Chapter 27
Nola POV
The aroma of dark roast coffee hit the back of my pharynx like an open flame.
I was standing in the busy ground-floor atrium of the Health Sciences Hall, holding an eight-ounce paper cup fresh from the espresso cart.
Frost clung to the corners of the double-glazed entrance doors, the biting northern wind whistling through the weatherstripping whenever a student pushed through with salt-crusted boots.
I lifted the cardboard rim to my lips, intending to take a single sip to jumpstart my sluggish brain.
My stomach heaved.
It wasn't a slow roll of discomfort; it was a violent, convulsive spasm that clamped down on my diaphragm with the force of an iron vise. A cold, sour surge of bile flooded the back of my mouth, scalding the lining of my throat.
The white floor tiles tilted thirty degrees to the left.
My peripheral vision collapsed into a tunnel of gray static. A sudden, drenching wave of cold sweat broke along my hairline, soaking the baby hairs at my temples in a fraction of a second. My knuckles spasmed, nearly crushing the paper cup as my boots skittered across the floor.
I dropped the coffee into the nearest plastic waste bin, clamped my forearm over my mouth, and bolted for the single-occupancy restroom beside the anatomy lab.
My shoulder slammed into the heavy door. I twisted the thumb latch, dropped my leather bag onto the tile, and fell to my knees in front of the porcelain basin.
My hands gripped the cold vitreous china, my fingernails scraping the smooth glaze.
My body convulsed in three hollow, agonizing dry-heaves that pulled at the muscles of my lower ribs. Nothing came up except a thin, bitter trace of stomach acid that burned my tongue. My lungs burned for oxygen, every inhalation hitching in short, ragged gasps against my breastbone.
I stayed there on the cold tile for two minutes, my forehead resting against the edge of the porcelain, listening to the wild, runaway percussion of my heart hammering against my eardrums.
Slowly, dragging my weight up by the edge of the sink, I forced myself to stand.
The mirror above the basin threw back a stranger: skin the color of skim milk, dark plum shadows bruising the hollows beneath my eyes, and lips pale and dry.
I turned the chrome faucet, cupped the freezing tap water in my trembling palms, and splashed my face three times. I rinsed the bitter taste from my mouth, dragged a rough paper towel across my skin, and pulled a tube of tinted balm from my pocket to paint some color back into my lower lip.
Gastroenteritis, I reasoned, staring at my reflection with clinical, unyielding logic. A viral bug from the anatomy lab. Or acute autonomic exhaustion from sixteen straight days of eighty-hour research shifts.
I buttoned my wool coat all the way to my chin, took a slow, measured breath through my nose, and pushed out into the freezing Duluth morning.
* * *
By eight-thirty, I was walking down the rubber runners of the Kehoe Pavilion athletic annex.
My limbs felt leaden, as if fifty-pound diving weights were strapped to my shins, each step requiring a deliberate, conscious command from my brain.
A dull, throbbing pressure pulsed behind my left temple, making the harsh hum of the overhead fluorescent fixtures feel like a drill pressing into my skull.
Chase was standing by the equipment cage outside the private players' lounge, talking to an equipment tech while holding an unlaced skate boot.
He was wearing black team sweatpants and a dark gray long-sleeve thermal that pulled taut across the immense shelf of his chest. His hair was damp from an early skate, falling slightly over the jagged scar on his brow.
The second the squeak of my boot sole broke the quiet of the hall, his head swivelled.
He didn't look at my coat. He didn't look at the folders tucked under my arm.
His obsidian eyes locked straight onto my face.
In less than two seconds, his posture altered.
The relaxed, athletic slouch vanished, replaced by an immediate, predatory stillness that made the hairs on my arms stand up beneath my wool sleeves.
He dropped the skate boot onto the equipment bench, ignoring whatever the tech was saying, and closed the distance between us in three long, unhurried strides.
He stepped directly into my personal space, his bulk blotting out the corridor lights.
"Nola," he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, scraping register that vibrated through my ribs.
Before I could answer, his large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers sliding under the heavy strap of my leather shoulder bag, lifting the weight effortlessly from my body and setting it on the floor beside the wall.
"I have the morning telemetry sheets," I started, trying to summon the crisp, professional cadence that usually served as my armor.
"You're white as paper," he cut in, his dark brows pulling low, his thumb rising to brush the pale curve of my cheekbone. His touch was an open flame against my chilled skin. "You're shaking on your feet."
"I'm fine, Chase. Just a headache from—"
"Sit down."
The command wasn't harsh; it was wrapped in a thick, unyielding gravel that brooked no resistance.
He caught my elbow, his palm warm and steady through my coat, guiding me through the open door of the players' lounge toward a wide, padded vinyl bench away from the draft of the hallway.
He didn't sit beside me.
Chase dropped to his knees on the black rubber flooring directly between my boots, his broad shoulders filling the space between my knees.
