Chapter 5 #2
Samuel swoops in from the other side, grinning beneath his helmet. “He’s been like this all morning. Every time he scores, he looks over there.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” they say in unison.
I shove Samuel with my stick and skate away.
Coach blows the whistle for a line change, and I rotate to the bench, grabbing my water bottle. My eyes drift again, involuntarily, to the glass.
“Go, Dad!”
The shout is high and bright and unmistakable. I look over, water bottle halfway to my mouth, and the image hits me square in the chest.
Ethan is sitting on Miranda’s shoulders.
His little hands grip her hair for balance, his face split in a grin so wide it swallows his cheeks.
Miranda’s hands are wrapped around his ankles to keep him steady, and she’s tilting her head slightly to accommodate his weight.
She looks like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Like she’s been carrying my son on her shoulders his whole life.
The force of it knocks the air out of me.
The picture of them together, framed against the bright lights of the arena, Miranda’s dark hair and Ethan’s wild curls, her steadiness and his joy. It looks like a family.
I don’t see Brody coming.
The hit catches me square in the shoulder and sends me spinning across the ice like a ragdoll. My helmet cracks against something solid, the boards maybe, and white light explodes across my vision.
Then nothing.
It can’t be more than thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. When my eyes open, faces swim above me. Samuel. Brody. Eric with his mask pushed up. And Miranda, who is kneeling on the ice next to me with Ethan pressed against her side, her fingers already probing the back of my skull.
“How many fingers?” she asks, holding up two.
“Eleven,” I mumble.
“He’s fine,” Samuel scoffs.
“He has a head injury,” Miranda snaps. She tilts my chin, examining the cut on my cheekbone. Her touch is clinical, but her pulse is fast. I can hear it. “And a laceration on his cheek.”
Brody skates closer, sneering. “Sorry, man. Didn’t think you’d actually keel over.”
“You hit like a twelve-year-old,” I mutter, sitting up despite Miranda’s hand pressing against my shoulder.
“Stay still.” Her voice brooks no argument.
“I’m fine.”
“You were unconscious.”
“For ten seconds.”
“Concussions don’t care about the clock.” She cleans the cut on my cheek with a swab from the first aid kit she somehow already has open. Her fingers are quick, and then she pauses.
I know what she’s looking at. She’s watching the cut knit itself together. The skin pulls, closes, smooths. She can see it happening right in front of her, the wound sealing in seconds instead of days.
Her hand stills for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then she presses a butterfly bandage over it anyway and says, “Keep this on for the rest of the day.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask.
Over her shoulder, I catch Coach Ramirez’s eyes. He’s been watching the whole thing from the bench. He looks at Miranda, then at me, and gives a single, barely perceptible nod.
My chest loosens.
Coach steps onto the ice. “All right, everyone cool off. Practice is done.” He turns to Miranda. “Miss Carver. Could I have a word with you in private?”
Miranda’s spine straightens. She glances at me, uncertain.
“Go,” I say quietly. “It’s fine.”
She searches my face for another second, then stands and follows Coach toward the tunnel. Ethan watches her go with wide eyes before turning to me.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
He scrunches his face in that way he does when he’s thinking hard. “Are you and Miranda friends?”
I consider this. Friends isn’t exactly the word I’d use. I’m not sure there is a word for what Miranda and I are. Reluctant acquaintances, maybe. People who keep colliding despite every effort not to.
“Somewhat,” I say. “Why?”
Ethan fidgets with the hem of his jacket. “Can she be my friend too?”
The question lands soft and heavy against something I didn’t know was exposed.
My son doesn’t ask for things. Not like this.
He’s been isolated, sheltered, kept away from the other kids in the pack because I was terrified of Vanessa’s old allies getting close to him.
I’ve been so consumed with protecting him that I forgot he needs more than walls and locked doors. He needs people.
The guilt is immediate and sharp.
“Sure,” I say, pulling him close. “I think Miranda would love that.”
His face brightens instantly, and I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the clean scent of his hair.
