Page 32 of Resist

Ainsley turned at the door, the sun shining brightly through the window, casting too much light on the bruise on her cheek. “Good luck at the game tonight.”

He frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She glanced behind her at the door. “Leaving?”

Coulton rolled his eyes. “I’m driving you home.”

“I can get an Uber.”

He shook his head, grabbing his truck keys from the dish by the door. “Come on, Ainsley. Everything doesn’t have to be a fight.”

She pursed her lips but let it go.

The drive to her place was a quiet one, Coulton barely able to keep his temper at bay, which was a new emotion for him. He rarely got angry, but his blood was practically boiling. Not that he was mad at Ainsley, just at her really fucked-up, shitty situation. It also didn’t help that he had a fixer personality, and he couldn’t fix this.

His irritation got even worse when they turned down her street and he took in all the run-down buildings. The idea that she lived in one of them churned uncomfortably in his gut.

“This is me,” she said.

Of course, she pointed to the worst building on the block. The neglected place looked like it should have been condemned twenty years ago, and the desire to drag her back to his condo grew.

Coulton’s anger sparked, not at her but at the situation, as he pulled up to the curb and put the vehicle in park. “Give me your phone.” He didn’t mean to bark, but Ainsley didn’t take offense.

Instead, she took her cell out of her back pocket and handed it to him. He held it to her face to unlock the screen before adding his number into her contacts. Then he sent himself a text so he would have her number.

“Call me if you need…anything,” he said, changing his offer to something vague, because what he really wanted was for her to call him if those guys came back. He had to revise that, aware that if she placed that call when he was on the ice, he wouldn’t be able to help her until after the game. Which would be way too late.

She gave him a funny look but didn’t question whatanythingmight entail.

Unable to resist, Coulton leaned over the console and gave her another kiss on the cheek. He’d done the same last night, pretending he was kissing her boo-boo. Today’s kiss was meant to be just as platonic, but the moment his lips touched her skin, they lingered.

Ainsley didn’t pull away; rather, she leaned into it, her eyes drifting closed.

“I’ll come to the tavern after the game,” he murmured in her ear.

“You don’t have to.”

He tilted her head up with a finger under her chin. “I’ll be there.”

She gave him a gorgeous smile, but it wasn’t enough to calm his unease at leaving her here. “See you later then.”

He watched as she walked into the building, the entrance unsecured, leaving all the residents at the mercy of whoever might walk in off the street.

Coulton sighed, trying to convince himself he was overreacting. She’d lived in this neighborhood her whole life. She would be fine.

Unfortunately, those reassurances refused to stick, so by the time he arrived at the arena that afternoon for the game, he was a powder keg about to explode.

“Damn. Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Tank asked, when Coulton roughly shoved his duffel bag into his locker, slamming the door shut.

“No one,” he grumbled, tempted to call Ainsley to make sure everything was okay.

His teammates gave him a wide berth when he started cursing and struggling with the clasp on one of his pads. “Fucking shit equipment.”

“You okay?” Preston ventured to ask as they started to head out to the ice.

“I’m fine,” he replied, even though he was clenching his jaw so tightly, it hurt. The idea of Ainsley defenseless in that tavern was working on him.

He tried to push those thoughts away when he took to the ice, but he failed. Soon, he was viewing his opponents as Mario and Luigi, taking their shots on goal as personal affronts. He caught every puck that flew in his direction, resisting the desire to shove his stick down someone’s throat, resenting the fact he was here instead of protecting Ainsley.

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