Page 8

I straighten my spine, ignoring the way the room tilts.

I'm Derrick Shaw. I don't do fragile. I'm the kid who played through a broken finger in juniors.

Who guarded the crease on a sprained ankle in the championship game.

Who held his mother up when her legs wouldn't work anymore, promising her we'd be okay.

I can't be this broken version of myself. I won't.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Bast's voice cuts through the room, deep and sharp with concern. I turn too quickly, and the world spins like I'm drunk. His strong arms catch me before I fall, holding me upright against his broad chest.

Heat rushes to my face. Perfect. Just perfect.

"I'm not an invalid," I mutter into his shirt. He smells like coffee and that expensive cedar soap I noticed in his shower last night. The one I tried not to think about him using while he washed my back.

"No, you're concussed," he says flatly. "Which means you shouldn't be wandering around alone."

His hands are steady on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length now, eyes searching my face. Those gray eyes, examining every inch of me, missing nothing.

"I was coming downstairs," I say, trying to sound dignified and not like a petulant child. "I'm tired of lying around."

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the edges.

"Breakfast is ready," he says after a moment. "I was coming to get you."

I raise an eyebrow, wincing at the pull of tender skin near my stitches. "You cook?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Don't sound so surprised, Princesse."

The nickname hits me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Takes me back to last summer, to stolen kisses behind festival food trucks, to his hands in my hair, and to unspoken promises neither of us could keep.

"Don't," I whisper. "Don't call me that."

He flinches like I've hit him, and his hands fall away from my shoulders. The loss of contact leaves me cold.

"I'll help you downstairs," he says, voice carefully neutral now.

I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat. What would I even say? Sorry I freaked out because hearing you call me by that pet name reminds me of how we spent an entire summer circling each other like planets, only to crash and burn when reality set in?

Sorry I still think about your hands on me when I can't sleep at night?

Sorry I'm a fucking mess and you deserve better than being stuck babysitting me?

Instead, I nod and let him guide me, his arm around my waist. We move slowly down the hallway, my hand gripping the railing as we descend the stairs. Each step is a victory and a humiliation.

"Almost there," he murmurs, and I hate how my body leans into his voice like a plant seeking sunlight.

His kitchen is gleaming surfaces and morning light. A French press of coffee sits on the island next to a plate of what looks like the fluffiest omelet I've ever seen. Fresh fruit. Toast.

"You made all this?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

Bast shrugs, helping me onto one of the bar stools. "My grand-mamie taught me. She said no man should rely on others to feed him." He pours me a glass of water, sliding it across the counter. "Drink. You need to stay hydrated."

I take a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass as he moves around the kitchen with practiced ease. His shoulders flex beneath his t-shirt as he reaches for mugs in a high cabinet.

"Why are you doing this?" I blurt out. I don’t know why I am going down this road again, but I need to be sure.

He turns, coffeepot in hand, brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"This." I gesture weakly at the food, the house, him. "Taking care of me. You didn't have to volunteer."

Something flickers across his face, too quick to identify. He pours the coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between us.

"You would have preferred a stranger?" he asks, sliding a mug toward me. "Or a facility?"

I stare into the dark liquid, watching the steam curl upward. "I would have preferred not being a burden to anyone."

Bast is quiet for so long I think he might not respond. When I look up, his expression is unreadable, but his eyes. . .his eyes hold a heat that makes my breath catch.

"You are not a burden, Derrick," he says my name deliberately, like he's tasting it. "You are. . . a fellow athlete, a teammate."

The word falls between us, inadequate and hollow.

I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "We're not teammates, Bast. We play for different teams, remember? We're rivals." I pick up my fork, jabbing at the omelet. "Opponents."

He leans forward, palms flat on the counter, and suddenly all I can think about is how those hands felt on my skin ten months ago. How they felt on my skin last night, clinical but gentle as he helped me in the shower.

"Is that what you think we are?" he asks quietly. "Opponents?"

I meet his gaze, trying to keep my expression neutral even as my heart hammers against my ribs. "What would you call it?"

The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring. I can see him weighing his words, the careful calculation behind those stormy eyes.

"Complicated," he finally says.

I snort, taking a bite of the omelet. It's delicious, light, fluffy, with just the right amount of cheese, herbs, and is that Canadian bacon? I hate that he's good at this too.

"That's one word for it," I mutter.

He sits beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch. "Eat. Then we can talk about. . .complications."

I focus on the food instead of the heat of him next to me. Instead of the way my body remembers his touch. Instead of the fact that I'm stuck here, in his beautiful house with his beautiful art on the walls, completely at his mercy.

"You never answered my question," I ask after swallowing a mouthful of toast. "Why volunteer to take me in?"

Bast takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes fixed on something outside the window. When he speaks, his voice is so low I almost miss it. "Because I owed you this much."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Guilt.

That's what this is. He feels responsible, not just because his teammate's slapshot is what cracked my skull, but because of everything else. The summer that ended in silence. The season of avoiding each other's eyes during handshake lines. The carefully constructed distance we've both maintained.

"You don't owe me anything," I say, pushing the plate away. My appetite vanishes like smoke. "It was just a summer fling. Ancient history."

His jaw tightens. "Is that what it was to you?"

I meet his gaze, summoning every ounce of pride I have left. "What else could it have been?"