“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.
