Chapter Twenty-One
Emily
The speed with which that man made it to my apartment could have rivaled Max Verstappen.
I laughed as I opened the door — which was still harder to do with my non-dominant hand than I liked to admit — and saw Braden standing there, panting like he’d run a marathon.
“New record,” I teased, pretending to check my nonexistent watch. “Now if only we could shave a few seconds off the corners. Maybe you could take the bumper off the Bronco and see if that helps?”
I was trying so hard to joke, to laugh, to kick this all off with something light and fun even as I felt my stomach cramping, my lungs seizing, tears threatening to fall.
And damn Braden Lock, he didn’t let me fool him for even one second.
His brows pinched together at the sight of my arm in the cast, at the sling that held it close to my body. His nostrils flared the longer he looked at my injury, and when he dragged that tortured gaze to meet mine, I nearly broke.
“Fuck, Em,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”
That did it.
I tried to nod and smile, tried to shrug it off and say something easy like, “Ah, no biggie! Just a little sprain.” But the tears rushed so fast I couldn’t stop them, warping my face even as I tried to cover it with my non-injured hand.
I barely got one good sob out before Braden was there, sweeping me into his arms and pushing us inside to shut the door behind us. He wrapped me up tighter then, one arm snaked all the way around my back, and the other over my shoulders as his hand cradled my head softly and held me to his chest.
He was so warm, so big and surprisingly soft for all the muscle that lined his body.
My fingers curled in the soft fabric of his hoodie, like gripping tight to him might keep me from spiraling further.
I was like a wild cat who’d found reprieve from the cold rain, who’d stumbled upon a covered shelter where no one would bother me.
I wanted to stay there. I wanted to curl up in his arms and pretend they were home.
Eventually, I pulled away, swiping at my face and sniffling. It wasn’t lost on me that Braden didn’t break the hug until I did, like he was waiting for me to decide when it was enough.
That nearly made me cry again.
Wordlessly, Braden walked me over to the couch I’d been practically living on the last few days and had me sit.
He crossed to my kitchen, opening cabinets until he found the one that housed our glassware.
He brought me a tall cup of water and sat next to me on the couch while I drank nearly the entire thing.
And then he offered me a handkerchief from his pocket.
I laughed.
“Dear God, what is this?” I asked, holding the soft, worn blue square of fabric like it was a dead rat.
“It’s for your tears and your snot. You’re welcome.”
“Who carries a freaking handkerchief in the twenty-first century?”
“A gentleman.”
I laughed again, and the way it rumbled through my chest so genuinely felt like breathing after holding my breath under water until I turned blue. I loved how it shook off the pain, how it rattled off the ache and left me feeling warm and light again.
I dabbed at my eyes before blowing my nose into the thing, and I had to admit it felt much nicer than a tissue. “Am I supposed to give this back to you now?” I asked, arching a brow as I waved the fabric in front of Braden’s face.
He grimaced and dodged my advances. “You can keep it for now.”
“What? Don’t want to take it home and smell it? Sleep with it? Make a Voodoo doll or something?” I snapped my fingers. “Wait, are you trying to get me to trade you this for a pair of my panties? Because it might be working.”
“Glad to see you’re able to keep your humor in times of duress.”
“It is my specialty.” My smile slipped a bit, and I curled my fingers around the handkerchief, holding tight to it as I dropped my hand to my lap. “What’s the saying? If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry?”
I waved a hand over myself to illustrate, which made me half-laugh, half-cry again.
Braden reached out and smoothed his hand over my shoulders before letting that palm wander down my back.
I let out a long, pleased sigh at the contact, at the feeling of another human being touching me when I’d done my best to isolate.
His hand was warm, his touch firm, his eyes laced with a sincere sympathy I wasn’t sure I loved or hated.
No. It wasn’t sympathy. It was empathy.
He understood.
He knew what it was like to lose something so suddenly, to think your life was going one way only to have it thrown another.
My throat tightened, and I peeked up, letting myself take him in.
He looked cozy in his hoodie and joggers, both black and nondescript.
