Page 17 of Make Me Yours (Chicago Railers Hockey #1)

LILAH

I wait for Steele to shake off the brutal hit, but he remains still.

My stomach plummets as I grip the hem of my jersey, my knuckles turning white.

On the ice, the medics rush toward him while the crowd shifts from roaring excitement to a low murmur of unease.

When I rise to my feet, Evelyn’s hand lands on my arm, steady but firm. “Darling, wait?—”

“I can’t,” I whisper. “I have to get to him.”

“Lilah, just?—”

I don’t wait around to hear the rest. I’m already moving, tearing out of the suite and into the hallway, my heart pounding as loud as the crowd buzzing behind me. I bolt for the stairs, my legs barely keeping up with the surge of adrenaline flooding my system.

By the time I hit the main level, security is everywhere.

There’s shouting and redirecting as they try to keep things under control.

I push forward and weave through the crowd.

A few guards recognize me, parting just enough to let me slip past. The echo of my steps follows me down the corridor.

It feels like the walls narrow as my pulse thunders .

I just want him to be okay.

Please.

Be.

Okay.

My hands won’t stop shaking, and every second that ticks by feels heavier than the last.

When I finally push open the door to the medical room, I’m hit with a wave of concern that stops me cold. Steele is stretched out on the exam table with a bag of ice pressed against his temple. His jersey and pads have been stripped away, leaving his chest bare and much too still.

The sight of him injured and vulnerable nearly brings me to my knees.

His head tilts at the sound of the door, and for a terrifying second, he doesn’t say anything. Just blinks up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes.

Somehow, he manages to smirk. It’s crooked and tired but unmistakably Steele .

“Hey, lucky charm,” he rasps. “Didn’t mean to scare you out there.”

I exhale sharply and rush to his side. “Well, you did.”

“Relax,” he mutters, wincing slightly as he adjusts the ice pack. “It’s just a little concussion.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s too shaky to be convincing. “There’s no such thing as a little concussion. And you should know that by now.”

When he doesn’t answer, I step in closer. My fingers find his damp hair, and I thread them through gently, like I’m searching for further damage.

He doesn’t flinch.

If anything, he leans into my touch.

The doctor continues his exam, rattling off the usual instructions. No screens, no alcohol, no strenuous activity, and plenty of rest. Steele nods along, like he’s paying attention, but I know better. I can see in his eyes that he’s already fading.

And it only stretches my nerves tighter.

I cross my arms over my chest and force myself to sound calm even though my heart is still in full panic mode. “I’m taking you home.”

I half expect him to push back or give me one of those stubborn smirks and say he’s fine.

Instead, he just nods his acceptance, allowing me to help him off the table.

One of the trainers grabs his personal belongings from the locker room and helps him into a hoodie and sweats.

When they’re done, I slip an arm around his waist, steadying him.

He leans against me as we head for the door and then out of the building to the parking lot.

When he moves to slide behind the wheel of his Lamborghini, I laugh and hold out my hand expectantly. “Absolutely not. You heard what the doctor said.”

His forehead creases. “He didn’t say anything about driving.”

“Give me a break. You have a concussion, Steele. You’re not getting behind the wheel of a car that goes zero to sixty in three seconds. Your precious baby will be just fine. I promise.”

“I’m not worried about the Lamborghini,” he mutters. “And you of all people should know that.”

I stare at him for just a second.

“I do,” I say, gentler now.

With a quiet sigh, he walks around to the passenger side and then slides into the seat, wincing as he leans back and closes his eyes.

I glance at him, worry twisting low in my stomach. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Lilah,” he says with his eyes still shut. “I just want to go home. ”

“Your wish is my command,” I murmur, settling into the driver’s seat and pressing the ignition.

“If only that were true.”

My belly dips hard.

I don’t respond.

I can’t.

Not when the memory of his body against mine during the shoot flashes through my mind.

The drive is quiet, but it’s not the kind of silence I can sink into. I keep shooting him worried looks at red lights, watching the way his head leans back against the seat, his features drawn and pale beneath the bruising already blooming at his temple.

