Chapter 9
Elijah
The party at the "Alpha House"—the sprawling, dilapidated mansion where the seniors on the team lived—was a sensory nightmare.
"Vance! You’re a legend!"
"Did you see that hit in the second period?"
"Shotgun this beer, Cap!"
I stood in the corner of the living room, leaning against a wall that I hoped wasn't load-bearing, holding a red solo cup filled with water.
I was still wearing my suit pants and a white dress shirt, though I had abandoned the tie and jacket hours ago.
My right hand was throbbing in time with the music, a dull, relentless pulse of pain under the fresh tape job the doc had applied.
I hated this. I hated the noise. I hated the chaos. I hated the way everyone looked at me like I was a deity because I could put a piece of vulcanized rubber into a net.
But I stayed. Because the team needed to see me. They needed to see their Captain celebrating. It was part of the job.
And because Angela was here.
I scanned the room, my eyes cutting through the haze of smoke and strobe lights.
There she was.
She was standing near the makeshift bar in the kitchen, laughing at something Jax was saying. She was still wearing the jeans and my jersey. The oversized mesh hung off her shoulder, exposing the strap of a black tank top. Her hair was messy, wild curls escaping the bun she had tried to salvage.
She looked... radiant.
She didn't look like the scared girl who had signed my contract a week ago. She looked like she belonged. She was holding a beer—she hated beer—and smiling at a rookie who looked like he was about to propose marriage.
A sharp, hot spike of jealousy pierced through my exhaustion.
I pushed off the wall. The movement sent a jolt of pain up my arm, but I ignored it. I waded through the crowd, my height giving me a clear path. People moved out of my way instinctively.
I reached the kitchen just as the rookie—Miller—leaned in close to Angela. Too close.
"So, is it true you’re a ballerina?" Miller shouted, grinning. "Show me a move. Can you put your leg behind your head?"
Angela laughed, but her eyes were tight. "Not in these jeans, Miller. And definitely not for free."
"I got five bucks," Miller joked, reaching for his wallet.
A hand landed on Miller’s shoulder. My hand. My left hand. I squeezed.
Miller flinched and spun around. His eyes widened when he saw me. "Oh. Hey, Cap."
"You’re crowding her," I said. My voice was low, devoid of humor.
Miller blanched. "I was just... we were just talking."
"Talk from a distance," I said, releasing him. "Go find a keg."
Miller scrambled away, looking like he’d just escaped a bear attack.
I turned to Angela. She looked up at me, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
"You really enjoy scaring them, don't you?" she shouted over the music.
"I enjoy personal space," I corrected. "And you looked annoyed."
"I was fine. Jax was protecting me."
"Jax is drunk," I said, glancing at my winger, who was currently attempting to stack beer cans on his forehead. "And he’s not me."
"Possessive much?"
"Always."
I stepped into her space. I boxed her against the counter, using my body to shield her from the crush of the party.
The air between us changed instantly. The noise of the party faded into white noise.
It was just the smell of her—vanilla and that subtle, feminine scent that drove me crazy—and the heat of her body inches from mine.
"You look tired," she said, her smile fading into concern. She reached up and touched my jaw. Her fingers were cool. "Your eyes are glassy."
"Adrenaline crash," I admitted. "And painkillers. Doc gave me something for the hand."
"Let’s go," she said immediately. She set her beer down on the counter with a definitive thud.
"I have to stay for another hour," I said automatically. "Optics."
"Screw the optics," she said fiercely. "You played sixty minutes of brutal hockey. You broke your hand—again—and didn't tell anyone. You’re done, Elijah. We’re leaving."
She grabbed my good hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Come on," she ordered.
I looked down at her. The "Brat" was gone. The "Submissive" was gone. This was the Partner. The one who saw through the bullshit.
And God help me, I followed her.
We pushed through the crowd toward the back door. People shouted at us, trying to get us to stay, but Angela ignored them. She carved a path like an icebreaker ship, pulling me in her wake.
We burst out into the cool night air. The sudden silence was jarring. The music was muffled behind the heavy door, replaced by the sound of wind in the trees and distant traffic.
I took a deep breath of the cold air. It hurt my lungs, but it cleared my head.
"My car is around front," I said.
"I’m driving," she stated.
"You don't drive my car," I said. "No one drives the Aston."
"You’re on painkillers," she countered, holding out her hand. "Keys. Now."
