Page 14 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity sits down on the bench with her knees touching mine. “Want me to patch you up?” She looks so much older than me in this instant as she’s so calm.

I nod again. “Sure. There’s a med kit in that closet across the room.”

She gets up, walks to the tiny closet, and I hear her rummaging through the first-aid box. The sound of her moving is oddly comforting, like she’s done this a hundred times before. She comes back with gauze and tape and the world’s tiniest scissors.

“I’m not very good at this,” she says. “Maybe ask your athletic trainers to take a look at it when you’re ready.”

“I’m fine. The other guy is worse.”

She grins, but it fades when she sees the cut on my cheek. She wets a towel and dabs at the blood, and for a while that’s all there is as her hand is steady, her breath measured, my heart trying to pound its way out of my ribs.

“Why’d you let him get to you?” she asks, finally.

I don’t answer at first. She waits. She’s better at silence than I am.

“He brought up my record,” I say. “From when I was a kid.” I look away, out to where the floor is covered with skate marks and shredded tape.

“I know you mentioned that you had a rough up bringing,” she says it soft.

I swallow. “Yeah, I was angry all the time. Took it out on whoever was closest.”

She’s still working the gauze, not missing a beat. “You think you’re still that kid?”

“I don’t know.” I want to say no, but the truth is, I do.

She finishes taping my face and puts the med kit aside. “You’re not,” she says. “You wouldn’t care this much if you were.”

I look at her, and it’s refreshing to actually see what she sees. I’m not a bruiser, not a fuck-up, just someone who’s tired of being angry.

I want to say thank you. I want to say I’m sorry. Instead, I reach for her hand. She lets me, fingers warm and soft and nothing like I expected.

“You want to get out of here?” she asks. “We could go get food, or just… not be here.”

I shake my head. “Can we stay? Just for a minute.”

She nods, and I pull her into my lap, careful not to bleed on her. She doesn’t fight it. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face in my shoulder. For the first time all night, I breathe all the way in.

We sit like that, not talking, just being. I feel her heartbeat slow, syncing up with mine. I never want to let go.

She lifts her head. “I’m sure someone is going to come in here soon,” she says, but she doesn’t move.

“Let them,” I say. “I don’t care what they see.”

She kisses me, gentle and slow, lips barely brushing the cut. Then again, deeper, with a little more heat. I’m so used to fighting for every inch of affection that this feels like a gift.

She slides off my lap, stands, and pulls me up with her. “Come on,” she says, “I want to show you something.”

I follow her to the showers, which is not at all where I expected this to go. The place is cold and echoey and smells like wet tile and men’s soap. She grabs the little bottle of shampoo from the ledge and hands it to me. “Strip and wash your hair. There’s blood in it.”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, and do as I’m told.

She watches, arms crossed, like she’s making sure I actually do it. The water is freezing, but I don’t care. When I finish, she hands me a towel and waits until I’ve dried off.

“Better?” she asks.

I nod. “Much.”

She takes the towel from my hands, tosses it onto the bench, and presses me against the wall. Her hands run down my arms, slow, deliberate. “You ever let anyone take care of you before?” she whispers.

“Not really.”

“Good. Don’t get used to it.”

She kisses me again, harder this time, and I forget about the blood and the fight and everything that came before. I pull her closer, feel her body pressed against mine, all softness and heat and a need that matches my own.

She slides her hands up under my jersey—her jersey—finding skin. Her fingers are cold, and I shiver, but not from that. She tugs her shirt off, and we’re both bare from the waist up, pressed together under the harsh light and the echo of our own breathing.

“Here?” I ask, half-joking, half-hopeful.

She grins. “Why not? You’ve probably done worse.”

“Definitely.”

I pin her to the wall, careful this time, hands everywhere, tasting her mouth, her neck, the place behind her ear that makes her gasp.

She slides her jeans down and kicks them away, leaving only lace and skin.

I drop to my knees and kiss along her thigh, tracing the curve where muscle meets bone, until she threads her fingers through my hair and tugs me closer.

She tastes delicious, and I lose myself in the way she moves under my tongue.

She moans, quiet at first, then louder as I find the spot that makes her whole-body tense.

She leans back, palms flat against the tile, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.

I want to keep her like this forever, to make her forget anything bad that ever happened to her.

When she comes, she says my name on repeat. I’ll never forget the sound.

She pulls me up and kisses me, not caring about the taste, not caring about anything except being close. She slides her hand down and finds me hard, ready, desperate. She pulls my shorts down and climbs up into my lap, wrapping her legs around me, and I support her weight with my hands on her ass.

She lowers herself onto me, slow at first, then deeper, and I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me upright.

We move together, rocking against the wall, her breath hot in my ear.

She bites my shoulder, and I groan, gripping her hips, guiding her faster.

The world goes white around the edges, nothing but her, nothing but this.

When we both finish, we stay tangled, her forehead against mine, both of us shaking and spent.

After, we dress in silence, grinning like idiots. She fixes her hair in the bathroom mirror, then turns to me. “If you ever get in a fight like that again,” she says, “at least let me bet on you first.”

I laugh, which hurts my face.