Page 142 of Off-Ice Misconduct
We fall into silence for a good thirty minutes. I think East’s fallen into zombie mode again, but then his eyes brighten. “So, you and the big guy, hey?”
“Yeah, and he’s my professor. Is Dad gonna kill me?”
He shakes his head. “Not once he sees how devoted that man is. How does a guy that big sleep in a chair that small?”
I give a one-shouldered shrug but lean in as if I’m about to tell him a secret. “I’m still not convinced he’s not really a werewolf.”
East asks me if I’d mind getting him a bottle of water from the cafeteria. While I’m there, I grab a couple of coffees too, because Luke should be back soon. When I return to the room, I freeze. East’s talking to Dad. I shouldn’t listen, I mean to walk away—really, I do—but I need to hear what he says to Dad when I’m not in the room.
I highly doubt his love for Dad is an act at this point, but I need … more. I don’t know what I’m looking for, just that I’ll know when I hear it.
He brushes hair off Dad’s forehead.
“I know I shouldn’t be here, but you’ve said it yourself. We’re gravity, Shae. I can’t fucking leave you. Ican’t.” East sniffles and lets out a fond hum, a little smile warming his lips. “You could never keep your hands off me. Or your lips. And when I don’t have you all over me, I lose a little bit of my lifeforce. I wither slowly, like a dying daffodil. God, I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.”
Using Dad’s hand, he cups it around his cheek, closing his eyes, remembering something.
“Please come back to me,” his voice rasps. “I don’t care if we never get married, I’m happy just being yours. Because I am, Shae. I’m yours and you’re mine. That’s not something we can control. It was decided for us by some other cruel power.”
I back out of the room without a sound, my throat thick, pulse skipping uneven.
What the fuck have I done?
I should have known that Dad, of all people, would be utterly gone for the person he fell for after Mom. He’d have to be. The way he loved Mom is how he loves. Period.
Which means he doesn’t love you with any less intensity, dumbass.
When Luke returns, we’re in better spirits, but Luke has to use his stern voice blended with some heavy coaxing to get East to change into different clothes. He finally relents, but he won’t relinquish the blazer, and I get it.
The blazer is a letter jacket in this scenario. If I didn’t have Luke to wrap around me, I’d be missing mine.
I know better. I do what Daddy says and change. I also eat and drink most of what he tells me to. It’s just light stuff, with beverages that’ll keep me hydrated.
Since East knows about Luke, I lean into him more. I don’t know how Luke’s lasting like his battery never needs charging, but he’s as solid as ever after that short nap on the too-small chair. And that’s really all I need, just his presence. His ever-looming intensity. It keeps me safe. It keeps me from breaking into a million pieces.
Two days pass the same way. On the third day, the monitor beeps … differently. The nurse is already moving. What does that mean? Rushing nurses isn’t a good look from my experience. My heart races, and I grip Luke’s hand tightly.
East’s still holding Dad’s hand, refusing to move, even as the nurse works around him. East’s thumb keeps tracing the back of Dad’s hand, slow and steadily, like he’s trying to heal him through his touch alone. He gasps, stilling his moving thumb.
“Ace,” he whispers. “He squeezed my hand.”
The nurse smiles. “He’s trying to breathe on his own. We’re gonna run a trial.”
In true Dad style, he wakes up the next morning like he’s been waiting for us to get into the car, and he’s been ready all along.
The breathing tube had come out late yesterday—he’d made it through the spontaneous breathing trial—and while that was a good fucking sign, even the nurse wasn’t convinced he’d rouse any time soon. One moment, quiet tension filled the room, slowly suffocating all of us, but quickly shifted, replacing our doomsday with a miracle.
Eyelids flutter. A twitch of his mouth. A soft grunt like waking up from a nap that went two days too long.
East jolts up, knocking over the chair with a loud thud, blanket still tangled around one ankle.
“Shae?” His voice cracks.
Dad’s eyes barely open, but they’re open. Battered face, oxygen mask in place, he looks like he got into a fight with a semi-truck.
“You look like hell,” he rasps, voice as dry as sandpaper.
East grabs Dad’s hand, rubbing his face into the palm like I’ve seen him do before—that a thing of theirs?—and squeezes it tight as if he’s trying to anchor Dad to this plane.
