Chapter 9
Toby
The party was a roar of noise I couldn't tune out.
Usually, after a win, the adrenaline acted as a buffer. The music, the screaming fans, the teammates pounding shots—it all felt distant, like watching a movie of my own life.
But tonight, the buffer was gone. My body was a roadmap of pain. My right hip was a throbbing knot of fire. My knee felt like it was packed with broken glass. And my head was pounding in time with the bass line shaking the floorboards of the hockey house.
I sat on the arm of a crushed velvet sofa that smelled of spilled beer and bad decisions.
A blonde girl—a sophomore I vaguely recognized from Economics—was leaning into my space, her hand resting on my bicep.
She was saying something about her sorority's mixer next week.
Her lips were moving. Her eyes were bright with alcohol and interest.
I didn't hear a word she said.
My eyes were locked on a point across the room.
Georgia.
She was standing near the makeshift bar in the kitchen, holding a red Solo cup she hadn't taken a sip from in twenty minutes. She was wearing my jersey. It was too big for her, hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She had paired it with black leggings and boots.
She looked ridiculous. She looked perfect.
She was laughing at something Jager was saying. Her head was thrown back, the platinum waves of her hair catching the strobe lights. It was a fake laugh. I knew her real laugh now—the snort she tried to hide, the way her eyes crinkled. This was her "socialite" laugh. The armor.
She was miserable.
"So, Toby? Are you even listening?"
I snapped my attention back to the blonde. "Sorry. What?"
"I said, you look really intense. Do you want to go somewhere quieter? My room is upstairs. Or... we could go to your place?" She trailed a finger down my arm, her nail dragging against my skin.
I flinched. Not because it hurt, but because it felt wrong. Her touch was foreign. Invasive.
"I'm good," I said, standing up. My knee buckled slightly, but I caught myself on the sofa arm. "Excuse me."
I walked away without waiting for a response. I was rude. I didn't care.
I needed to get to Georgia.
I cut through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish. People patted my back. "Nice game, Cap!" "That goal was sick!" I nodded, kept moving.
I reached the kitchen. Jager was in the middle of a dramatic reenactment of his fight, using a baguette as a sword.
Georgia saw me coming. Her eyes lit up. The relief on her face was instant. She put her cup down on the counter.
"Hey," she said as I reached her.
"Hey."
"You look like you're in pain," she whispered, her gaze dropping to my leg.
"I'm fine."
"Liar. You're guarding. You've been shifting your weight every thirty seconds."
"You're counting?"
"I'm observant." She reached out and touched my forearm. Her hand was cool. It burned through the fabric of my shirt. "Do you want to leave?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "God, yes."
"Okay. Let's go."
"Whoa, whoa, where are you two going?" Jager interrupted, swinging his baguette toward us. "The night is young! The keg is full! We haven't even done the rookie initiation yet!"
"I'm beat, Jager," I said. "Need to ice the hip."
Jager's eyes flicked between me and Georgia. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
"Right. 'Ice the hip.' Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" He winked at Georgia. "Make sure he stretches, G. Flexibility is key."
Georgia flushed pink, but she didn't deny it. "Goodnight, Jager."
"Night, lovebirds."
We walked out the back door, escaping the noise and the heat. The winter air hit us like a slap in the face. It was snowing harder now, big fat flakes that muffled the world.
My Rover was parked down the street. The walk was only fifty yards, but it felt like a marathon. Every step sent a jolt of pain up my leg.
Georgia walked close to me. She didn't offer to help—she knew I wouldn't take it in public—but her shoulder brushed against my arm with every step. A silent support.
We got into the car. The silence was instantaneous and heavy.
I started the engine and turned up the heat.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"I'm tired, Georgia. Just tired."
"I know."
She reached across the console and took my hand. She interlaced our fingers and rested our joined hands on her thigh.
I didn't pull away. I squeezed her hand, anchoring myself to her.
The drive home was a blur of snowflakes in the headlights and the warmth of her hand in mine. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. The air between us was charged with everything we weren't saying.
I want you.
I need you.
I'm scared.
We pulled into the garage under the tower. The door rattled shut behind us, sealing us in.
