6. Harper
CHAPTER SIX
HARPER
The roar of twenty thousand fans vibrates through the soles of my shoes, a low-frequency hum that settles deep in my chest, reinforcing the fact I shouldn't be here.
Every instinct I possess, honed by a lifetime of avoiding athletes at all costs, told me to stay home, order takeout, and pretend the Seattle Knights weren't hosting the New York Titans tonight.
Yet, here I am, perched in the family section, my knuckles white as I grip the railing of the balcony.
The air in the arena is a strange cocktail of expensive cologne, spilled beer, and the sharp, metallic bite of recycled ice.
Down on the rink, the game is a blur of high-speed violence and tactical grace.
My eyes should be on Ryan. He’s number seventeen, the forward with the explosive stride and the single-minded focus of a predator.
But my gaze keeps drifting, sliding across the ice toward the opposite end of the rink.
Jaxson Thorne is a statue of white and steel.
Behind the cage of his goalie mask, he is a ghost, an impenetrable barrier that has spent the last forty minutes frustrating every one of Ryan’s attempts to score.
The 'Ice Wall' isn't just a nickname; it's a physical reality.
He moves with a calculated economy, his gloved hand snapping out to snatch pucks from the air like a cobra striking.
Each time he makes a save, a part of me exhales, while another part of me tightens with frustration.
The rivalry between them isn't just professional; it’s atmospheric.
You can feel it in the way the players collide near the crease, the extra shove after the whistle, the lingering glares that the cameras always seem to catch.
Ryan has hated Jaxson since their junior league days, a feud built on stolen goals and bruised egos.
Then the third period begins, and the temperature in the arena seems to spike.
It starts with a sharp, stinging strike of wood against shin, and before the referee can even reach for his whistle, the ice explodes into a sea of sliding bodies and discarded gloves.
It’s a line brawl, the kind that makes the crowd surge to their feet with a bloodthirsty cheer.
My heart doesn't hammer; it simply stops.
I see Ryan in the thick of it, his jersey pulled over his head as he tangles with a Knights defenseman, but my eyes are locked on the crease.
Jaxson hasn't moved, but a Titans player is charging toward him. It’s a violation of the unwritten code, a direct assault on the goalie, and it happens in a heartbeat.
The collision is deafening, even over the crowd.
The enforcer slams into Jaxson, sending them both crashing into the goalpost with a sickening crunch of metal and bone.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, my hands pressed against the cold glass.
My nurse’s brain is already triaging, calculating the force of the impact, the potential for concussion, the fragility of the human cervical spine beneath all that padding.
Jaxson hits the ice hard. His mask flies off, skittering across the scarred surface like a discarded shell.
For a terrifying ten seconds, he doesn't move.
The arena goes silent, a collective intake of breath that tastes like ozone.
Then, slowly, he pushes himself up. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he gingerly touches his face before reaching for his helmet.
When the camera zooms in on the Jumbotron, I see it.
The reinforced cage of his goalie mask is bent, and a jagged crack runs through the fiberglass near the temple.
It’s a testament to the violence of the hit.
He looks dazed, but he shakes it off with a snarl that is visible even from the nosebleed seats.
He’s back on his feet, but he’s not right.
I can see the slight tremor in his glove hand.
I spend the rest of the game filled with anxiety.
Every time the puck nears the Seattle goal, I find myself whispering a silent plea for it to stay away.
I’m not rooting for the Knights; I’m rooting for a man who has no business being on the ice with a possible head injury.
My loyalty is a frayed wire, sparking with every save he makes, every time he’s forced to drop to his knees and scramble for a rebound.
The buzzer finally sounds, ending the siege. The Knights win, one to zero. A shutout for Jaxson. The crowd erupts, but I’m already moving toward the exit, my legs trembling. I need to know. I need to see him, to confirm that he isn’t badly injured.
The back hallways of the arena are a labyrinth of concrete and fluorescent lights, smelling of wintergreen rub and stale sweat.
As a player’s sister, I have the pass to be here, but usually, I’m waiting for Ryan by the Titans’ locker room.
Tonight, I find myself hovering near the neutral corridor, the space between the two locker rooms.
I turn the corner, and there he is. Jaxson is freshly showered and dressed in a polo shirt and blue jeans. He’s carrying a black duffel bag in his left hand. He looks less like a star and more like a soldier returning from a losing battle.