He reached out, taking both of my cold, trembling hands into his massive palms.
His skin was fever-hot, thick with calluses from years of heavy composite sticks. He wrapped his fingers around mine, rubbing slow, firm, rhythmic heat into my stiff knuckles, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive hollows of my wrists to track the rapid flutter of my pulse.
He reached into his open gear locker with one hand, pulling out an unopened bottle of spring water and a foil sleeve of plain salted crackers from his nutrition bin.
He twisted the plastic cap until the seal cracked, holding the bottle to my lips with steady authority.
"Drink," he murmured, his eyes searching my face with an intense, suffocating vigilance.
I took two small sips. The cold water soothed the dry, raw scrape in my esophagus, settling the faint tremor in my throat.
He broke off a small piece of a cracker, pressing it gently against my lower lip until my mouth parted.
"Eat, sweetheart. Good girl. Lean back against the wall."
I chewed the dry cracker, the salt helping to ground the lingering dizziness behind my eyes.
Chase stood up just long enough to grab his heavy, fleece-lined varsity travel parka from his locker hook. He settled back on his knees in front of me, unfurling the massive black jacket and draping it across my shoulders and lap like a weighted blanket.
The jacket was saturated with him: cedar shavings, sharp rink ice, fresh laundry, and the deep, clean musk of his skin.
A sudden, sharp ache tightened in the center of my throat. Tears pricked the backs of my eyelids at the sheer, unreserved tenderness pouring from his hands—a gentle reverence that seemed impossible from a man who spent his afternoons breaking bones against the boards.
"What am I going to do with you, Nola?" he whispered, his thumbs stroking the sides of my jaw with agonizing slowness. "You're burning yourself out. Look at your skin."
"It's just mid-terms," I managed, my voice small, muffled by the collar of his parka.
"You're going home after this," he ordered, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling rasp that settled into my bones. "You're taking my bed. I'll bring soup after afternoon practice. You don't look at a single book until tomorrow."
* * *
A sharp knock sounded against the open doorframe.
Assistant Coach Larson leaned his head into the lounge, a whistle swinging from his neck. "Guzman. Hastings needs you in the video room. Neutral-zone forecheck breakdown in two minutes."
Chase’s jaw locked. He didn't rise immediately. He stayed on his knees, his eyes pinned to mine, his fingers lingering on my chin.
"Go," I whispered, managing a faint smile. "I'll sit right here until you finish."
Chase held my gaze for three long seconds. He leaned in, his lips pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the center of my forehead, his breath hot against my hairline.
"Stay on this bench," he murmured against my skin. "Don't move until I get back."
He stood up, towering over me for half a second before grabbing his playbook from the table and striding out into the hall, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The room plunged into dead, unbroken silence.
I sat wrapped in the heavy folds of his parka, the warmth of the fleece slowly thawing the numbness in my toes.
I reached into the pocket of my wool coat, pulling out my phone to check the departmental email schedule for the afternoon lab.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
My eyes drifted down to the small, circular icon of the health tracking app tucked into the lower corner of the display.
A strange, hollow silence opened behind my ribcage.
My finger tapped the icon.
The digital interface opened, displaying a clean calendar grid marked with historical dates and predicted cycles.
I stared at the screen.
My eyes scrolled back through the calendar days, tracing the weeks in reverse.
The blizzard.
The weekend of the storm—the two days we had spent locked inside his loft, wrapped in his dark sheets while the wind battered the windows—had occurred fourteen days ago.
I tapped the current date, my thumb trembling against the glass.
I did the math.
My cycle was two days late.
The room seemed to lose all atmospheric pressure.
A high-pitched, metallic ringing filled both of my ears, deafening and absolute.
I had never been late in my life. Not by forty-eight hours. Not by a single day. Through the stress of my high school finals, through the weeks following my mother’s spinal trauma on the docks, my body had operated with the rigid, predictable precision of a clock.
The coffee aversion.
The sudden, violent dry-heaving in the restroom.
The dragging, leaden fatigue that had weighed down my limbs for three days.
The pieces slammed together with concussive, shattering force.
My breath locked in the middle of my windpipe, the air turning to dry dust in my mouth. My phone slipped from my limp fingers, landing with a soft, muted thud against the thick fleece of Chase's parka in my lap.
My right hand rose on pure, unadulterated instinct.
Slowly, dragging my trembling fingers down the front of my shirt, my flat palm settled over the lower curve of my abdomen.
Beneath the denim of my jeans, the skin was warm, flat, and soft.
An icy shockwave detonated through my bloodstream, freezing every nerve ending in my body, followed instantly by a terrifying, suffocating wave of awe that brought tears spilling over my lower lids.
His child.
Down the concrete corridor, the heavy iron handle of the annex door rattled as boots approached the threshold.