Chapter 8 #2
The trainer packed up his bag. "I'm going to get you some ice, Cap. Don't move. And you," he looked at me, "make sure he doesn't fall asleep for a few hours."
"I won't," I promised.
The trainer walked away.
We were alone in the hallway. The roar of the victory party was muffled behind the heavy door.
Greg looked at me. His eyes were struggling to focus, but they were locked on my face.
"You're wearing my jersey," he said softly.
"I stole it," I admitted. "I wanted... I don't know. I wanted to be on your team."
He reached out. His gloved hand—bulky, smelling of leather—touched the fabric on my chest.
"Looks better on you," he murmured.
"Greg, your head..."
"My head is fine," he lied. "My heart was the problem."
"Your heart?"
"When I was on the ice," he said, his voice thick. "When I got hit. Everything went black. And the first thing I thought was... I didn't say goodbye to her. I didn't tell her."
"Tell her what?" I whispered.
He leaned forward. The smell of him—sweat, ice, intensity—overwhelmed me. It wasn't gross. It was the scent of survival.
"That I need you," he said. "I need you in the stands. I need you in the house. I need you everywhere."
"I'm here," I said, gripping his knee pads. "I'm right here."
He groaned, a low sound of frustration. He started to pull his gloves off. He threw them onto the floor with a clatter.
Then his bare hands grabbed my face.
"Kiss me," he demanded. "Prove I'm alive."
"Greg, you have a concussion..."
"Kiss me, Michelle."
I didn't argue. I couldn't.
I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.
It wasn't gentle. It tasted of salt and adrenaline. It was frantic. His mouth was hot, searching. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me in place like I was the oxygen mask he needed to breathe.
I kissed him back with everything I had. I kissed the fear away. I kissed the violence away.
He pulled me closer, until I was practically in his lap, straddling his massive, padded legs. My hands found the back of his neck, skin damp and hot.
"God," he groaned against my mouth. "You taste like trouble."
"You taste like a hospital visit," I retorted, but I didn't pull away.
His hands moved down my back, gripping the jersey. He bunched the fabric in his fists.
"Mine," he growled. "Everyone saw you wearing this. Everyone knows."
"Let them know," I said. "I don't care."
"Vane will care."
"Forget him," I said fiercely. "Right now, it's just us."
He kissed me again, deeper, hungrier. His tongue swept into my mouth, possessive and demanding. I felt the familiar heat pool in my belly.
I wanted to take his gear off. I wanted to strip him down right here in the hallway and feel his skin against mine.
"Ahem."
The sound was polite, clipped, and utterly devastating.
We froze.
Greg pulled back slowly, his eyes clearing instantly, shifting from lust to defense.
I turned my head.
Standing at the end of the hallway, holding a clipboard, was a man in a Bruins jacket. The scout.
And next to him, looking like he had just swallowed a lemon, was my father.
Victor Vane.
"Michelle," my father said. His voice was cold enough to freeze the sun. "Get off the hockey player."
I scrambled off Greg's lap, my heart plummeting into my stomach. I smoothed down the jersey, my hands shaking.
"Dad," I stammered. "I... he was hurt. I was checking on him."
"It looked like a very thorough examination," Victor said dryly.
He turned his gaze to Greg. Greg didn't flinch. He sat up straighter, wincing slightly as his head moved, but he held Victor's gaze.
"Sterling," Victor said. "Great game. Shame about the concussion."
"I'm fine, sir," Greg said. The Gavel voice was back, but it sounded strained.
"Mr. Miller here," Victor gestured to the scout, "wanted to speak with you about your future. But it seems you're a bit... distracted."
The scout looked uncomfortable. "Take a few days, son. Heal up. We'll talk when your head is clear."
"Thank you," Greg said.
Victor stepped closer. He looked at me, then at Greg. He saw the flushed faces. He saw the swollen lips. He saw the jersey.
"Michelle," Victor said. "Go to the car."
"No," I said. I moved to stand next to Greg. I put my hand on his shoulder pad. "I'm staying with him. He can't drive. He has a head injury."
"Beef can drive him," Victor dismissed. "You are coming with me. We need to discuss your... living arrangements. It seems the environment has become counter-productive to your studies."
My blood ran cold.
"You can't move me out," I said. "I have a lease. I have grades. I got an 88, Dad!"
"And you got a boyfriend," Victor sneered. "A distraction. Go to the car, Michelle. Or I cut the cards. Now."
I looked at Greg. He was watching Victor with a look of pure hatred. He started to stand up.
"Sit down, Sterling," Victor snapped. "Unless you want me to call the Dean and have a chat about fraternization policies."
Greg froze. He looked at me. He looked at the pain in my eyes.
"Go," Greg said softly.
"Greg..."
"Go with him, Michelle. I'll be fine. Beef will take me home."
"But..."
"Please," he said. "Don't make a scene. Not here."
He was protecting me again. He was taking the hit so I wouldn't have to.
I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. I squeezed his shoulder one last time.
"I'll call you," I whispered.
I turned and walked toward my father. I didn't look at him. I walked past him, head high, trying to salvage some shred of dignity.
"Smart choice," Victor said to Greg.
I heard footsteps following me.
I walked out of the arena, into the cold night air.
The game was won. But looking back at the dark tunnel, I knew the real battle had just started.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if Greg could defend against this.