Chapter 23 Emmett #2
I sit on the table while she wraps the ice pack around my shoulder, securing it with an elastic wrap, her fingers brush my collarbone. Our eyes meet. Neither of us looks away. The air shifts. Charges.
"Joelle ..."
"Don't." She steps back. "You need to ice, and I need to prep for tomorrow's game."
She's running. I can see it.
"What are you afraid of?" I call out to her.
"Nothing," she throws back.
"Liar."
Her jaw clenches. "I'm not afraid of anything. I'm being professional."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what it is." She moves to the door, her hand on the handle. "Twenty minutes. Then you're cleared to leave." She walks out before I can say anything else.
Leaving me alone with a frozen shoulder and thoughts I shouldn't be having.
Game day. I'm in a suit, not gear, watching from behind the bench while my team plays without me. This is hell.
First period goes okay, we're matching them shift for shift. But there's something missing, an edge, a push.
Second period, Chicago scores twice.
I stand and grip the boards, my knuckles white.
"Settle down, Cap," Coach says.
I can't.
Between periods, I follow the guys into the locker room, they're deflated.
"Hey." I stand in the center of the room. Making them look at me. "We've come back from worse. Two goals is nothing."
I'm pacing. Fired up. I catch Jo watching me from the corner where she's taping Sully's fingers. There's something in her expression I can't read. I hold her gaze a beat too long before turning back to the guys and continuing my speech.
Third period. We come out with more fight. The crowd gets behind us, stomping, chanting.
Fish buries a rebound, and the arena explodes.
2-1.
I lean forward, come on. Jo's beside me now, close enough that her shoulder nearly touches my arm. She's invested, too, lips parted, watching the ice. For a moment, we're on the same side.
Then Chicago scores with two minutes left. I feel her eyes on me. I don't look at her. I can't.
Buzzer goes.
3-1.
The arena deflates, the guys trudge off, and I stay rooted behind the bench, staring at the empty ice.
We lost.
Fuck.
The hallway outside the locker room is quiet when I finally make my way down.
Most of the guys have already showered and left, the loss hangs heavily in the air.
I round the corner and stop. She's there, standing outside the training room, a tablet clutched to her chest, her dark hair falling loose around her face.
She looks exhausted. She looks up and notices me.
"Don't," she says before I can speak.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say I told you so." She rolls her eyes at me.
I step closer. "Wasn't going to."
"Liar. I can see it on your face."
She's right, the words are burning on my tongue. "My team needed me."
"Your team needs you healthy." She steps toward me, chin raised. Defiant and so fucking beautiful. "You'll have the rest of the season to get back that loss. But if you'd played tonight and made it worse? You'd have nothing."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
The hallway is empty, just us and the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting shadows across her face. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths, cheeks flushed pink, eyes blazing with that stubborn fire that makes me want to shake her.
Or kiss her. Or both.
I step closer. She doesn't back away, just lifts her chin. Like she's daring me to say something, do something.
"You think you know what's best for me?" My voice is low.
"I know you'd rather destroy yourself than sit out one game." She matches my tone, her words sharp. "That's not strength, Emmett. That's stupidity."
"Careful." Another step. We're close now. Too close. I can see the pulse hammering at the base of her throat, smell that floral perfume mixed with something darker. Sweat. Adrenaline. Her.
"Or what?" She tilts her head, those hazel eyes locked on mine. "You'll bench me?"
A laugh escapes me, harsh and humorless. "You've got a mouth on you."
"You have no idea." She smirks.
Fuck.
The words hang between us, loaded with something neither of us should acknowledge.
Her lips part slightly and my eyes drop to them.
Pink and soft, I remember exactly how they taste.
Her breath hitches, she notices me looking.
Good. The anger is still there, burning in my chest, but it's tangled up with something else now, something hotter, more dangerous.
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to reach out, to grab her hips and pull her against me, show her exactly what she does to me.
"Stay out of my way," I say instead, the words scraping out of my throat.
Her eyes flash with fury. "Gladly."
Neither of us move. The air between us crackles, one inch closer and I'd feel her body against mine, one more word and I'd snap.
I take a step back, then another, putting distance between us before I do something we'll both regret.
Her shoulders drop slightly. Relief? Disappointment?
I can't tell. I turn and walk away, forcing myself not to look back.
But I can feel her eyes on me the whole way down the hall.
All I can think about is how easy it would be to turn around, push her against that wall, fist my hand in her hair, and yank her head back.
To kiss her until she's moaning into my mouth, until those sharp words turn into whimpers, until we both forget why we're so fucking angry.
But I don't.
Because Pierre's voice is still echoing in my head. "You're probably one of the only guys I fucking trust with my sisters."
Fuck.