I killed the engine.
I turned to look at her. In the dim light of the dashboard, her eyes were huge, dark pools. She looked at me with a mix of fear and hunger that mirrored my own.
"Upstairs," I rasped.
"Upstairs," she agreed.
The penthouse was silent. The city lights below were blurred by the snowstorm.
I locked the door behind us. The click of the deadbolt felt final.
I leaned back against the door, closing my eyes for a second. The exhaustion hit me then, a physical weight dragging me down.
"Sit," Georgia ordered.
I opened my eyes. She was pointing at the sofa.
"I need a shower," I said. "I smell like a locker room."
"You smell like victory," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "But fine. Shower first. Then ice."
I pushed off the door and limped toward my bedroom.
"Do you need help?" she asked.
I stopped. I turned to look at her.
She was standing in the middle of the living room, still wearing my jersey. It engulfed her. She looked small and fierce and beautiful.
"Help with what?" I asked, my voice low.
"Getting the suit off. You can barely bend your knee, Toby."
It was true. My knee had stiffened up during the drive. Bending it to take off my pants was going to be agony.
But letting her help... letting her see me like this... it was a vulnerability I wasn't used to.
"I can manage," I said.
"Don't be a hero," she said, walking toward me. "You already played the third period on one leg. You've earned the right to be human."
She walked past me into the bedroom. She turned on the bedside lamp, casting a warm glow over the room.
"Sit on the bed," she instructed.
I followed her. I sat on the edge of the mattress, groaning as I extended my leg.
She knelt in front of me.
The sight of her on her knees—again—sent a spike of arousal straight through the pain.
She reached for my shoes. She untied the laces with efficient, gentle fingers. She slid my dress shoes off, then my socks.
Her hands were warm on my feet. It was humbling. It was intimate.
"Stand up for a second," she said, looking up at me.
I stood, bracing myself on her shoulder.
She unbuckled my belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was loud in the quiet room. She unbuttoned my pants and unzipped them.
Her knuckles grazed the front of my boxers. I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Sorry," she whispered. She didn't sound sorry.
She slid the pants down my legs. I stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
I stood there in my undershirt and boxers. My right leg was a mess of bruises and swollen tissue.
Georgia stared at it. She reached out and traced the purple bruise behind my knee with a feather-light touch.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"Only when I breathe."
She looked up. Her eyes were shining.
"You're crazy," she whispered.
"I'm focused."
"You're stubborn."
She stood up. We were face to face now. She was so close I could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes.
"Shirt," she said.
I pulled the white undershirt over my head and tossed it on the floor.
Now I was exposed. Scars, bruises, tattoos. The map of my life written on my skin.
She reached out and placed her palms on my chest, right over my heart.
"It's beating fast," she noted.
" wonder why," I murmured.
I looked at her. She was still wearing the jersey.
"Take it off," I said.
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"The jersey. Take it off."
"Toby..."
"I want it back," I lied. "Or maybe I just want to see what's under it."
She bit her lip. She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, she reached down and grabbed the hem of the jersey.
She pulled it up slowly. Inch by inch.
Revealing black leggings. A strip of pale skin at her waist. Then a black lace bra that was sheer enough to be illegal.
She pulled the jersey over her head and dropped it.
She stood there, half-naked in my bedroom, shivering slightly.
My vision narrowed. The pain in my leg faded into the background, replaced by a roaring hunger.
"Come here," I growled.
She stepped closer. She stepped between my legs.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, burying my face in her stomach. Her skin was soft. She smelled like vanilla and me.
I kissed her stomach. Just above the waistband of her leggings.
She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Toby," she whimpered.
"Shower," I muttered against her skin. "Join me."
"What?"
I looked up at her. "I can't stand in the shower alone. My knee will give out. I need a crutch."
"You want me to shower with you?"
"I want you everywhere," I admitted. "But right now, I need you to hold me up while I wash the blood off."
She stared at me. She looked terrified. She looked exhilarated.
"Okay," she whispered.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of steam and stone.
I turned on the shower, letting the hot water fill the oversized stall.
Georgia stood by the sink. She stripped off her leggings. Then her panties. Then the black lace bra.
