Page 63 of Married to Number 22
Then, not deigning to answer, he looks away, going back to his job of manning the hallway and not allowing any peons like me back into the player’s area.
“It’s just. He got hurt and…” I bite my lip, force the words out. “He’s my husband.” His brows lift, but he doesn’t otherwise comment. “I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up.”
Probably because he was stretchered off the ice.
My husband of one day?—
My friend.
The boy I loved.
The man who welcomed me back with open arms.
And we’ve had one day together before my bad luck, before the Maybelle curse, has infiltrated his life.
That’s nonsense, baby girl.I hear Gram’s voice in my head.The curse isn’t real and you know it.
Idon’tknow it.
Because my mom, my sister, Grams, and now…the man I care about.
No, it’s more than that. More than caring.
Aiden is…the man I never stopped loving.
And this is my fault. My fault.My?—
“Hey!” I hear and my gaze jerks from the big, hulking man in front of me to the big, hulking man striding my way.
Smitty’s hair is sweaty and he’s still half-dressed, but his eyes are calm and collected as they hold mine. “He’s good,” is the first thing he says when he gets close enough to speak at a semi-normal—but what I assume is quiet for him—volume. “They’re taking him over to the hospital for a CT?—”
I gasp.
He just reaches forward, his big hand surrounding mine as he holds my fingers securely. “That’s a normal thing, babe. They follow the concussion protocol after a shot to the head like that.”
“They stretchered him off,” I push out between numb lips.
God, I hate watching him play hockey.
“Yeah, they did.” He tugs me toward him, saying to the security guard, “She’s with us, yeah?”
The guard nods back, steps aside to let me pass.
But I barely notice.
Because I’m too focused on Smitty and what he’s saying. “Aiden was alert and talking when they brought him back. He’s with the trainer now and you can go to the hospital with him if you want.”
“Does he—?” I pause, nibble at my lip again.
“Does he what?” It’s a gentle question, far gentler than anything I’ve heard from him up to this point, and I find that the soft tone means that I can push out the rest of the very scary questions.
“Does he want me there, you think?”
Something crosses behind Smitty’s eyes.
Then he tucks a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, honey,” he says quietly. “He wants you there.”
I nod, and when he tucks me close to his side, I barely even notice that he’s sweaty, that he doesn’t smell all that great. I’m just thankful for his size and strength and guidance as he takes me through the twisting corridors without hesitation.
