Page 18 of Player Misconduct
At least not until this champagne kicks in.
The stem is cold against my fingers, the bubbles slipping up my nose with a hiss that somehow feels like a kiss from the fruity alcohol. One sip and I feel my jaw unclench half a centimeter. I hate how fast it helps…. and I love how fast it helps.
“Thank you,” I say, because decency demands it. “For all of this.”
I feel his hand squeeze mine… just a little, but it’s there.
I sip again. He shifts, a silent offer, and I let my shoulder lean half an inch toward his. My body knows before my brain catches up that the space is safer with him in it.
“Don’t look at the door,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking before I say it. “Look at me.”
That’s… ill-advised. But I do. The bruise has bloomed up under his eye, a purpling crescent that makes him look worse and somehow more like himself. The pupils are equal, reactive, normal. The grin however…? That is a real problem. Mostly a problem just for me.
“I’m sorry about the hit,” I say.
He shrugs it off like he’s shaking rain from his shoulders. “I’m not. If I had known that a concussion in an away game would mean you’d have to stay by my side the whole way home, I would have taken a hit sooner.”
I don’t answer, but I don’t pull away either.
We hit a small bit of turbulence, the liquid in my glass sloshing slightly. I shut my eyes for a second and breathe like the podcast woman taught me. Four in, four hold, six out. The champagne does its quiet work. So does the hand wrapped around my knuckles. The city falls away. My shoulders find their proper latitude. For one blessed minute, there is nothing to do but exist.
“See?” he murmurs. “Already better.”
“I hate that you’re right,” I say, and take another sip to keep from smiling.
“Theo told me to keep you talking. So tell me a secret.”
“A secret? Like what?”
“Anything,” he says, grin tilted, voice low enough that it feels private even over the hum of the engines. “Okay. I’ll go first. Ask me anything you want.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Anything? That could be dangerous.”
“Good,” he says, leaning back. “Danger keeps the flight interesting.”
The seatbelt light dings off. Somewhere ahead of us, someone laughs too loud. The moment feels suspended, fragile, and strangely safe.
“Fine,” I say, giving in. “Tell me about your heart surgery. I’ve read your medical history but I don’t know much about it. You were young, right?”
He looks surprised, then thoughtful. “The scars are hard to miss huh? I forget it’s there most of the time.”
“It’s my job to know your history.”
“Fair.” He glances at our joined hands, thumb tracing idle circles against my skin. “I was born with a congenital defect. My twin sister was perfectly healthy–I wasn’t. My dad found a specialist in Germany. He said it was my best shot. He flew us there when I was two. Surgery lasted eleven hours. He said afterward I looked like someone stitched together with sheer willpower.”
Hearing about his childhood and his surgery at such a young age makes me feel closer to him in an unexplainable way. “So you’re a medical miracle.”
He shakes his head lightly. “No. My dad never let me think that way. He said I wasn’t fragile, just built differently. He put me in hockey when I was five to toughen me up. Told me that if I could survive the ice, I could survive anything. People would underestimate me, and that would be my superpower.”
I’ve never met his dad and I already like him. “You believed him,” I say softly.
“I had to. He believed it enough for both of us.” A smile flickers. A fond yet heavy memory. “I was small when I was born. Sickly. Even as a kid, I couldn’t even lift a hockey stick without falling over at first. But hockey made me strong.”
“And look at you now,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Look at me now.”
The air between us shifts. A quiet admiration, something warmer creeping in.
