Page 21 of Break the Ice
“Swear to God, I don’t know how anyone does this to themselves for shits and giggles. My blood pressure is through the fucking roof. Like, no. No, thank you. Never again.” She rolls her eyes so hard I can practically hear it, then runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing itback into a messy knot. “Next time Loverboy asks me to come to a game, I’m demanding emotional compensation.”
“Don’t even. You were the loudest out there.”
Christina smirks at me in the mirror. “Did you even know what you were saying?”
“Fuck no. The words were coming, and I wasn’t about to stop them. Please, I might have actually died.” She throws herself backward dramatically against the counter. “Besides, did you hear the trash talk the kids were spouting? Made me blush.”
“I doubt that,” I mutter, fighting a smile.
Christina wiggles her brows, grinning wickedly, and I lose it—laughter ripping straight from my chest before I can stop it. It burns through the anxiety, through the heaviness, leaving me a little lighter, a little less like I’m about to shatter.
“That’s better,” she says softly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Now, let’s get out of here before I start bawling again.”
Her hand finds mine as we leave the bathroom, her grip warm and sure.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe I’m safe.
CHAPTER 7
ELIJAH
It’s nearing four in the morning when I park in my designated space, fingers still tight on the wheel from the near miss—some reporter sprinting across the street to get a shot of Finley and me. The flash, the shouting, the sudden shape in my headlights. My pulse is only just settling.
I hate this attention. I don’t want it to becomea thingFinley has to carry.
When I kill the engine, I glance over. She’s still in the baseball cap the equipment manager handed me after I checked in on Jayden, brim low, mouth soft with sleep.
The start to our season has tanked. Every pundit won’t shut up about it—favorites to make the Playoffs to a letdown. At least we have a few days to pull ourselves together before the five-game home run. If Jayden’s concussion and broken nose keep him out long, we’re in trouble.
Concussions are the worst. Last time I had one, two weeks disappeared into migraines—woodpecker in my skull—and a carousel of tinnitus and nausea. The auras come and go. I don’t know which I hate more.
My stomach twists in sympathy as I weigh waking Finley versus carrying her. My phone vibrates—screen face down, Bluetooth off since she drifted off after we dropped Christina at her post-grad housing.
JJ
You home?
Eli
Parking up. You okay?
The dots appear, vanish, return. Then:
Yeah
He’s not fine.Adrenaline, disappointment, the come-down after travel—all of it stacks. Even with the hospital’s painkillers, he’ll be stuck in the loop we always run: review the game, pick apart the bad, re-stitch the good. It’s our ritual when we land. I need it more than I want to admit.
I pocket the phone, circle to Finley’s side, and ease the door open. She stirs when I unbuckle her, but when I lift her, she folds into me, cheek to my chest, breath warm through the cotton.
“We’re home,” I whisper into her hair as the elevator hums. “Go back to sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” she croaks, lifting her head stubbornly.
I don’t argue. The doors part to our floor. She tries to slide down; I set her on her feet.
“It’s dark,” she whispers, eyes on the polished concrete, the black wood doors, the twin round entry tables anchoring the hall. “The flowers are pretty.”
“They’re replaced every week.”