I watched her in the mirror.
She was stunning. Curves and soft skin and hidden strength. She was a masterpiece I wanted to study for the rest of my life.
She turned and walked toward me. She didn't cover herself. She walked with her head held high, owning her body, owning the moment.
She stepped into the shower with me.
The hot water hit us instantly.
She gasped. I groaned as the heat soaked into my battered muscles.
"Turn around," she said softly.
I turned my back to the spray. She grabbed the soap and a sponge.
She washed my back. Her hands were firm, circling over my shoulders, down my spine. She washed away the sweat, the adrenaline, the fear.
She moved to the front. She washed my chest, careful around the bruises. She washed my arms.
Then she knelt.
The water cascaded over her, plastering her hair to her skull. She looked up at me through the steam, water dripping from her lashes.
She washed my legs. She was so gentle around my knee, her touch a whisper.
Then she stood up.
She was slick with water and soap. Her breasts brushed against my chest. Her nipples were hard peaks.
We stared at each other. The water roared around us.
"Thank you," I rasped.
"For what?"
"For putting me back together."
"It's my job," she whispered. "I'm your physio."
"You're fired," I said.
"What?"
"I'm firing you."
I reached out and cupped her face. "Because I can't fuck my physio. And I really, really need to fuck you, Georgia."
Her eyes went wide. Her lips parted.
"Oh," she breathed.
"Is that a yes?"
She didn't answer with words. She grabbed my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers.
The kiss was wet and hot and desperate. It was a clash of teeth and tongues. I tasted the water on her lips, the hunger in her soul.
I backed her against the shower wall. The cold tile against her back made her arch into me.
I lifted her.
I didn't think about my hip. I didn't think about my knee. Adrenaline surged, giving me strength I didn't know I had. I grabbed her thighs and hoisted her up.
She wrapped her legs around my waist instantly, locking her ankles.
"Toby," she moaned into my mouth.
"I've got you," I growled.
I didn't wait. I couldn't wait.
I positioned myself. She was slick, ready.
I pushed into her.
It was slow. Agonizingly slow. Stretching her, filling her.
She cried out, digging her nails into my shoulders. Her head fell back against the tiles.
"You're so big," she gasped.
"Take it," I ordered. "Take all of it."
I drove deep, burying myself to the hilt.
The sensation was blinding. It was like coming home. It was like finding the missing piece of my soul.
We didn't move for a second. We just breathed, chest to chest, heart to heart, connected in the most primal way possible.
Then she moved. She tightened around me.
I lost it.
I began to move. Hard, fast strokes. The water sluiced over us, adding to the friction, the heat.
"Toby, please," she begged. "Please, please."
"I'm here," I gritted out. "I'm right here."
We found a rhythm. A desperate, frantic rhythm that echoed the violence of the game but with a sweetness that terrified me.
I watched her face. I watched her come undone. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream.
"Look at me," I commanded.
She opened her eyes. Blue met gray.
"Mine," I said.
"Yours," she sobbed.
She shattered. I felt her contractions milking me, pulling me over the edge.
I followed her into the abyss. I groaned, a deep, animalistic sound, as I poured myself into her.
My legs gave out.
I slid down the wall, taking her with me, until we were sitting on the shower floor, tangled together, water raining down on us.
I held her. She buried her face in my neck, shaking.
"Ow," I whispered after a minute. "My knee."
She let out a wet, hysterical laugh against my skin. "You idiot."
"Worth it," I said.
She pulled back to look at me. She was crying.
"Why are you crying?" I asked, wiping the water and tears from her face.
"Because," she sniffled. "I think I'm in love with you. And that is incredibly inconvenient."
I froze.
The water beat down on my back.
She had said it. The L-word. The forbidden word.
I looked at her—wet, naked, beautiful, terrified.
"Yeah," I whispered, pulling her back against my chest. "It is."
I didn't say it back. I couldn't. Not yet. The words were stuck in my throat, blocked by years of conditioning.
But as I held her there on the shower floor, protecting her from the spray, I knew the truth.
Inconvenient didn't even cover it.
It was catastrophic.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.