I stared at her. She stood there in my jersey, her chin tilted up, looking for all the world like she could take on an army.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the fob. I dropped it into her hand.
"If you scratch it," I warned, "I add another month to the contract."
"If I scratch it," she smirked, "it’ll add character."
She turned and marched toward the driveway. I watched her go, a strange warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the whiskey or the Vicodin.
I was in trouble. I was in deep, catastrophic trouble.
The drive back to the Summit was quiet.
Angela drove with intense focus, both hands on the wheel at ten and two. She navigated the winding mountain roads carefully, treating the car with the respect it deserved.
I sat in the passenger seat, my head resting back against the leather. I watched her profile. The way her nose crinkled when she checked the mirrors. The way she bit her lip when she merged.
"You’re staring," she murmured, not looking away from the road.
"I’m observing."
"You’re judging my driving."
"You’re doing fine," I said softly. "Better than Jax. He treats the gas pedal like an on/off switch."
She smiled. "Thanks."
The silence stretched again. But it wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Charged. Every time she shifted gears (it was an automatic, but she kept her hand near the console), her arm brushed against mine. The contact sent sparks skittering up my nerve endings.
"Why did you come down to the tunnel?" I asked suddenly.
She glanced at me, then back at the road. "I saw you get hit. I saw you stay down. You never stay down."
"I was catching my breath."
"You were hurt," she corrected. "I couldn't just... sit there. In the box. Drinking wine while you were bleeding."
"It’s part of the game, Angela."
"Not for me," she whispered. "For me, it’s... it’s terrifying."
The vulnerability in her voice hit me hard.
She cared. She really, actually cared. Not about the Captain. Not about the money. About me.
I reached out with my left hand and covered hers on the console. I laced our fingers together.
"I’m okay," I said. "I’m indestructible."
"No one is indestructible, Elijah," she said, squeezing my hand back. "Even superheroes bleed."
We pulled into the garage of the Summit. The gate rattled shut behind us, sealing us in.
She killed the engine.
We sat in the darkness for a long moment. The only light came from the dashboard and the dim security lights overhead.
"We’re home," she whispered.
She didn't move to get out. Neither did I.
The air in the car was thick enough to choke on. The smell of her perfume, mixed with the leather and my own sweat, was intoxicating.
"Angela," I rasped.
She turned in her seat to face me. Her eyes were wide, dark pools. Her lips were parted.
"Yeah?"
"Come upstairs," I said. "Not... not to your room. To mine."
She swallowed hard. "To your room?"
"I can't be alone tonight," I admitted. The words tasted like ash, but they were true. "The noise... it’s still in my head. I need... I need you."
"Okay," she breathed.
She opened her door.
The elevator ride up was a blur. I leaned against the wall, the exhaustion finally crashing over me. Angela stood next to me, her shoulder pressing against my arm. A silent support.
When the doors opened into the penthouse, I walked straight to the bar and poured a glass of water. I downed it in one go.
"Do you want food?" Angela asked, hovering near the kitchen island. "I can make toast. Or eggs."
"No food," I said. "Just... come here."
I walked down the hallway to the master bedroom. I didn't look back to see if she was following. I knew she was. I could feel her presence like a gravitational pull.
My bedroom was stark. Black walls, grey bedding, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It was a monk’s cell designed by a billionaire.
I sat on the edge of the massive bed and kicked off my dress shoes. I groaned as I bent over, my ribs protesting the abuse they’d taken from Kronsky’s shoulder.
"Let me," Angela said.
She was there, kneeling in front of me. She unlaced my shoes with gentle, efficient fingers. She pulled them off, then peeled off my socks.
She looked up at me from her knees. The position was so familiar—so deeply ingrained in our dynamic—but the context was different. This wasn't submission. This was caretaking.
"Your shirt," she whispered. "It’s tight. You’re going to hurt your hand trying to get it off."
I looked down at the white dress shirt. It was strained across my chest. The buttons were small. My right hand was a useless claw of tape and pain.
"Help me," I said.
She stood up and stepped between my spread knees.
She reached out. Her fingers were trembling slightly as she undid the top button. Then the second. Then the third.
She worked her way down, exposing my chest inch by inch. I watched her face. She was focused, biting her lip in concentration. But her eyes... her eyes were tracking the skin she was revealing.
She finished the buttons. She pushed the shirt off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
I was bare from the waist up.
She sucked in a breath.