Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Dawson
One would have thought that after doing some short-distance throws, progressing ten yards each time, then going into my hip drills, my mind would be clear.
When it isn’t, I decide to run five miles. Surely that will get my mind right. I will stop overthinking, and then I can go to bed.
But with each mile, I swear it gets worse.
It isn’t even the crazy train of emotions that Ambrosia sent me on. No, I feel I’m handling that like a fucking pro.
Confused? Fuck yeah.
Excited? Yup, that too.
I know. Who am I?
So it isn’t Ambrosia who has me pushing my body to exhaustion. Even if I haven’t seen her in three days, I know things are going in my favor.
It’s my dad.
“Let the backup QB play for the next three games. You need to save your body for the NHL draft.”
I had every intention of ignoring him since I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions, but my dad knew I’d do that.
So he took it upon himself to go to Coach Bannard.
Since Coach Bannard knows the goal is the NHL, he told me he agrees with sitting me on the games with the lower-ranked teams but using me for the higher-ranked ones since we’re undefeated right now.
Problem is, I want to stay undefeated. I have faith that Blake Odemen is a damn good quarterback and he will make some damn good throws, but he sucks in the pocket.
He’s not quick on his feet. He will take the tackle instead of running from it like I do.
He’s known to fumble when he’s in a pinch, and I want this championship.
But I know I can’t do it all.
Maybe I should just walk away. The Jags dropped their interest, leaving only two NFL teams. I wouldn’t even go first round in the NFL, maybe fourth—when I know I’ll go second round in the NHL.
Or I could say fuck it all and go straight into sports ethics.
I’ve done an internship with the Tennessee chapter of SafeSport.
I am nowhere near the number of hours as my peers, but I have a decent amount.
I could intern for a year and then apply for a full-time position.
I have money saved up from all my NIL agreements.
I can sign up for summer camps with Ashlyn and get paid that way too.
While we aren’t sure where Louis will end up since we know it won’t be the Assassins, he’ll let me keep the condo we have.
We talked about selling it since we’d both be drafted and it’s paid off.
I could buy him out.
I could stay in Nashville.
I have options.
Yet I feel like everything is a fucking mess.
Which is why I’m at the rink.
Football didn’t help.
Running didn’t help.
I would go find someone to hook up with, but that hasn’t been appealing for a while.
Plus, unless she has a big butt and a story about why her name is Ambrosia, I don’t want her.
Since said girl with the story doesn’t trust me at the moment, I am here for the feel of my skates on the ice and the sounds of my stick hitting some rubber to try to calm me.
I tuck my sticks under my arms and reach for a bucket of pucks before I head toward the smaller practice rink.
It only has one bench that is for the skaters and then a set of wooden bleachers that is used for the spectators.
No one ever comes in here because it’s old and danky.
I won’t even have a goal; I’ll be using the puck bucket for scoring practice, but I don’t care. I just need the ice.
The lights are on, the ice shining from where the Zamboni just cleaned it.
And it’s all mine.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the frosty air.
When I was younger, Louis and I would play in here while our dad and mom would run practices in the bigger rinks.
While other hockey players might have had an ice pond growing up, Louis and I had this practice ice.
Just walking in here gives me a sense of peace.
The door to the bench is open, as is the one to the ice, but I don’t make it past the bench before I know I’m not alone. I can’t even explain why I look to the left, but I do. And there she is.
My heart-stopper.
Ambrosia has her chin on her arms, which are resting on her knees as she looks out at the ice.
She’s wearing some sweats that are entirely too big on her and hanging low to expose the honey-colored flesh along her hips.
She has a delectable little roll that covers a string from what my lusty imagination says is her thong undies.
All that ass and just a little scrap of fabric? Yeah. That would be heaven.
Her oversized sweatshirt is drowning her arms and bunching between her chest and thighs. Her hair is up in a huge bun, no curls free, and I can see the AirPod bud in her ear. She blinks, and I notice the tears on her lashes.
My whole body goes taut.
Who. The. Fuck. Made. Her. Cry?
I want to say I laid my $600 sticks down gently and didn’t cause pucks to spill over the floor of the bench area, but I’d be a fucking liar. I stalk toward her, and she doesn’t notice me at first. It isn’t until I’m crawling up the bleachers that she squeaks, pulling out an AirPod.
