“Hey,” Melody grabs my arm gently. “He’s fine. Trust me.”
“He’s down!” I shoot back. “He didn’t even see it coming!”
“He’s taken worse. It takes more than that to hurt him,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Look.”
My throat tightens as I turn back.
Dom pushes himself up slowly, one gloved hand braced on his knee. Then he rises—six-foot-seven with skates—pure, controlled rage. And looks up. Right at me. Our eyes lock through the glass. He sees me—pressed against it, panicked, silently begging him to be okay.
He straightens, rolls his shoulders, tests his weight, then turns toward the man who hit him. The temperature drops ten degrees.
“Oh shit,” Melody breathes.
Dom starts skating.
“Moreal is going after him—and here we go!”
He reaches him in three strides, fists gripping the front of his jersey, yanking him in. They collide hard;Dom starts throwing punches, one after another. The crowd erupts—half gasps, half feral cheers. The refs dive in, but Dom’s not done. It takes two linesmen and a couple of teammates to drag him off.
For one sharp, electrifying second, he looks up again. Finds me. Pins me with that look.
“We’ve got a major penalty on the hit—looks like kneeing—and a game misconduct for Carlson! Moreal will get five for fighting!”
The arena is chaos after the win. The Dolphins’ player was ejected for misconduct, and Dominic got five minutes for fighting. Players bang sticks, fans chant his name, reporters swarm, bright lights move like search beams.
When the reporters finally peel away, I have a clear line to him. I don’t think about cameras. I weave through the crowd, barely hearing anyone, eyes locked on the one person I need.
He’s still in most of his gear—skates, pads, jersey, gloves tucked under an arm. He’s already tall, but with skates on, he’s a walking skyscraper.
I reach him as he turns away from the cameras, and before I can second-guess myself, I wrap my arms around him. Or try to. I barely reach his chest. My cheek presses against the hard padding of his torso, his jersey rough against my skin, and for a moment he goes rigid.
His scent wraps around me—soap, clean sweat, adrenaline.
“Are you okay?” I ask, breathless against his chest.
Dom doesn’t answer immediately. Slowly, his hands lift to my waist. It’s not like before. One large hand wraps around my waist as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch me after our argument.
When I pull back to look at him, his brows are drawn, his lips slightly parted, eyes searching my face. I swallow, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Stop staring at me and tell me if you’re okay.”
He doesn’t stop staring; if anything, he stares harder, breaking me down as if looking for somethinghe doesn’t trust. Something unravels in his expression—a softness he tries to hide.
He hooks two fingers under my chin, making my heart jump and tilting my face up to meet his.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.” His voice is low and rough, meant only for me.
His eyes briefly drift to my mouth.
Before he can say more, a reporter’s voice slices the moment. “Captain Moreal! Quick comment before you head to the locker room?”
“Find Tinnie.” Dominic says, brushing his thumb once under my chin. Then steps toward the reporter with that commanding presence that makes people gravitate to him.
The second the club doors swing open, the bass punches my chest. Lights strobe pink and blue across the ceiling. Bodies move in a giant, sweaty wave. Melody has a death grip on my hand, probably afraid I’ll get swallowed by Miami nightlife and never be seen again. Honestly? Fair.
Security ropes the entrance, and Melody tugs me deeper into the club, weaving through clusters of people. I lean in so she can hear me over the music. “Tinnie really undersold this place,” I shout.
“You okay?” Melody glances back, smiling.
