“No.” I put my hand on his arm, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “I can handle this. He's pathetic and desperate, but he's not dangerous. If I keep ignoring him, he'll eventually give up and find someone else to harass.”
“And if he doesn't?”
“Then I'll deal with it. Get a restraining order if I have to.” I meet his eyes. “But this is my fight, Ethan. Not yours.”
He looks like he wants to argue. His jaw is tight, and his body is vibrating with barely contained anger. I can practically see him imagining all the ways he'd like to hurt Brody. But after a long moment, he forces himself to relax.
“If he shows up here,” he says slowly, “you tell me. Immediately. You don't try to handle it yourself.”
“I will.”
“Promise me, Natalie.”
“I promise.”
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me hard, like he's trying to erase every memory of Brody from my mind and body. By the time he lets me go, I'm breathless and dizzy, and wondering how I’ve gone so long without mornings like this.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me around the other side of the counter. “Let’s get some food in you.”
We reheat the pancakes and eat them standing at the counter, trading lazy kisses between bites.
“So,” he says finally, setting down his empty plate. “What are we doing here, Natalie? What is this?”
I know what he's asking. This isn't just sex. “I don't know. But I don’t want it to end.”
He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. Hard to believe that he’s the same grumpy and moody man I first met. “Me neither. So we’ll figure it out.”
Still, worry fills my head. Nothing comes without a cost, and I’m scared of what the cost will be.
13
Ethan
The arena is packed with fans, media, and sponsors who paid good money to watch us show off.
I'm sitting in the stands with the other injured players and the coaching staff, my cane propped against the seat beside me. My knee is throbbing with a dull ache that never fully goes away, and my mood is dark.
On the ice, my teammates are warming up for the skills competition. Theo is taking shots on Logan while Cole works on his stick handling. Liam is racing one of the rookies from end to end, and they are laughing and chirping each other and having the time of their lives.
I should be down there with them.
Instead, I'm up here in my suit and tie, playing the role of the supportive teammate while my replacement skates circles around the rink wearing my practice jersey number.
Curtis is twenty-three years old, and he was called up from the AHL two days after my surgery. He's fast, talented, and hungry in the way all young players are before the league beats it out of them. Management loves him, and so does the media.The fans have already started calling him “Mini Wall” because he plays defense like me.
Like I used to.
I clench my jaw and force myself to keep my expression neutral. There are cameras everywhere, and the last thing I need is footage of me scowling at the kid who took my spot. That's not his fault. He's just doing his job, same as I would be if our positions were reversed.
But it still fucking hurts.
The skills competition begins, and I sit through event after event, applauding and smiling when the cameras swing my way. Fastest skater. Hardest shot. Accuracy shooting. Puck control relay. All the things I used to dominate, reduced to observing from a distance.
Curtis wins the hardest shot competition with a blast that clocks in at 103 miles per hour. The crowd goes wild, and our teammates mob him on the ice, slapping his helmet and shouting congratulations. I clap along with everyone else and try not to think about my personal best of 107.
During a break between events, I excuse myself and make my way down to the tunnel. I need a minute away from the noise.
The tunnel is quieter, though I can still hear the muffled roar of the crowd. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, letting the cool air wash over me.
