parked the car. She turned off the engine.
The silence descended. The tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine was the only sound.
She didn't move to get out. Neither did I.
"You defended me," she said softly, staring at the steering wheel.
"He insulted you."
"He insulted you, Nick. He called you a cripple."
"He implied you were a tool," I corrected. turning my head to look at her. "He implied you were a burden. You are not a burden, Jessica. You are the structural integrity of my entire life right now."
She looked at me then. Her eyes were dark, dilated.
"You're hurting," she said.
"Yes."
"Let's go upstairs."
Getting out of the car was worse this time. The muscles had cooled down and locked up. I hissed a breath through my teeth as I put weight on my left leg.
Jess was there instantly. She wrapped her arm around my waist, pulling my arm over her shoulders. We walked to the elevator like a three-legged race.
The elevator ride was excruciating. I watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...
I looked at our reflection in the polished brass doors. Me: disheveled, pale, leaning heavily. Her: fierce, determined, her hair a wild halo, holding me up with a strength that shouldn't be possible in that small frame.
We looked like a disaster. We looked like a team.
The doors opened.
We stumbled into the penthouse. It was dark, the city lights providing the only illumination.
"Bedroom," Jess commanded. "Now."
We made it down the hall. I collapsed onto the edge of the massive king-sized bed, sitting heavily. I let out a groan that was half pain, half relief.
"Don't move," Jess said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the sound of water running. Then she was back, carrying a towel and a bag of ice.
She knelt in front of me.
"Suit off," she said.
She reached for my shoes first. She untied the laces with efficient, trembling fingers. She pulled them off, then peeled off my socks.
Her hands were cool against my ankles.
"Stand up," she whispered. "Just for a second. I need to get the pants off."
I gritted my teeth and stood. I braced a hand on her shoulder for balance.
She unbuckled my belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was loud in the quiet room. She undid the button, then the zipper.
The sound of the zipper lowering was the most erotic thing I had ever heard.
She pushed the trousers down. I stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
I stood there in my dress shirt and boxer briefs. The shirt was untucked, wrinkled.