Chapter 8 #2
Then I heard the chant. "KO-DI-AKS! KO-DI-AKS!"
We won.
I slumped against the cinderblock wall, shaking. He did it. He survived.
The team came down the tunnel five minutes later. They were loud, screaming, high-fiving. The smell of victory—sweat, testosterone, and champagne—wafted ahead of them.
Jaxson walked past, minus a tooth, grinning like a maniac. "Did you see that pass, Sof? Did you see it?"
"Great pass, Jax," I said automatically.
I waited.
The rest of the team filed past. No Liam.
My heart started to race again. Where is he?
Finally, he appeared at the top of the ramp.
He was walking slowly. He had his arm draped around the trainer's shoulders, using him as a crutch. His mask was off. His face was gray, slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead.
He looked like he had been in a car crash.
He saw me.
He stopped. He said something to the trainer. The trainer hesitated, looked at me, then nodded and let go of Liam.
"I got him from here," I said to the trainer, stepping forward.
The trainer looked skeptical. "He needs ice, Ms. Thorne. And probably an X-ray."
"I know," I said. "I'll get him to the medical room. Give us a minute."
The trainer walked away, leaving us alone in the dim, concrete tunnel.
Liam stood there, swaying slightly. He was still in his full gear, looking massive and terrifyingly broken.
"You look like hell," I whispered, walking toward him.
"We won," he rasped. His voice was gone.
"You're an idiot," I said, tears spilling over. "You're a stubborn, reckless, beautiful idiot."
I reached him. I didn't know where to touch him. He was covered in hard plastic and armor. So I reached up and cupped his face.
His skin was burning hot. Fever hot. Adrenaline hot.
"Did you see?" he asked, his eyes searching mine. They were wild, dilated. "Did you see the save?"
"I saw it," I sobbed. "I saw you get crushed."
"I held the line," he muttered. "I didn't let it in."
"You held the line," I agreed.
He groaned, a low sound of pain mixed with something else. He leaned his weight against the wall, pulling me with him.
"Get me out of here," he whispered. "I can't... I can't let the scouts see me limping. I can't go into the locker room yet."
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
I looked around. The loading dock door was to our right. It led to a small storage alcove behind the Zamboni garage. It was dark, quiet.
"Come on," I said.
I ducked under his arm, taking his weight. He was heavy—so heavy. Two hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight.
We stumbled into the alcove. I kicked the door shut, plunging us into semi-darkness. The only light came from the crack under the door.
Liam collapsed onto a stack of rubber floor mats. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
"Leg," I commanded.
I knelt in front of him, unbuckling his pads with shaking hands. I ripped the velcro straps open.
"Don't," he hissed when I touched the knee.
"I have to see," I said.
I pulled the pad off.
His knee was wrapped in the tape I had put on him, but it was swollen tight against the skin. Even through the tape, I could see it was angry.
"Liam," I whispered. "You can't play on Tuesday. You can't."
He opened his eyes. He looked down at me, kneeling between his legs in the dark.
He didn't answer. Instead, his hand shot out and grabbed the front of my jersey. His jersey.
He yanked me forward.
I gasped, losing my balance and falling against his chest. His chest protector was hard, cold plastic, but his neck was hot.
"You wore it," he growled.
"What?"
"The jersey," he said. His voice was rough, dripping with adrenaline and lust. "You're wearing my name."
"I told you I would."
" seeing you up there," he muttered, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back so I had to look at him. "In that glass box. Looking like a queen. Wearing my number."
He swallowed hard. "It was the only thing that kept me standing."
"Liam," I breathed.
The air in the small room shifted. The smell of sweat and blood and ozone was overwhelming. It wasn't gross. It was primal. It was the scent of survival.
"I was so scared," I admitted. "When you went down... I thought you were dead."
"I felt dead," he said. "Then I looked up. And I knew you were watching."
He leaned down. His mouth hovered inches from mine.
"Kiss me," he commanded. "I need to feel something that isn't pain."
I didn't hesitate.
I surged up and smashed my lips against his.
It tasted like salt. Like Gatorade. Like desperation.
He groaned, a vibration that went straight into my chest. His arms wrapped around me, crushing me against his armor. One hand gripped the back of my neck, holding me in place, while the other roamed down my back, over the leather leggings.
I straddled his good leg, pressing myself as close as physics allowed. I needed to know he was solid. I needed to feel the heat of him to chase away the cold terror of the last hour.
He kissed me like he played—aggressive, dominant, claiming. His tongue swept into my mouth, taking everything I had.
"Sofia," he panted against my lips. "God, you feel good."
My hands found the buckles of his chest protector. I fumbled with them, needing to touch skin.
"Take it off," I demanded. "I want to touch you."
"Can't," he gasped. "If I take it off, I might not be able to put it back on. And I have to walk out of here."
The reality crashed back in.
He was hurt. He was hiding. We were in a closet.
I pulled back, breathing hard. My lips felt swollen. My heart was racing.
I looked at him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the gray. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and wrecked.
"You're hurt," I whispered, touching his cheek. "We have to get you ice."
"In a minute," he said, leaning his forehead against mine. "Just give me a minute. Let me just... be here."
"I'm here," I said. "I've got you."
We stayed like that in the dark, my body draped over his armor, his hand gripping my hip like a lifeline.
Outside the door, I heard footsteps. Heavy, purposeful footsteps.
"I'm telling you, I saw him limp," a voice said. It was unfamiliar. Professional. "If the knee is structural, he's a liability. We need to see the medical report."
A scout.
Liam stiffened beneath me. His grip on my hip tightened to the point of pain.
"He's fine," another voice—Coach Miller—replied. "Just a bruise. He finished the game, didn't he?"
"Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, Coach," the scout said dryly. "Let's see him walk cold."
The footsteps faded down the hall toward the locker room.
Liam let out a breath, his head falling back against the wall.
"They know," he whispered. "They're circling."
"Then we fool them," I said fiercely. I pulled back, grabbing his face in my hands. "We ice it now. We wrap it tighter. And you walk into that locker room like you own the place. You don't limp, Liam. You don't show weakness. Not tonight."
"I don't know if I can," he admitted. The vulnerability in his voice broke my heart.
"You can," I said. "Because I'm going to walk right next to you. And if you stumble, I will catch you. And if anyone asks, you're leaning on me because you're obsessed with me, not because you're hurt."
He looked at me. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
"Obsessed with you?" he huffed. "That's the cover story?"
"Is it a lie?" I challenged.
He looked at my lips. Then at my eyes.
"No," he said softly. "No, it's not a lie."
He grabbed his stick, using it to haul himself up. He hissed in pain but locked his jaw.
"Okay," he said, standing tall, blocking out the light. "Let's go show them."
He put his arm around my shoulders. It was heavy, crushing. But I stood straight. I took the weight.
We opened the door and walked into the light.
I was the Heiress. He was the Gladiator.
And together, we were going to lie to the world.