Chapter 8 #2
I watched the last four minutes of the game through a blur of tears I was too angry to shed. He was playing on one leg. He was grimacing with every turn. But he was still the best player on the ice. He controlled the puck, slowed down the play, killed the clock.
When the final horn blew, Blackwood won. The team piled onto the goalie.
Nick didn't celebrate. He skated slowly to the center, shook the hands of the other team, and then limped down the tunnel.
He didn't look at me again. He didn't have the energy.
The area outside the locker room was a chaotic holding pen. Parents, girlfriends, boosters. Everyone was high on the win.
I stood near the concrete wall, away from the crowd. I was vibrating with adrenaline. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap and steal him away from this violent, demanding world.
The door opened.
Players started trickling out. They were showered, wearing suits, hair wet and combed. They looked like oversized schoolboys.
Jax came out. He had a black eye blooming on his cheek.
"Jess!" He grinned. "Did you see that fight? I wrecked him."
"Where is he?" I asked, cutting straight to the point.
Jax's smile faded. "He's with the trainers. Ice bath. He took a nasty shot, Red. You might want to... go easy on him."
"Is he okay?"
"He says he is. But... Nick says a lot of things." Jax lowered his voice. "He's waiting for the scout to leave. The guy from Chicago is in there talking to Coach."
"Okay," I said. "I'll wait."
I waited for twenty minutes. The hallway cleared out. Even the janitors were sweeping up.
Finally, the locker room door opened.
Nick emerged.
He was wearing his suit—charcoal grey, impeccable. But he was leaning heavily on the wall as he walked. He was carrying his duffel bag like it weighed a thousand pounds.
When he saw me, he stopped.
He looked wrecked. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights. His eyes were dull, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard.
"You waited," he said. His voice was raspy.
"Of course I waited," I said, pushing off the wall. "You idiot."
He let out a short, dry laugh. "Nice greeting. I won, you know."
"I don't care about the score, Nick. I care about the fact that you can barely walk."
I marched up to him. I reached for his bag.
"Give me that."
"I can carry my own bag, Jessica."
"Give. It. To. Me."
I yanked the strap from his shoulder. He let it go, too tired to fight.
"Where is the car?" I asked. "Are you driving? You can't drive."
"Valet lot," he murmured. "And no. My leg is... stiff."
"Stiff. Right. That's the medical term for 'traumatized.'"
I slung his heavy bag over my shoulder, nearly tipping over. " Lean on me."
"I'm fine."
"Nick," I said, stepping into his space. "Nobody is watching. The scout is gone. Your dad is gone. It's just me. Drop the act."
He looked down at me. For a moment, he held onto the mask. Then, he let it slip. His shoulders slumped. He winced, closing his eyes.
"It hurts," he whispered. "Fuck, Jess. It hurts."
"I know," I said softly.
I moved to his left side. I wrapped my arm around his waist. "Put your arm over my shoulder. Lean your weight on me. I've got you."
He hesitated, then draped his heavy arm over me. He was heavy. Solid muscle and bone. But I braced myself. I was stronger than I looked.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go home."
We walked slowly down the long concrete tunnel. Step. Drag. Step. Drag.
"Did you see the hit?" he asked after a moment, staring at the floor.
"I saw it. I saw you get up."
"I had to get up."
"Why?"
"Because he was watching."
He didn't have to say who he was.
"He's an ass," I said venomously. "If he cared about you, he'd be down here helping you to the car, not drinking scotch in a skybox."
Nick tightened his grip on my shoulder. "Careful. That's the donor checkbook you're talking about."
"I don't care. He can buy a new building. He can't buy a new hip."
We reached the exit. The cold night air hit us. It was snowing again.
We waited for the valet to bring his car—a sleek black Rover. When it pulled up, I helped him into the passenger seat. He groaned as he sat, extending his left leg stiffly.
I threw his bag in the back and climbed into the driver's seat. It felt massive. It smelled like him.
I started the car. I turned the heat up to maximum.
I didn't put it in gear immediately. I turned to look at him.
He was leaning his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, face illuminated by the dashboard lights. He looked beautiful and tragic.
I reached out. I placed my hand on his left thigh, high up, near the injury.
He didn't flinch. He didn't push me away. He covered my hand with his own. His fingers interlaced with mine.
"You're freezing," he murmured, eyes still closed.
"I was worried," I admitted.
He opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at me. The grey irises were swirling with exhaustion and something else. Something hot.
"You were wearing my jersey," he said.
"It was part of the uniform."
"No," he said. He squeezed my hand. "You looked... right. Seeing you in the stands. Wearing my name."
He leaned toward me. The center console was between us, but he bridged the gap.
"It helped," he whispered. "Knowing you were watching. It made me want to get up."
My heart squeezed. "Nick..."
"I wanted to skate over to the glass," he confessed, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "I wanted to smash through it. I wanted to grab you and drag you onto the ice and kiss you until the whole arena forgot the score."
I stopped breathing. The image was vivid. Violent. Arousing.
"Why didn't you?" I breathed.
"Because," he reached up, cupping my cheek with his cold hand. His thumb traced my lower lip. "I'm supposed to be the disciplined one. Remember?"
"Screw discipline," I whispered, leaning into his touch.
He watched my mouth. He leaned closer. Our breath mingled in the cold air of the car.
"Take me home, Jess," he said, his forehead resting against mine. "Take me home and fix me. Please."
"I will," I promised.
I pulled away, put the car in gear, and drove out of the stadium lot.
But as I merged onto the highway, a black sedan pulled out behind us. It stayed two car lengths back.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. It was a town car. Tinted windows.
I knew that car. I had seen it dropping Nick off at the gala in Chapter 1.
It was his father.
Nick didn't notice. He had drifted into a pain-filled doze.
But I gripped the steering wheel tighter. We weren't just fighting an injury anymore. We were being watched. And I had a feeling the gladiator in the passenger seat was about to face a battle he couldn't win with a hockey stick.