Page 24 of Hat Trick (Titans Hockey #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Emily

W atching the fight on TV made my stomach churn.

I haven't been that nervous or upset in a long time.

Fights and hockey are synonymous and half of the appeal, but it's so different when you know the people involved intimately.

These aren't just hockey players, those are my roommates, my friends, my boys.

Even if this thing with Gabe is new, my protective instincts take over and the rage and fear I feel is unparalleled.

Goalies rarely get involved in fights. There are only two to a team so if one is out for penalty or nursing his injuries from a fight that leaves one man precariously managing the net.

Luca and Carter had been on the bench when the fight started and although they jumped the boards to join in, the fight was mostly over by the time they could join.

Gabe was tended to on the bench by the staff, but as the camera panned away from him and to the other players involved and then back to the game play my skin crawled.

I tried to will the camera to find him again, to see his face, to see how badly he'd been injured.

He never did return to play, and they never did show his face again.

I'm in my room, anxiety prickling every inch of my skin when I hear him come home. I don't know when it happened but after weeks of living with these boys I knew their individual gaits. I listen as he kicks on the shower and debate with myself what to do. I need to know he's okay.

The shower turns off and the house is uncomfortably silent.

I groan. Fuck it. He can get angry at me and tell me to fuck off.

As long as I can see his face and know he's okay it'll be worth it.

I clip the baby monitor to my sleep shorts, grab an eye pack from the freezer and some Neosporin from the first aid kit in the bathroom.

His door is open, but the lights are off when I knock on it lightly.

He's in bed, leaning up against the headboard, his hair still damp, soft light from the window making it difficult to get a good look at his injuries. I stand in the doorway, silently, waiting for something. An invitation in, a 'fuck off', I don't know.

As my eyes adjust, I watch his gaze drag up and down my body, one eyebrow raised.

I take that as an invitation. It's at the very least not a 'fuck off'.

I set the baby monitor down on his nightstand and slowly, silently, kneel next to him, assessing the damage in the low light.

He's got a bruise forming on his chin and one black eye.

I wince. I place the ice pack gently against his chin and raise his hand to it to hold it there. He rolls his eyes at me but complies.

I then take a look at his cuts. One split eyebrow, and a split lip. I shuffle a little closer before dropping some Neosporin on my finger and gently spreading it against his eyebrow and the butterfly bandage there.

I know the boys have a medical team that does an excellent job, but I also know how stubborn and tough hockey players are. My brother played quite a few games with a broken finger or a busted knee.

I expected Gabe to complain that I was making a bigger deal out of a little cut, but he didn't. He watches me with curiosity. I get the feeling he's not used to someone worrying about him, or taking care of him.

I'm glad he's letting me. Maybe it's one more way he's letting me in .

I gently press some Neosporin onto his lip.

He winces and I pull away quickly, with a gasp.

He grabs my wrist with his free hand and brings it back to his mouth.

He's staring at me with a heat, and intensity I find uncomfortable.

It feels like his gaze is burning into my very soul.

The air between us is charged and it's difficult to breathe.

I stare at his mouth to avoid the intensity of his eyes.

His bottom lip is perfect and pouty, and it gives under the slight pressure of my thumb.

I lick my own lips, my mouth suddenly dry. His breathing is deep, labored.

I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.

I go to stand, leaving him with the ice pack, but he grabs my wrist. He tosses the ice pack onto his nightstand and uses both hands to pull me to him.

He scoots us down so we're laying. He uses the hand on my wrist to pull my arm across his chest and presses my open palm against his pec.

The other hand presses my head into the crook of his shoulder.

And then he's still. I can hear his heart beating underneath my head, I can feel the warmth of his skin.

The smell of his bodywash or cologne surrounds me.

It's dark and spicy and his bed smells like a combination of that and his warm skin.

I'm pretty certain he's naked but I don't dare throw my leg over his.

I don't know what this is. Two sides of my brain war with each other.

He doesn't like me. But he was just staring at me like he wanted to devour me.

He doesn't trust me. But he wants me to cuddle him.

Does he want me to spend the night? He's not making a move that he wants more.

Maybe he was more rattled by the fight than he lets on and is just looking for comfort like Carter when we sleep together at night.

Before Carter, I haven't been in bed with a man since Chad and he wasn't a cuddler.

Here I am, spending two nights cuddling two different very masculine hockey players.

But it was just cuddling. It's not like we'd had sex.

Platonic friends could cuddle with each other, right?

We're just lonely adults, looking for comfort in each other's arms?

Right? Would Carter be mad if he knew? Would Luca?

I want him. I'm attracted to him. Who wouldn't be? Tall, dark and handsome, his body built for battle. His defined abs and thick thighs honed from a decade or more of discipline. Fiercely loyal and protective. He's everything my ex wasn't.

In hindsight I realize how much my ex gaslit me, how he manipulated me and isolated me. How he worked on my self-esteem until it was little more than self-distain.

As my mind spirals, I get increasingly frustrated. Fuck it. I'm going to shoot my shot. What do I have to lose?

Fuck it, if he turns me down, I'm no worse off than I am right now. Living with three gorgeous hockey players and sharing a room with Annie meant my options for 'self-care' were limited to what I could pull off in the shower. I was getting increasingly sexually frustrated.

I press my chest against his and press my hips into his side, throwing my leg over his. I lean up a little, kissing his chest and his neck, doing my best to seduce him. He's a man, after all, would he really turn down easy sex?

His big, meaty hand squishes my face back against his chest, stopping my advances.

I make a little sound of annoyance and his chest rumbles with laughter.

I love the sound of his joy, but the sting of rejection and the blow to my ego are too much.

He doesn't want me. Not even for easy, free, no-strings attached sex.

His flirting at family day must have been a fluke .

Tears prick my eyes as my lip trembles. I put myself out there and was rejected.

Of course I was. If he wanted easy sex, there were any number of bunnies he could choose from.

Of course he wasn't attracted to me. There were hundreds of women out there prettier and skinnier and more successful than me.

Even with a busted lip and black eye. Maybe more so with a busted lip and black eye.

The hand palming my face moves back to my hip, and I use it as an opportunity to pull away.

I'd embarrassed myself and would much rather cry in private than in person.

It wasn't the end of the world. I knew that.

I would be embarrassed and uncomfortable whenever I saw him for a while, but then my ego would heal, and I would be fine.

I just needed the space and time to feel hurt.

He grabs my wrist again, though, and pulls me back towards him.

I resist harder this time. I really, really, don't want him to see me cry.

I don't want him to know how badly his rejection stings.

I'm not sure he's ever been on this side of rejection.

He probably got any girl he wanted, even in High School.

And here I am, rejected by literally every man I'd ever remotely wanted.

This is why it's easier just to give up.

His grip on my wrist tightens and I chance a glance at his face.

He could see the pain in mine. I hung my head in shame and closed my eyes, willing the tears to not fall.

He pulls me against him again, placing my hand on his chest and my head on his shoulder.

The tears slip free unbidden then. He holds me to him and kisses the top of my head.

I don't know what the hell this is. He doesn't want sex, but he doesn't want me to leave. I'm exhausted emotionally and physically now. I give up the depressing spiral of my thoughts and close my eyes. He's not going to let me go without a fight, so I give up and let sleep overtake me.