But his sandy brown hair was disheveled like he’d had a long day, the gold strands of it dulled like it needed to be washed.
His eyes were rimmed red, the scruff on his jaw merging with that on his neck.
He was usually more cleaned up and put together.
I liked that he hadn’t stopped to fix any of it before coming to me.
“Tell me what happened,” he said after a moment, his hand still smoothing my back.
“Non-displaced wrist fracture and a ligament sprain,” I said, knowing I didn’t have to soften any of it for him. He was an athlete. He knew what it was like to risk your body, your health, every single day doing what you love most.
And by the way he grimaced, I knew he understood the pain of what an injury cost as an athlete, too.
“Two months?” he asked.
I nodded. “Six to eight weeks or so, depending.”
“Fuck.”
I nodded more emphatically then, because yeah… fuck was right.
“I’m sorry I didn’t…” I shook my head, the apology dying on my tongue. “My parents were here, and then when they left I just… I don’t know. I was trying to wrap my head around it all. I was trying to accept the reality. And I couldn’t have an audience for that.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Braden said. “Trust me, I get it. It’s gut wrenching, realizing that your season is disrupted.”
“Maybe over.”
He nodded with a pained sigh, squeezing my shoulder before he removed his hand, clasping it with his other between his knees. He was still leaning in, still engaged, but my chest ached at the loss.
I immediately longed for his touch again, so much so that I thought about fake-crying just to get it back.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But let’s try not to go there yet, okay? I know it’s hard not to. All I can say is that the body is a miraculous thing, and you won’t know where you’re at until you’re cleared to start PT. That’s when you can really start to tell.”
“And if it’s shit?”
“Then maybe it is your whole season. And we cross that bridge when we get to it.”
We. Like we were a team. Like this was as much his injury as it was mine.
I loved how he wasn’t telling me not to be sad, or telling me how strong I was. I loved that he wasn’t sugar coating it or saying that maybe I could get back in time for playoffs.
He wasn’t trying to be a light in the dark. He was just sitting in the darkness with me.
I didn’t realize that was what I needed until he gave it to me.
“What’s been the hardest part so far?” he asked.
“Besides trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m down for two months?
” I blew out a breath, sinking back in the couch.
“Everything. The sad looks from my teammates when they stop by. The call from Claire to tell me who was taking my spot, but that I’m still expected to be at practices and games.
She said it like it was a good thing. Like oh, we need to make sure you know the routines because obviously you’ll be right back at it! ”
Braden reached over and squeezed my knee in understanding.
That little touch did something to my belly that was very welcoming after the nausea I’d sat with for days.
“My parents were at the game,” I said, giving him a flat-lipped smile and nod when Braden’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. I noticed them right before the routine started. They fly in to surprise me and end up being the ones who get the surprise, I guess.”
“Did it fuck you up?” he asked. “Seeing them? Do you think—”
I shook my head automatically, shutting it down before it had the chance to take roots. Because I’d thought the very same thing for days — and I didn’t want to be right.
“No, I just lost my footing and had a bad tumble. Landed wrong on my hands. It happens.”
I swallowed, picking at my nails. They were horrid now, the cuticles ripped to shit, the acrylic grown out and in desperate need of attention. But I didn’t know how they’d do my nails with this cast on — if they could at all — and so I didn’t make a move one way or another.
“It was embarrassing though,” I admitted softly. “I mean, as if it isn’t already that this is what I’m doing with my life. But then to fall and injure myself when they…” I shook my head. Anytime I tried to go too deep, it was like my body shut down, voice refusing to cooperate.
“You don’t actually feel that.”
It wasn’t a question. Braden said it with authority, like he was an expert on the matter, and the matter was me.
And I wanted to argue, but again, the words died in my throat.
He was right.
I wasn’t embarrassed to be a dancer for the Seahawks. I was fucking proud. It lit me up — how hard I had to work to make the team, the hours I put into practice, the routines and the physique I kept and the way I felt when I was all dressed up under those stadium lights.
And yet…
“I do when they’re around,” I whispered.
He squeezed my knee, his eyes never leaving mine.