Chapter 8 #2
"The shoulder is... unhappy," he admitted. "The hit jarred it."
"You shouldn't have played."
"We won."
"You could have permanent damage."
"We won, Faye." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Did you see the goal?"
I sighed. "Yes. It was terrifying. You almost broke the net."
"Did you see who I pointed at?"
I froze. "You pointed?"
"After the goal. Before the celly. I pointed at the box."
My heart skipped a beat. "I thought you were pointing at your dad."
"I was pointing at you."
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. The car swerved slightly.
"Watch the road," he murmured.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why point at me?"
"Because," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion and something else—lust? Adrenaline? "I could feel you watching me. It’s like a spotlight. I knew you were terrified. I wanted you to know I was still standing."
"You're an idiot."
"I’m the Captain."
We pulled into the garage of the penthouse. I parked.
Before I could kill the engine, Graham reached over with his left hand and killed it for me.
The silence was sudden and heavy.
"Help me out," he said.
I got out and walked around to his side. I opened the door. He swung his legs out, but he didn't stand up immediately. He sat there, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.
I stepped between his legs. I couldn't help it. It was instinct.
I put my hands on his knees. "Graham?"
He looked up. His eyes were dark, dilated pools. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving him raw.
"I hurt," he whispered.
"I know. We’ll get you ice. We’ll get the pills."
"Not that kind of hurt."
He reached out and grabbed my hips. His grip was hard, almost painful. He pulled me forward until my thighs hit the leather of the seat, wedging me between his spread legs.
He buried his face in my stomach, pressing his forehead against my coat.
"I need..." he groaned, inhaling sharply. "I need to know I’m not broken."
"You're not broken."
"I feel broken. Every time I get hit, I feel like a piece of me chips off."
I ran my hands through his hair. It was still damp. I massaged his scalp, feeling the tension radiating off him.
"You're still here," I soothed. "You're solid. You're whole."
He lifted his head. His gaze locked onto my mouth.
"Ground me, Faye."
It wasn't a request. It was a demand for survival.
He leaned up and kissed me.
It wasn't like the kitchen. It wasn't like the car. This was slow. Heavy. Drugged.
His lips moved against mine with a desperate, aching tenderness. He tasted like blood (from his lip), mint, and exhaustion.
I kissed him back. I poured everything I had into it—my fear during the game, my awe at his strength, my anger at his father. I opened my mouth, inviting him in, letting him take what he needed.
His tongue swept into my mouth, a slow, deep claim. His hand moved from my hip to the back of my neck, holding me in place, anchoring himself to me.
We kissed for a long time in the dark garage. The only sound was our breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against mine.
"Better?" I whispered, my lips buzzing.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Better."
He took a deep breath and sat up straight, the mask sliding back into place. But it was thinner now.
"Let's go inside," he said. "I need you to tape me up again."
"I thought you hated the tape."
"I hate the pain. But I like your hands on me."
I blushed, stepping back to let him stand. He groaned as he straightened up, favoring the shoulder heavily.
We walked to the elevator. He leaned his weight on me. I took it. I was surprised by how strong I felt. I was holding up the Governor. I was the pillar he leaned on.
As the doors closed, sealing us into the glass box, I looked at our reflection.
He was battered, bruised, and exhausted. I was small, blonde, and wearing a coat that cost too much.
But we looked... right.
We looked like a team.
And for the first time, I wasn't scared of the fall. I was ready to jump.
Graham
Later that night, after the ice, after the pills, after Faye had practically force-fed me pasta while lecturing me on the dangers of concussions, I lay in bed.
The room was dark. My shoulder was throbbing a dull, distant rhythm.
I couldn't sleep.
I kept seeing her face in the glass. The fear in her eyes when I went down. The relief when I stood up.
She cared. She actually, genuinely cared. Not about the stats. Not about the draft. About me.
I rolled over, wincing.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I ignored it. It was probably the Senator again, or the Coach.
It buzzed again. And again.
I grabbed it, squinting at the screen.
It was Rys.
Rys: Dude. Check Twitter.
Rys: Or don't. Actually, don't. Just go to sleep.
Rys: But seriously, call me tomorrow.
My stomach tightened. That cold, familiar dread washed over me.
I opened Twitter.
I didn't have to search. It was trending locally.
#SentinelScandal
I clicked the hashtag.
A photo.
Grainy, taken with a long lens from across a street.
It was me and Faye. In the alley behind the Delta house last week.
I had her pinned against the Rover. My hands were on her face. Her head was thrown back. We looked... intimate. We looked like we were about to tear each other's clothes off.
The caption read: The Governor and the Princess? Looks like the 'Roommate' arrangement comes with benefits. Wonder what Daddy Allister thinks about his Captain corrupting his daughter?
I scrolled down.
Comments. Speculation. Jokes about her being a puck bunny. Jokes about me securing my contract by sleeping with the boss's daughter.
I dropped the phone on the mattress.
The bubble hadn't just popped. It had been nuked.
Silas Allister was going to see this. The Board was going to see this.
And the first thing they were going to do was try to separate us.
I looked at the door to the hallway. Faye was sleeping in the guest room, probably dreaming about painting or Paris or whatever chaotic beautiful things she dreamed about. She didn't know yet.
I closed my eyes.
The game was over. The war had just begun.