Jake wakes up again to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the dim glow of street lights filtering through closed blinds. His entire body aches, a dull, heavy pain settling deep in his muscles, but it’s the sharp throb in his ribs that pulls a groan from his throat. He shifts slightly, testing the limits of his movement, and immediately regrets it.
His skull throbs like it’s been cracked in two, a relentless pounding behind his eyes. His ribs burn with every breath, like a steel vise is tightening around his chest, each inhale a punishment.
Just a nasty hit, a clean check that went wrong. The last thing he remembers is going down hard, the ice rushing up to meet him, and then… nothing. Blackness. Now he’s here, hooked up to machines, his body stiff and sore in a way that tells him he’s been out for a while.
He blinks a few times, adjusting to the dim light, and then notices the silent figure slumped in the chair beside his bed.
Natalie is asleep, curled up in the visitors chair next to his bed. Her long, dark lashes dust her cheeks and her head rests against her forearm. Her chestnut hair is loose, spilling over the edge of the chair, andher breathing is slow and even. The sight of her knocks the wind out of him more than the hit that landed him here.
She stayed.
Jake watches her, his heart squeezing in a way that has nothing to do with the pain in his ribs. He wants to reach out, to brush his fingers against her hand, to wake her up, to hear her voice. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets himself look at her, lets himself hold on to the moment before reality sets back in.
The last time he saw her was Christmas. He hadn’t expected her to be here now. Maybe Jesse made her come, or maybe she felt obligated. Either way, it shouldn’t matter.
Except it does.
His throat is dry, and when he swallows, it’s like sandpaper scraping against raw skin. He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle his injuries too much, and clears his throat. The sound is enough to make Natalie stir.
She shifts in the chair, blinking groggily, and then her eyes land on him. For a second, she stares, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sharp inhale, she straightens.
“You’re awake,” she says, her voice soft, still laced with sleep.
He manages a half-smirk, or maybe a wince. “Yeah. Feel like I got hit by a truck.”
“You basically did,” she mutters, sitting up fully now. Her eyes flicker over him, scanning him as if to make sure he’s really awake, really okay. “How do your ribs feel?”
“Like hell.”
Natalie exhales sharply, shaking her head. “That was scary, Jake.”
Her voice wavers slightly, and that’s what gets him. He was expecting irritation, even scolding. But not this. Not the worry in her voice, the tightness in her jaw as she looks at him.
“I’m fine,” he says. It comes out rough, unconvincing. “This isn’t new to me. I’ve broken lots of bones before.”
He fractured his clavicle once. That sucked. He was out eight weeks and missed the first part of the playoffs with his old team. By the time he returned, they had lost their momentum and got crushed. He let the team down.
A silence stretches between them, heavy and filled with things neither of them are saying. Finally, she sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He wants to ask why. Why did she come when she has made it clear she wants nothing from him. But instead, he nods. “Appreciate it.”
She glances away for a moment, biting her lip before looking back at him. “You should get some rest.”
Jake doesn’t want to rest. He wants to keep looking at her, keep soaking in the fact that she’s here, that she cares. But his body is already betraying him, exhaustion creeping back in, weighing down his eyelids.
“Stay?” he murmurs before he can stop himself.
Natalie hesitates, her lips parting like she wants to argue. But then she sighs, nods once. “Okay.”
He closes his eyes, her presence beside him soothing him. And for now, that’s enough.
CHAPTER 23
NATALIE
Natalie grips the steering wheel as she pulls up in front of the hospital’s main entrance, her fingers stiff from cold and nerves. Snowflakes dance beneath the harsh glow of the hospital’s exterior lights.
She shouldn’t be here. Or maybe she should. She’s not sure anymore.
