Chapter 13 - Carissa
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Carissa
The carpet was cool under my bare feet as I slipped inside, Boone’s T-shirt hanging to mid-thigh beneath my robe. It still held his heat. That felt dangerous in a way I didn’t want to unpack yet.
I kept my steps careful, the hallway quiet at this hour, my key card already pinched between my fingers. Elevator. Bed. Sleep. That was the plan. A clean line back to something that resembled good judgment.
I reached the call button and stopped short. Raised voices filtered into the hall, and I instantly recognized the loudest one.
Gage.
“You don’t get to decide this kind of thing when it involves all of us.” His anger cut through the stillness of the quiet drawing room next to the elevators.
I instinctively pulled back my finger, and the doors stayed closed. My pulse ticked higher, part nerves, part the leftover energy Boone had lit and hadn’t put out.
Another voice answered, lower, steadier. Dawson. “You sound surprised that I didn’t turn my back on a little kid, when you should know better.”
“Quit spewing bullshit and just own up to it already. You were wrong. Admit it.”
I shifted closer to the edge of the hallway, staying out of sight as I pulled my robe tighter. Boone had asked me to stay. I’d said no with a smile that felt thinner than I liked. Professionalism. Boundaries. Words I clung to because they gave me something solid to hold.
Gage kept going. “Your actions have consequences, Dawson, and not just for us. We’re adults; we can deal with shit when it goes south. But Henry?”
A chair scraped, and heavy steps sounded. Pacing. I peeked my head in far enough to catch a glimpse of them. The wild anger simmering in Gage’s expression. The quiet tension Dawson worked hard to contain.
“Sorry for not clearing it with you first.” Nothing about his tone sounded apologetic. “But I thought out of everyone, you’d get why I did what I did.”
“That’s convenient.”
I swallowed. Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with me. Except it kind of felt like it did. Everything about tonight felt like it was brushing up against everything else, close enough to implode if I wasn’t careful.
I edged nearer, heart thudding against my ribs. Boone’s shirt slipped on my shoulder and I tugged the robe closed again, like that could restore some sense of order.
“Call it what you want,” Dawson said. “But what’s done is done, and I’m not taking any of it back.”
Silence followed in which Gage seethed, and Dawson let him, not backing down.
My fingers curled tighter in the fabric. The elevator chimed somewhere behind me, another car moving.
I should’ve gone to my room. I knew that. Instead, I stood there caught between the echo of Boone’s hands on my skin and the crack in Gage’s voice, aware that whatever moment I was eavesdropping on was just another line being crossed.
And that made the knot in my stomach settle in for the long haul.
“Fostering that kid was a mistake,” Gage finally spoke. “You pulled him into a home that’s the furthest thing from stable. You travel all the time, he has to have a nanny around because you can’t do it on your own… It doesn’t make any sense, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
“You of all people should know what I’m giving Henry is way better than what he’d have in any orphanage,” Dawson shot back. Gage stopped pacing and glared at him. “You grew up in the system, man. You know what it’s—”
I stopped breathing as Dawson’s eyes locked on mine. I’d been so taken by the revelation that I’d edged into view without knowing, wanting to get closer despite my better judgment. Gage whirled around too, as if being caught by one of them wasn’t bad enough.
“I— I’m sorry, I was just…” I was just what? Hiding in the shadows so I could listen to their private conversation? My shoulders sagged, and I just stared at them.
“Great.” Gage threw up his hands. “Next you should sky-write it across the city. Gage Winslow’s a good-for-nothing orphan.”
He kicked a chair and sent it flying across the floor before storming past me without so much as a passing glance.
“Sorry.”
Dawson let out a long sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. He looked like he needed about a hundred hours of sleep.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry you had to see that. Sorry I didn’t keep my mouth shut about his past. I know he hates it when it comes up. Can’t blame him.”
Dawson rubbed a hand over his face again, then motioned toward the drawing room with a tired tilt of his head.
I followed him in, the space dim and hushed, lamps throwing low pools of light across leather chairs and a long table scattered with forgotten magazines.
The room felt bruised. Like it had absorbed too many late-night conversations and kept them.
He took one of the chairs near the window and sat heavily. Not collapsing. Just… spent. I hovered, then chose the opposite seat, tucking my legs beneath me, Boone’s shirt suddenly very loud against my skin in this quieter place.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he said. “Not in front of you. Or at all.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think you meant for it to land that way.”
“That doesn’t make it better.” His gaze dropped to the carpet. “Gage doesn’t need reminders. He lives with it.”
I hesitated, then spoke carefully. “It explains some things. The distance. With Henry, especially.”