We wait on the rink, Ethan sitting between my legs on the bench while the rest of the team files out. Samuel shoots me a look on his way to the locker room that’s far too knowing. I ignore it.
When Miranda emerges from the tunnel, she looks pale. Her steps are measured, but her eyes are wide, the kind of wide that comes from shock rather than fear.
I get to my feet. “Well?”
“Your coach just offered me a hundred thousand dollars.” Her voice is strange. Thin. Like she’s holding something back with both hands. “For three months of monitoring the team.” She stares at me. “You vouched for me.”
I grin. “I did.”
She blinks rapidly, jaw working, and for a second, I think she might actually cry. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. This is Miranda.
“Why me, though?” She shakes her head slightly, like she’s trying to clear it. “There are hundreds of nurses in this city.”
“Maybe I’m your lucky charm.” I step closer and loop my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She’s warm and soft, and her scent floods my senses. “Maybe you should keep me real close.”
Her breath catches. Her scent shifts, that undercurrent of arousal threading through the vanilla and citrus, and it hits me like a physical thing. I want to bury my nose in her throat and just breathe her in. Find every place her skin runs warmest and put my mouth there.
Before I can do anything stupid, small hands tug at my pants.
“Let Miranda go!”
I look down. Ethan is glaring up at me with his little fists balled at his sides, positioning himself between Miranda and me like a bodyguard.
I release her immediately.
Miranda stumbles back, face flushed crimson, sputtering something incoherent. She can’t even look at me.
“Are you going to take the offer?” I ask, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“The money is...” She trails off. Swallows. Starts again. “Yes. I’m taking it.”
I move closer, and her hand shoots out, smacking mine away. “Don’t even think about touching me.”
Ethan wraps his arms around her legs, pressing his face into her thigh. “I’ll protect you, Miranda.” Then he turns to me with the fiercest expression a four-year-old can muster. “Daddy, don’t be naughty.”
I look at Miranda over my son’s head. She’s staring down at Ethan with something soft and unguarded on her face, and the warmth in her eyes does something to my chest I don’t want to examine.
“I can’t help it,” I say, holding her gaze. “She makes me want to be naughty.”
Miranda’s cheeks flame. Ethan, mercifully too young to understand, tugs at her hand. “No. Miranda is my friend now.” He looks up at her. “Right, Miranda?”
She nods gravely, her expression solemn. “Right.”
She scoops him up and starts walking. I trail after them, hands in my pockets.
“You finally saw me play,” I call out. “What did you think?”
She doesn’t turn around. “I was impressed all the way until you fell down.”
“I got hit.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“From where I was standing, you went from scoring goals to lying on the ice.” Her voice is dry. “Very inspiring.”
I catch up, falling into step beside her. “You should come see me play properly. Next week. We have a real game.”
“I have better things to do.”
We’re behind the stands now, the corridor empty and dim. Ethan has wriggled down from her arms and is chasing a wrapper that’s been caught by a draft, a few yards ahead and out of sight around the curve.
I put my hands on her hips.
She stiffens. Her back meets the concrete wall of the stands, and I step between her legs, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough to see the way her pupils swallow her irises.
“Come see me play,” I murmur, enjoying her reactions. “You’ll see why they call me a star.”
This time it’s unmistakable. Heady and rich and sweet enough that rational thought stops functioning. I want to drop to my knees right here and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
She puts a hand flat on my chest. When she pushes, I don’t move. Instead I take her wrist and pin it gently above her head, pressing it against the cold wall.
Her brown eyes blaze into mine.
“I’m not one of your fans,” she says, her voice low and sharp despite the flush crawling down her neck. “And I can make sure you’re incapable of having more children.”
She lifts her knee, pressing it lightly against my groin. A warning. The pressure is just enough to make me very aware of how close she is to ending my bloodline.
I grin down at her. “The more violent you are, the more I want to kiss you.”
Her heartbeat is a war drum under my fingers. She wants this. She wants me. But she’s too stubborn, too proud, too determined to keep control.
It delights me. Wolves love a good chase.
I release her wrist and step back, watching her exhale. “You should still come to the game. Especially if you’re taking Coach up on his offer.”