Page 173 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Shush, babe,” I whisper in her ear, loving the way she shudders the second my breath hits her skin. “Trust me to take care of you.”
She swallows thickly, and I know instantly that she’s thinking about that night. It does nothing for the tent I’ve pitched in my sweats. Thankfully, with everything going on, she’s too distracted to notice.
Silently, we make our way back down the stairs, my arm locked around her shoulders.
Her body continues to tremble, and every now and then, she lifts her hand to wipe a tear.
I fucking hate it. But aside from taking her away and removing the stress, I don’t know what to do to fix it.
The second we both step outside, we both inhale a deep, clean breath of air. I swear, it’s never felt so good.
“I’m sorry for?—”
“Whoa,” I say, turning toward her and taking her cheeks in my hands.
Her eyes are dark, sadness etched into every single one of her features. My thumbs wipe her cheeks, clearing away the silent tears that continue to fall.
“You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
Her eyes search mine. I don’t know if she finds what she’s looking for, but after a few seconds, she sighs.
“I know, but if I weren’t so tired then?—”
“This week has been a lot,” I assure her. She’s not the only one who’s feeling a little broken. “But as much as I want to tell you that it’s going to get easier, the season is speeding past, and things are only going to get wilder as we hit the playoffs.” She raises a brow at my confidence. Sure, there’s still a chance we could fuck it all up, but with our current position and determination, I have every belief that we’re going to make it. How far we get is another question entirely. “We’ve just got to make the most of the downtime while we have it and know that summer is coming.”
She hums in agreement.
Stepping closer, I press a kiss on her forehead before promising, “Everything will work out, little P.”
She nods, her fingers twisting in the sides of my hoodie.
There’s a huge part of me that wants her to demand we continue what we started upstairs, but I’m aware that we’re now standing on a sidewalk, and that I really need to get her home.
“Come on,” I say, reluctantly taking a step back and leading her toward my car.
Just before she climbs in, she looks back up at her building with tears in her eyes again.
“I loved my place here. It was my home, you know?”
Pain cuts through my chest. She hasn’t just lost a place where she slept. She’s lost her safe place, her home. And I can only imagine how hard that must be.
“I know, babe. I know,” I say, pulling her in for one more hug before I allow her to drop into my car.
We drive with the music on low and her ragged breaths filling the air. She’s trying to be strong, but all she wants to do is break down. I’m torn between letting her fight it because listening to it will be heartbreaking, and growing a pair and allowing her to get it all out.
In the end, the only words out of my mouth are, “Are you hungry?”
“Umm…a little, I guess.”
“Did you have lunch?” I ask, aware of how busy she’s been with everyone today.
“I grabbed a cereal bar at some point.”
“That would be a no, then. Any preference?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
When I’m sad, there’s only one option.
