Page 92 of No Contest
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. I did the same, then stopped.
My ribs were a watercolor of purple and yellow, the bruise from MacLaren's elbow already blooming dark across my left side. My knuckles were swollen, and the tape barely held the split one closed. When I raised my arm to drop the shirt, my shoulder clicked loud enough that Rhett's eyes tracked the sound.
"Come here," he said quietly.
I crossed to the bed. He was already under the covers, holding them open.
I slid in next to him, and immediately, he touched the bruise on my ribs. "Does it hurt?"
"Yeah."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Six. Maybe seven when I breathe wrong."
His jaw tightened. "You should ice it."
"Probably."
Neither of us moved. He pulled me close until we were tangled together—his chest against my back, arm careful around my waist, avoiding the worst of the bruising. His breath was warm against my neck.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." I laced my fingers through his. "This is perfect."
We lay there in the dark.
"Rhett?"
"Mm?"
"I'm too tired to—" I stopped. "I just need this. Is that okay?"
"Yeah." His arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer. "I've got you."
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for wanting you," he said, softer. "Even when all you can do is sleep."
I pulled his arm tighter around me and pressed back against his chest. Crawford could restructure all he wanted. Could sell the franchise, move the team, and scatter us like spare parts. What he couldn't relocate was this—the weight of Rhett's arm around my waist and how his breath caught when I shifted closer.
Margaret was right. It wasn't small. It was quiet.
Rhett's breathing deepened and evened out. Sleep pulled him under. I stayed awake a little longer, memorizing the sensations—being chosen and held.
My ribs ached—dull but persistent, as they always did. My knuckles throbbed where I'd caught MacLaren's elbow during practice. When I shifted my weight, my knee clicked loud enough that Rhett paused mid-breath.
"You okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah."
I wasn't. My body was a pile of damage I'd been ignoring—bruises layered on bruises, cartilage that ground bone-on-bone, hands that would never quite straighten. Tomorrow, Crawford might scatter us across the continent. Next week, my contract might be one of the blue folders on that table.
But tonight, Rhett's arm was solid around my waist. His breath was warm against my neck. And when I laced my fingers through his and held on, he didn't let go.
Maybe the world didn't have to end when the rink lights went out. Perhaps it only changed.
I closed my eyes. The pain was still there—in my ribs, my hands, the knee that would need surgery before I was thirty-five. But underneath it, something else. Not peace exactly. More like the moment before you drop your gloves and step forward anyway.