His mouth curved, humorless. “Yeah. It explains it. Doesn’t excuse it.”
I nodded, my fingers worrying the edge of my robe. Henry’s small hand wrapped around mine earlier flashed through my head. The way he’d asked if Dawson was coming back before he fell asleep.
“Gage never made peace with where he came from,” Dawson went on. “Aged out at eighteen. No foster family. No adoption. Just a bag and a goodbye.” He exhaled through his nose. “He learned early that needing people was a liability.”
Something in my chest pulled tight at that. I kept my voice steady. “So now he keeps everyone at arm’s length.”
“On a good day.” Dawson glanced up at me. “On the ice, it turns into something uglier. He plays like he’s got something to prove every shift. Other teams see it and go after him. Chirp him. Target him.” A pause. “The worst part is he joins in. Nobody’s harder on Gage than Gage.”
I pictured him scowling across the rink, jaw set, daring the world to come closer while bracing for the hit. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” Dawson’s shoulders slumped. “He’s the first one to arrive. Last one to leave. Works twice as hard, still thinks it’s not enough.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair, then stilled. “He’s always been the underdog because he decided he was.”
The room settled around us again. The low hum of the sleeping hotel.
“You care about him,” I said.
Dawson let out a short laugh. “That obvious?”
“You jump into his fights. You smooth things over. You shield him.” I met his eyes. “You’ve appointed yourself his keeper.”
His expression tightened. “Someone has to.”
“Do they, though? Or does he need space to mess it up himself?”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “If I step back, he spirals.”
“Or,” I said, “he figures out how to catch himself.”
That earned me a look. “Do you moonlight as a therapist?”
A brittle laugh fluttered out of me. “Sometimes help becomes a crutch. Sometimes it keeps people from growing because they never have to sit with the consequences.”
Dawson was quiet. The lamps cast shadows under his eyes, made him look older than he probably felt. “I don’t want to watch him get hurt.”
“I know.” My voice softened. “But protecting him from everything doesn’t protect him from himself.”
He breathed out, long and slow, the tension easing a fraction. “You’re not wrong. Hell of a time to hear it, though.”
A small smile tugged at my mouth. “Timing has never been my strong suit.”
That got a faint huff from him. He straightened, rubbing his palms together once. “I just want him to believe he deserves more than scraps. More than proving himself over and over.”
“So show him that,” I said. “Not by fighting his battles. By trusting him to stand on his own.”
Dawson nodded, the motion slight but real. “I’ll try.”
His nod settled into place, then didn’t quite hold. His attention drifted back to me, eyes narrowing a fraction as they tracked upward. My hair. Still damp, clinging to my neck. I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how late it was, how empty the place felt.
“What are you doing up?” he asked, casual enough. Too casual.
“Yeah.” The word came out quickly. I tucked a strand behind my ear and wished I’d done something about it before now. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d grab some water.”
His gaze stayed put. “And… you decided to throw it all over yourself?”
Heat rushed up my throat. “The pool area was open.”
But he wasn’t watching my face. In my awkwardness, my robe had slipped open, revealing what I was wearing. This was where Dawson’s attention now rested.
“Is that—?” He stopped himself mid-thought.
I snapped my robe closed, fingers clumsy, pulse racing too hard for the quiet room.
But it was too late.
Dawson’s expression changed into something like disappointment. His jaw set. His shoulders straightened.
“I can explain,” I blurted, already scrambling for words that didn’t exist.
He stood, pushing up from the chair with care, as if any sudden movement might crack what little calm he had left.
“No need,” he said. “Have a good night, Carissa.”
Then he walked out.
Just like that. No lecture. No questions. No chance to soften the blow. The door closed behind him, the sound small but final, and I was left staring at the space he’d occupied, my reflection faint in the dark window.
My stomach twisted with a fire I couldn’t put out, and I pressed my palms into my thighs, trying to steady myself.
This wasn’t about me. It had never been.
Dawson had taken in a kid who needed consistency, and stability.
Routine. People who stayed. I’d promised to be part of that. To keep things simple. Safe.
And tonight I’d chosen otherwise.
Boone’s shirt felt heavier now, like evidence. Like a mistake I’d carried back with me. I imagined Henry waking up in the morning, asking for breakfast, for a schedule that suddenly no longer included me. The thought lodged sharp and ugly in my chest.
What if this cost him more upheaval? What if my wants had cracked something Dawson had been trying so hard to build?
I stood, pacing the length of the drawing room once before forcing myself to stop. Spiraling wouldn’t fix it. But the fear stayed, curling tight, whispering all the worst outcomes.
I’d wanted one night. One moment of letting go.
Now I had to face what that might take with it.