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“Okay.”
I reach over my head for the remote and pause th
e TV just as a face-off is about to happen. The view is showing the players from a camera above the ice. I cover her eyes again, part my fingers just a little so she’ll see only a sliver of the screen, and murmur, “Open one eye.”
Her body freezes and she stops breathing. Damn. She’s barely seeing anything. I trail my fingers up her spine, trying to remind her of the present.
“You are here with me, Elizabeth. Take a deep breath.”
Her breathing is faulty, so I close my fingers. “All I see is his blood,” she whispers.
“No blood,” I whisper back. “Just clean ice. There’s also a bunch of ugly players.” That makes her chuckle. “It’s probably a good thing you aren’t looking just yet. They might scar your eyes forever. Although, we both know no one can compare to me.” A small giggle. I let my fingers part a fraction and press play with the other hand. “I’ll just tell you how I’m better than they are. Like, that dumbass sixty-seven just passed the puck to the wrong player. Fucking idiot.”
I keep talking like such even if I’m not necessarily telling the truth about what’s happening just to make her laugh, and every so often I spread my fingers a little wider to let her see more. She tenses when the guys are hit, but it’s brief because I force her to listen to me as I talk nonstop.
“That guy, Jax Godwin? He talks nonstop on the ice. Runs his mouth all the damn time, and then that’s Ashton Campbell. Those two are best friends off the ice and complete rivals on the ice, which is definitely how it should be.”
“So if you were traded to a different team than Noah, you’d play just as aggressively against him as you do when he’s by your side?” Elizabeth asks as I casually let my hand fall to the side. We’re into the third period, so I figure it’s safe.
“Hell yeah. I’m paid to play for whichever team is on my jersey. Friendship loyalties end the moment you take the ice. Not to mention, why would I want to take it easy on him? I don’t want him to win.”
Elizabeth lifts her head and smiles at me. “Thank you, Marc.”
“No thanks needed, Elizabeth.”
I try being quiet while we watch the game, but her thoughts seem to get to her. Her body locks up, her breathing goes haywire, and she clutches my shirt. Of course she’s not cured. I talk softly throughout the rest of the game. This causes me to make the decision to ask Scott what exactly the accident was with Roger. Only because I don’t want Elizabeth to have to tell me, to have to relive it if she doesn’t have to, and if he can tell me for her, then that’s what I want to do.
But the thought of asking him without Elizabeth knowing doesn’t sit right with me. Once the game ends, I turn off the TV.
“I need your permission for something,” I begin quietly.
She lifts her head. Her brows are pinched together, her lips are pulled downward, and she seems both worried and confused. “What?”
With a sigh, I cup her face, hoping to give her some comfort in advance. “To keep from asking you, can I ask Scott to tell me about Roger’s accident?”
Elizabeth sucks in a deep breath and immediately starts hyperventilating and crying. Fuck, this is what I was trying to avoid. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I thought if I knew, then maybe it could help me help you. I don’t want you to tell me if you don’t have to.” Her tears are falling faster than I can wipe them away, and I regret asking. “Fuck, Elizabeth, forget it. I’m sorry.” I pull her head down to rest on my chest, holding her until her crying slows.
“I should go home,” her voice croaks.
At first, I tense. My instincts say to demand she stay here. I should tie her to the bed and not let her leave until morning, or until I know she’s okay and that I haven’t fucked things up with her. My arms tighten around her, but loosen up. I can’t force her to stay here. If she wants to go home, I don’t need to fight her on it.
Right?
“Marco.”
She sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears once more. My arms squeeze around her again. Last time she called me Marco, she needed me. Is she using my name as a code word? I wonder if she realizes she’s doing it. Who fucking cares? That’s all I need to hear to say what I want.
“Polo,” I murmur with a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re staying with me tonight. It’s been an exhausting evening and you’re not leaving when I know you’re not completely okay. You can wear something of mine to bed, or go completely naked, I don’t care.” She chuckles, which makes me feel so much better already. “I have extra toothbrushes and you can leave early enough to go home to get ready for work at your house.”
Elizabeth is quiet for only a moment before she nods. We get up and set about getting ready for bed. She chooses to sleep in one of my T-shirts. Unlike the first time she slept over, she’s relaxed from the start and it takes her all of five minutes to fall asleep. I hold her as close to me as I can without squeezing her too hard.
Elizabeth’s already warned me that these next few months are going to be hard on her. I need to hold on as tight as possible all the time because she needs to know that I’ll be here through it all. Good, bad, ugly, sad, cheerful, I don’t care. Elizabeth rolls onto her back in her sleep. I slide down the bed a little and press my ear over her left breast, listening to the rhythmic pulse. All I know is I want her more than my next breath and I have to find a way to ensure she wants me just as much.
I WAKE UP feeling both suffocated and all warm and snuggly. It’s an odd set of sensations. Marc has his head on my chest, his strong arm thrown over my ribs, and a long leg thrown over mine. Two limbs and a head is all that really covers me, yet I’m certain he’s practically lying on top of me. Does he ever sleep in mostly the same position? So far, every time we’ve slept in the same bed, he’s always in different positions. Me? I’m either on my right side or on my back. I don’t toss and turn. I sleep soundly and mostly still. There’s no telling when it comes to Marc.
Glancing over at the clock, I see it’s five forty-five. Who needs an alarm? I should go. Marc nuzzles his face into my chest with a deep breath before stilling again. Carefully, gently, so as to not disturb him too much, I rake my fingers through his hair. His lashes are long and light against his skin. I don’t know what his father did to him, but I already hate him. Hell, I don’t know if I ever want him to tell me.
