Chapter 30
Mauricio POV
The rip of black friction tape tore through the silence of the living room with a sharp, familiar bite.
Eight-thirty on Friday night. Outside the carriage house windows, a February gale drove frozen sleet against the glass, the icy pellets rattling like dry rice across the panes.
I sat on the low wooden equipment bench near the hallway, my bare feet flat on the pine floorboards.
Across my knees rested a brand-new composite Bauer stick.
I wrapped the adhesive tape along the blade in smooth, overlapping diagonals, pulling the cloth tight from the heel to the rounded toe before snapping the end with my teeth.
I picked up a round block of beeswax, rubbing the wax firmly into the weave to seal the surface against the slush of the ice.
The room smelled of fresh tape adhesive, paraffin, the seasoned cedar logs burning low in the fireplace, and the faint, sweet almond of her lotion.
My body was primed, settled, and dangerous.
The chronic tension that had ruled my skull for four years was thoroughly gone. My jaw was relaxed, the muscles along my neck loose and fluid. My resting heart rate sat at forty-nine beats a minute, thudding with a heavy, unhurried stroke against the wall of my ribs.
For four seasons at St. Jude, preparing for a regular-season finale against Boston Commonwealth had meant psyching myself into a state of blind, unyielding violence.
I had used the ice as an abattoir to bleed off the toxic guilt of Rafael’s ruined spine, throwing my body into opposing forwards like I wanted them to crack my ribs in half.
Tonight, the rage was gone.
The destructive fire had burned away, replaced by an ironclad, immovable purpose.
Tomorrow night wasn't about punishing myself. It was about sixty minutes of disciplined, ruthless execution. It was about securing the conference title, locking in the number-six draft projection, and funding Rafael’s medical trust so my brother never had to worry about a roof over his head again.
And then, it was about claiming the woman sitting across the room.
I set the stick against the brick hearth, wiped the wax from my palms onto my gray training shorts, and looked toward the sofa.
Kiyomi was curled up beneath the heavy wool blanket, wearing my black thermal shirt. Her knees were drawn up tight against her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins, her small frame looking unnaturally still in the dim amber light of the hearth.
* * *
I crossed the braided rug, my bare feet making no sound on the wood.
I didn't ask her what she was thinking. I sat on the edge of the cushion, reached down, and slid my hands beneath her arms, hauling her straight into my lap.
She let out a tiny, soft gasp, but she didn't resist. She tucked her legs over my muscular thighs, resting her side flush against my chest, her cheek coming to rest over the scarred bone of my collarbone.
Her body was shivering.
It wasn't the hard tremor of cold; it was a fine, continuous vibration that ran through the delicate line of her shoulders, like a wire drawn too tight under a load. Her skin was unusually cool through the cotton of her shirt, her face pale as parchment in the firelight.
I wrapped my massive arms around her waist, locking my hands at the small of her back, burying my face into the soft, dark curls at her temple.
She smelled of clean rain, almond, and a faint, sweet warmth that made my lungs expand in a deep, steady draw.
"You're wound up tight, sweetheart," I murmured, my voice a low, gravelly vibration that vibrated against her jaw.
Her small hands came up, clutching the front of my shirt, her fingers twisting into the fabric over my ribs. Her knuckles were white, her breathing coming in shallow, uneven draws that hitched against my neck.
I knew the pressure she was under. Vance’s compliance inquiry yesterday had put her department under a microscope; the media was screaming about our draft stock; and tomorrow night, forty scouts would be sitting in the press box watching every step we took.
She had spent the week running telemetry models to keep my ankle safe, carrying the weight of my season on her back.
She was terrified I was going to get hurt. She was terrified Brody would take another run at my leg.
My chest ached with an overwhelming, protective weight that knocked the air from my throat.
I began rubbing my large, warm palm in slow, firm strokes down the curve of her spine, pressing warmth through the black thermal into her chilled skin.
"Look at me, Kiyomi," I rasped, my lips brushing the sensitive hollow below her ear. "Breathe with me. That's it. In and out."
Her breath hitched sharply, a soft, trembling exhale washing across my neck.
"Good girl," I murmured, my hand smoothing over the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in the silk of her hair to anchor her head to my shoulder. "You're shaking like it's you skating the first shift against Commonwealth tomorrow. You think I can't handle Brody?"
She didn't answer. She pressed her face deeper into the crook of my neck, her throat working on a dry, silent swallow.
"I've got this, Kiyomi," I whispered, holding her tighter, letting the solid two hundred and twenty-five pounds of my body shield her from the room's shadows. "The ankle is stable. The line is ready. In twenty-four hours, the regular season is over."
* * *
I shifted my weight, bringing my right hand around to cup her jaw.
My thick, calloused fingers framed the delicate line of her face, my thumb resting in the soft hollow beneath her lower lip, gently tilting her chin upward until her honey-brown eyes were locked onto mine.
Her eyes were wide, dark, and swimming with a profound, agonizing sorrow that made my heart stutter a beat in my chest.
She looked at me like she was memorizing the cut of my cheekbones, the scar over my eyebrow, the shape of my mouth, as if she were standing on a pier watching a ship slip over the horizon.
"Listen to me," I commanded softly, the gravel in my voice thick with an absolute, unshakeable vow.
Her lips parted, trembling slightly beneath my thumb, but she held my stare.
"Tomorrow night, when that final buzzer sounds, we're done hiding," I said, each word a slow, heavy strike into the quiet room.
"I don't care who's in the stands. I don't care about Vance, I don't care about Cross, and I don't care about the press.
When the game ends, I am walking off that ice, I am taking your hand in front of every camera in that barn, and I am telling the world you belong to me. "
A single, silent tear broke from her lower lash line, tracking hot and clear down her pale cheek, soaking into the calloused skin of my thumb.
She didn't speak. Her lips trembled as her breath caught in a broken, silent sob.
"No more separate cars," I whispered, leaning down until our foreheads pressed together in the dark.
"No more looking over your shoulder in the tunnels.
You are my partner, Kiyomi. You rebuilt my life, and I am going to spend the rest of mine making sure nobody ever touches your peace. You believe me?"
She looked into my eyes, her fingers gripping the back of my neck with a desperate, crushing strength that felt like an open wound.
"I believe you, Mauricio," she choked out, her voice cracking on the syllables.
She surged upward, her mouth crashing against mine in a fierce, breathless kiss that tasted of salt, raw heat, and a desperate, frantic hunger that stole the breath straight from my lungs.
Her lips were soft, swollen, and demanding, clinging to mine as if she were drowning in the open sea. I met the kiss with an intensity that rattled my teeth, my hands locking around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest until our heartbeats collided in a frantic, thunderous rhythm.
I kissed her until the room vanished, until the storm outside was nothing more than white noise, holding the woman I loved in the warm sanctuary of my arms.
I held her in the amber quiet, absolute in my conviction that our fortress was built of iron, completely blind to the fact that the fuse had already burned to the powder.