Chapter 8 #2
"I don't care if you won!" I yelled, poking him in the chest (the padded part). "You’re hurt! You’re an idiot! You risked everything for a stupid game!"
He stared at me. The hallway was bustling with people—equipment managers, press, other players—but he didn't seem to notice. He was looking at me like he had never seen me before.
"You’re shaking," he noted.
"Because I was scared!" I admitted. "I was terrified, Elijah!"
He let out a long breath. He looked around, then grabbed my arm with his good hand.
"Come here."
He pulled me into a small alcove—a storage closet for sticks and pucks. It was dim and smelled of fresh lumber and tape. He kicked the door shut, plunging us into semi-darkness.
"Let me see it," I demanded, reaching for his right hand.
"No," he said, pulling it back. "The trainer already looked at it. It’s swollen. It hurts. But nothing is displaced."
"You promised," I whispered. "Rule number two. You let me help."
He leaned back against the wall of sticks, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked exhausted. Then, he held out his gloved hand.
I gently, so gently, unstrapped the heavy hockey glove. I pulled it off.
His hand was a mess. The tape I had applied yesterday was shredded. The knuckles were purple and black, swollen to the size of golf balls.
I hissed in sympathy. "Elijah..."
"It’s just pain," he murmured.
I looked up at him. His eyes were open now, watching me. They were dark, dilated. The adrenaline of the game was still coursing through him. I could feel the heat radiating off his armor.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, tracing the skin below the bruising.
"Yes," he said. "But not as much as looking at you crying."
My breath hitched.
"You scared me," I whispered.
"Good," he said roughly. "That means you care."
"I do care," I admitted. "I hate it, but I care."
He made a sound—a low growl in his throat. He dropped his injured hand and reached out with his left, grabbing the back of my neck. His leather glove was rough against my skin.
"Prove it," he commanded.
He pulled me against him.
The collision was hard. His chest pads were solid rock against my breasts. The smell of him—sweat, ice, and raw masculinity—filled my nose. It shouldn't have been sexy. It should have been gross.
But it was the most arousing thing I had ever smelled.
He kissed me.
This wasn't the slow, sweet kiss of the casino night. This was a claiming. This was post-game violence translated into passion. He devoured me. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting the wine I had been drinking. He bit my lip, hard enough to sting.
I moaned, burying my hands in his hair, pulling him closer. I needed to feel him. I needed to confirm that the body under this armor was still whole.
He groaned, pressing me back against the door. His hips ground against mine. Through the thick hockey pants, I could feel the hardness of him.
"You watched me," he murmured against my mouth. "Did you like it?"
"You got hurt," I gasped.
"Did you like watching me play?" he demanded, his hand sliding down to grip my ass through my jeans. "Did you like seeing them try to stop me and fail?"
"Yes," I confessed. "God, yes. You were terrifying."
"I was playing for you," he whispered, nipping at my jaw. "Every hit. Every shot. I was thinking about you watching me."
The confession made my knees weak.
"Elijah," I panted. "Your hand..."
"Fuck my hand," he growled. "I need you to touch me. I need to feel something soft. I’ve been hitting concrete for three hours."
He grabbed my hand—my left hand—and shoved it under his jersey.
His skin was slick with sweat, scorching hot. I ran my palm over his abs, feeling the hard ridges of muscle bunching under my touch. I moved my hand up to his chest, feeling his heart pounding like a sledgehammer against his ribs.
Alive.
He was so alive.
"Angela," he groaned, his forehead resting against mine. "We have to stop. If I don't stop now, I’m going to lift you up and take you right here against the door, and Coach is going to walk in."
He pulled back, breathing hard. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.
I stared at him. My lips were wet, swollen. My jersey was askew.
"You’re okay?" I asked one last time, needing to hear it.
He looked at his hand, then back at me. A wry, crooked smile touched his lips.
"I’m alive," he said. "We won. And my girl is wearing my jersey."
He reached out and traced the number on my chest with a gloved finger.
"You look good in my name, Moretti."
I flushed. "It’s just camouflage."
"It’s the truth," he corrected.
He opened the door. The noise of the hallway rushed back in.
"Go back to the car," he said, his voice returning to business mode, though his eyes still smoldered. "Wait for me. I have to shower. I have to get this..." he held up his hand "...x-rayed by the team doc. Then I’m taking you home."
"Okay," I said.
He stepped out, turning back into the Captain. He barked an order at a rookie, nodded at a reporter, and disappeared into the locker room.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, trembling.
My heart was racing. My body was humming with unsatisfied need.
I walked toward the exit, hugging myself.
I had survived the game. Elijah had survived the game.
But as I walked past a group of men in suits standing near the exit, I heard a snippet of conversation that made my blood run cold.
"...hand is trash," a man with a notepad was saying into his phone. "Saw him favor it. Vance is a liability if that metacarpal is cracked. Tell the scouts in Chicago to hold off. Let’s see if he breaks under pressure."
I froze.
Liability.
Elijah’s worst nightmare.
I looked back at the locker room door. He was playing hurt to prove he was strong. But the sharks were already circling, smelling the blood in the water.
And for the first time, I realized that the biggest threat to us wasn't the contract, or my dad, or the fake dating.
It was the fact that Elijah Vance was building his entire life on a fracture line, and one wrong hit was going to shatter everything.
And I was standing right in the blast zone.