Chapter 15
Jude
Agony.
White-hot and immediate, it detonated through my right leg like someone had driven a spike clean through bone and tendon.
I hit the concrete so hard that it rattled my teeth, and only the leather of my gloves saved my palms from being skinned by the gravel. I couldn’t catch my breath or think past the pain radiating up my leg.
Stupid. I was so fucking stupid.
But I’d wanted this. Not the fall, but everything before that.
I had wanted Ash to chase me through the zones, wanted to feel the thrill of being pursued by someone who actually gave a damn about me.
I’d wanted Ash to catch me in some dark corner where the cameras couldn’t reach and pin me against the wall with that desperate intensity he wore like a second skin.
I’d wanted him to take me apart and force me to admit that I was a fool and that he was right; that I’d been hiding and pushing him away because I was scared of the alternative.
I’d been reckless, running without watching where my feet landed, too focused on the heat of pursuit behind me and the fantasy of surrender ahead.
And now I was paying for it.
I tried to stand. I managed to get my left leg under me, but the moment I attempted to put weight on the right, the ankle gave way, and fresh pain exploded through my calf. I went down hard on one knee, gasping, vision swimming with red-edged darkness.
“Jude.”
Ash’s voice echoed on the fog. I looked up and found him standing over me, chest heaving, eyes wide with something that looked dangerously close to panic. Blood still stained the corner of his mouth from where I’d hit him. His hands reached for me.
“Don’t.” I batted them away, the word scraping raw from my throat. “Just fucking don’t.”
He ignored me. Of course, he did, and I could have sobbed in gratitude as he kneeled beside me. His hands hovered uncertainly over my shoulders like he didn’t know if touching me would make things better or worse. “Let me help—”
“I said, leave it.”
Liar. You don’t want him to leave. You want him to take care of you.
The thought burned almost as much as my ankle.
I hated how much I wanted it; how much I wanted him.
I hated that even now, sprawled on the ground in front of a growing crowd of horrified guests, all I could think about was how badly I needed him to wrap his arms around me and make everything stop hurting.
The house lights flickered on. The sudden brightness made me squint, and I realized just how many people had gathered. A sea of phones pointed at me like accusatory fingers. Guests murmured, their voices rising in pitch as they finally understood this wasn’t part of the show.
“Oh my god, is he okay?”
“Someone call 911!”
“Did you get that on video?”
Riley appeared, her skates clattering as she rolled to a crouch beside Ash. Her doll makeup was smeared from the show, dark streaks cutting across her cheeks. “Jesus Christ, Jude. What happened?”
I couldn’t answer. The pain had teeth now, chewing through my ability to form coherent sentences. I clenched my jaw and tried to stand again, because sitting here like broken furniture while everyone stared was not an option I could tolerate.
My traitorous fucking leg wouldn’t cooperate. It buckled again, and I fell.
Ash caught me before I hit the ground, his hands suddenly solid and sure around my ribcage. “Jude, stop. You’re going to make it worse.”
“Get off—”
“No.”
That single word carried enough weight to shut me up.
He hauled me upright, taking the bulk of my weight as he maneuvered us toward the backstage tunnel.
I could hear Riley skating around behind me, telling the crowd there was nothing to see and to keep moving before she released her haunted toys on them.
My world narrowed to the sensation of Ash’s arm around my waist and the burning agony that shot through my ankle.
We finally made it into the tunnel, where at least the noise dulled to a manageable roar.
The concrete walls closed around us, blessedly empty of spectators, and I allowed myself to lean on Ash fully.
I had sweat rolling down my face, streaking the stage makeup and slicking my hair to my neck.
Just that short hobble felt like I’d just limped through a marathon.
“Here.” Ash guided me down to sit against the wall. Cold seeped through my tactical pants, cooling my heated skin. I leaned my head back, breathing hard and squeezing my eyes closed against the pain.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up, Jude.”
I did. Mostly because speaking required energy I didn’t have, but also because I didn’t trust myself not to say something dumb and push him away again.
Ash crouched in front of me, and I felt his hands smooth down my right calf, checking for any obvious protrusions. Broken bones.
I couldn’t bring myself to look. I didn’t want to see what damage I’d done to myself in my stupid, reckless bid for his attention.
My career. Oh god, my career.
Three seasons at Ridgeway. Three years of building my reputation, perfecting my character, making myself indispensable. The gigs I picked up out of season, and the lessons in gymnastics I taught for extra cash. I’d just thrown it away trying to make someone want me the way I needed to be wanted.
The medic team arrived in a rush of radios and equipment bags. They asked questions I only half heard. What happened? Where does it hurt? Can you move it?
I answered what I could—fell; right ankle; no—and Ash filled in the rest, talking about me like he didn’t hate me.
One of the medics knelt beside Ash and probed the injury. He wasn’t as gentle as Ash had been, and I hissed through my teeth, my vision whiting out at the edges.
He pulled back immediately, his expression professionally neutral in a way that told me nothing and everything at once.
“We need to get you X-rays,” he said.
X-rays meant bone damage.
Fuck.
Someone arrived wheeling a stretcher, which prompted the medics to discuss whether a wheelchair would be better for navigating the backstage corridors. I didn’t care which they used as long as it got me out of here, away from the staring eyes and the weight of my own spectacular failure.
Ash stepped back as they lifted me. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. His expression was unreadable beneath the smeared paint and drying blood, but the concern and guilt in his eyes made my throat tighten.
For once, there was so much that I wanted to say.
Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t make me want you more than I already do.
But there were too many people, and the medics were already wheeling me away.
I caught one final glimpse of Ash standing alone in the tunnel, his hands hanging useless at his sides, before we rounded the corner and he disappeared from view.
I let the pain consume everything else, but even it couldn’t stop the spiraling mess of thoughts that circled through my head like vultures. What if my ankle was broken? What if I couldn’t perform? What if they replaced me?
What if I never get to touch him again?