"You need to get your head looked at," I say, my voice sounding thin in the cavernous hallway.
Jaxson stops and stares at me. The cool air of the corridor doesn't seem to reach the heat radiating off his skin. Up close, the damage is more apparent. There’s a blooming bruise along his jawline, and a thin cut near his hairline.
His eyes find mine, and for a second, there’s a raw, pulsing vulnerability in his gaze that makes my throat close.
"Are you worried about me?" he rasps, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my chest.
"I'm a nurse. It’s part of my job to worry about anyone who was injured," I reply, stepping closer. The unique spicy smell of him hits me, making my pulse skip a beat.
"Is that all it is?" he asks, though he winces as he shifts his weight.
"Yes," I lie through my teeth, the professional irritation masking a much deeper, more chaotic emotion. I reach out, my fingers hovering just inches from his jaw. As I stare into his eyes, he drops the bag, and it hits the rubber floor with a dull thud, forgotten. He takes a step toward me, closing the distance until I have to tilt my head back to look at him. In the dim light of the corridor, he looks like a statue of focused granite, but I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. It’s a physical hum, a frequency that matches the frantic thrumming in my own veins.
"Well, you don’t have to worry," he breathes deeply. "I’ve taken harder hits than that."
"I’m glad you seem to be okay," I say, and it’s mostly the truth. I’m actually so damned relieved, my knees are actually weak.
Jaxson smiles, a slow, devastating transformation that softens the stern lines of his face. It’s a private smile, one that doesn't belong to the cameras or the fans. It belongs to me. "I think it’s more than that. I think you were really worried about me."
"Well, you’re wrong," I insist a little too loudly.
My hand, acting of its own accord, finally makes contact.
I brush the hair away from the cut on his forehead.
His skin is hot, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I should pull away. I should remember the 'no-athlete' rule, the family loyalty, the years of Coleman-Thorne animosity.
But all I can feel is the solid, vibrating reality of him.
Jaxson’s hand comes up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with a sudden, startling grip.
His palm is broad, blunt-fingered, and calloused from years of gripping a goalie stick.
He doesn't pull my hand away; he holds it there, pressed against his temple, his pulse jumping against my fingertips.
The silence in the hallway becomes a living thing, pressing against my skin like a heavy weight.
"Harper," he says, and my name sounds like a prayer and a confession all at once. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"It’s the head injury," I try to joke as the world closes in on me.
I can feel the heat of him through the fabric of my dress, a magnetic pull that I am powerless to resist. My breath catches.
The distance between us is a heat-shimmer, a quarter inch of almost that feels like a mile.
I want him. Specifically, persistently, inconveniently, I want this man more than anything in this world.
He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against mine.
His breath smells of peppermint and adrenaline, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
The world outside of this hallway blurs into insignificance.
There is only the rhythmic throb of his pulse against my fingers and the terrifying realization that I am about to break every rule I’ve ever made for myself.
I lean in and inhale him, just for a second, like a crazy person.
I have zero self-preservation skills. But then my nurse brain wakes up and slaps me upside the head.
I pull away an inch and scan his pupils, watching for that glassy, dazed look that tells me he’s about to eat concrete.
Nothing. His eyes are clear and bright, laser-focused on my mouth.
I make him follow my finger left and right.
He doesn’t even blink, the jerk, just stares like he wants to eat me for dinner.
“Are you feeling dizzy?” I try for professional, but my voice sounds breathless and needy. Great. That won’t give anything away.
He grins, slow and wolfish. “Nope. Just very, very focused.”
Freaking hell. I check the rest anyway. No slurred speech. No balance issues. If anything, he’s too steady. There’s a cut above his brow, but it isn’t deep. I brush the hair away and run a thumb under the bruise, trying not to melt from the heat rolling off his skin.
“You’re lucky, you know that?” I mutter, dropping my hand and stepping back before I do something truly dumb. Like pull him down for a kiss. “You should have your head examined. But you’re clear.” I manage to mumble past my dry throat, “I really, really need to go.”
He steps closer, a brick wall of muscle and stubbornness. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Harper.”
My traitorous core lights up like a power grid. I roll my eyes, doing my best to sound unimpressed. “Thanks for the warning.”
His laughter follows me down the hall.