“Dawson!”
I give her a look. “What’s wrong?”
She blinks, her eyes filling with more tears. “You’re going to fall.”
I wave her off as I continue to climb to her. “I used to not have guards on and climb these bleachers. I’m fine.”
“That’s not safe.”
“I’m not that great at self-preservation,” I say with a wink, but she doesn’t seem impressed by my little joke.
I ignore that, sitting down beside her. I’m careful not to step on her exposed toes with my skates.
I might have guards on, but I’m sure it wouldn’t tickle if I caught one of her cute little yellow-painted toes.
She looks me over, her eyes wide and wet. “What are you doing?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, ignoring the question that doesn’t matter. “Who made you cry?”
“No one.”
“It wasn’t me, right?”
She scoffs. “No, and I didn’t cry over you before. I was overwhelmed.”
“I apologize. Are you overwhelmed now?”
Her plump little lip trembles. “It’s nothing.”
She looks away, leaning on her arms again. I want to wrap her in my arms, tuck her head under my chin, and just…hold her.
Breathe her in.
But I’m pretty sure she’ll push me off these bleachers.
I mirror her stance, thankful I’m not wearing pads so it’s easier to move. I can’t take my eyes off her, drinking her in as she gnaws on her bottom lip.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
I need to know who hurt her.
“What are you listening to?”
She rolls the single AirPod around between her fingers in front of her. “The last podcast my dad did before he passed.”
Okay, maybe she’s sad about her dad. I’ve got this.
“The one about player- and puck-tracking tech?”
The sides of her lips twitch a bit, and I smile. “Yeah, he was so excited to watch playbacks and fooling around with the controls to make the players move.”
I chuckle softly. “I want to do the same thing, but no one ever lets me play.”
When she rewards me with a grin, I want to bottle it up for a rainy day, but the tears flood her lash line.
Even with a tear-streaked face, her lashes clumped, and her cheeks red, she is fucking beautiful.
I want to capture that mouth again now that I know what it feels like.
This time, though, I want to taste her, which is against my usual rules.
I don’t kiss girls, but I want to kiss Ambrosia Mercer.
A fucking lot.
And all the time.
“I remember that podcast,” I force myself to say as I drag my eyes along her smooth skin. She has little scars on her face and a mole right by her lip. It looks pretty damn kissable, that’s for sure. “I love how full of life he is in all his shows.”
She looks away then, nodding. “He is the best.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I think I like you over him.”
She scoffs, side-eyeing me. “You’ll say anything—”
“I’m telling the truth,” I insist, and she turns to look at me.
I feel my face burning as I admit, “Your dad was amazing, don’t get me wrong, but he wasn’t witty.
Like, he was to the point and spat his facts like it was second nature, but they were just facts.
You not only give everyone facts, but you make it relatable.
You include the listener and make them want to feel what you feel about the game. For me, you’re better.”
She blinks once then twice, before tears fall down her cherubic cheeks.
My stomach drops, and before I can stop myself, I’m wiping them away as I try to soothe her.
I brush my thumbs along her cheeks, catching the falling tears as I whisper, “Don’t cry.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or talk down about your dad. ”
She shakes her head and swallows hard before meeting my gaze. “It’s not that.” Her watery eyes gut me as I catch another tear. “I’m just having a tough day.”
My heart clenches, not liking the sound of that or the look on her sweet face. “Tell me what happened. Let’s talk it out.”
She looks out at the ice, drawing in a deep breath to fill her lungs, my hands dropping between us.
“The other day, one of my professors, Dr. Poncy, caught me in the hall on my way home and accused me of using my adviser to fight my battles, but I didn’t.
Professor Koshkin looks over my work for me to make sure I understand what I’ve done right and wrong.
We’ve been doing this for as long as I’ve been here, and I guess it rubbed her wrong.
I know he wasn’t happy about the grade she gave me, and I don’t know what he said to her, but she came after me.
Informed me that if I have an issue, I need to come to her and fight my battles myself and that—” She pauses, pressing her lips together before her eyes fall shut.
Her shoulders shake with silent sobs as her face turns bright red.
Unable to handle how upset she is, I reach out, taking her hand in mine.
I need to comfort her.
But I know I can’t just grab her the way I want.