By the time I pull into the underground garage, I’m practically leaping from the car. I round the front and open his door, offering my arm without a word. He doesn’t fight me, but I can tell it grates on him to lean into me as we walk.

His balance is off and his movements are sluggish. He tries to hide it, but I can feel it in the way he presses more weight into my side with each step we take toward the elevator.

Even with the doctor’s reassurance echoing in my mind, I’m still on edge.

That hit was brutal.

Once we make it into his penthouse, I steer him gently down the hall toward his bedroom. Waffles trails behind us like a tiny bodyguard, meowing once before hopping onto the bed and settling at the foot, her big green eyes locked on Steele like she knows something’s off.

I ease him onto the edge of the bed and grab a bottle of water from his nightstand, placing it next to the painkillers I find in the bathroom.

“You should rest,” I say, brushing my hand lightly against his arm.

He leans forward and braces his hands on his thighs. “I want to take a shower first. I feel gross. ”

We were in such a rush to leave the arena, he didn’t get the chance.

“Okay, I’ll help you.”

His brows pull together. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”

“You have a concussion, Steele. Your coordination’s crap right now. I’d rather not pick your giant ass up off the floor because you slipped.”

He frowns and then pouts.

My lips twitch as I fight back a smile. “Come on, big guy. Trust me, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, a vivid image of when he stepped out of the shower in all his naked glory flashes through my brain. I wince and shove the memory away.

He doesn’t respond, just allows me to loop my arm around his waist and steer him toward the bathroom. The second we step inside the luxurious marble space, he grips the doorframe as his balance wobbles.

“See?” I huff. “This is exactly why you need my help.”

He arches a brow. “Do you really think you’d be able to stop me from falling?”

I glance at the sheer wall of muscle beside me, and snort. “Not a chance. I’d end up crushed beneath you like a bug.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “That’s the last thing I want to happen.”

Without a word of warning, he grips the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head before tossing it to the floor. I freeze, my gaze catching on the bruises that bloom across his ribs and the defined lines of his chest.

Before I can process anything else, his sweatpants hit the tile.

Then his boxers.

“Steele!” I choke, whipping around to face the towel rack. “You could’ve given me a little bit of warning!”

He laughs, completely unfazed. “What? I thought I didn’t have anything you haven’t seen before,” he teases. “Come to think of it, you have seen the goods.”

A strangled sound catches in my throat as my gaze stays glued to the brushed nickel towel rack in front of me. I press my lips together, refusing to touch that comment with a ten-foot pole.

The shower sputters to life behind me, the sound of rushing water filling the space. Within seconds, steam begins to curl through the air, fogging the edges of the mirror and softening the lines of the room.

I ground myself, forcing the emotion to settle.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of his reflection before the glass completely clouds over.

Broad shoulders.

Tapered waist.

Muscles that ripple beneath sun-kissed skin.

And that damn V-cut that disappears into a place I am definitely not going to peek at.

Eyes up, Monroe.

Steele is absolutely stunning. The man is built like he was carved from stone, but in this moment, as he braces a hand on the tile, his body unsteady, he looks vulnerable.

Human.

Still infuriatingly sexy, but not untouchable.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Okay, maybe I need a little more help than I thought.”

I let out a shaky exhale and glance toward the glass enclosure. His head is tilted as his other hand joins the first on the wall for balance and his legs tremble beneath him.

“You’re lucky I love you,” I mutter, stepping closer before my brain can catch up with my mouth.

His lips curve into a lazy grin. It’s the one that’s been known to cause minor hysteria across the league. “Yes, I am.”

My heart stumbles, then slams back into rhythm .

He’s not making this easy.

I inch closer, toeing off my shoes and socks. The tile is cool beneath my feet as the steam rises around me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice rough from the hot water and whatever’s simmering beneath the surface of this moment.

“Helping you.”

His gaze slides down my body and then back up again. “With all your clothes on?”

I blink. “Um… yes?”

He cocks his head. “You’ll get soaked. At the very least, take off the jersey and jeans.”

I glance down at the oversized shirt and the cling of denim that’s already sticking to my legs from the humidity.

I mean, he’s not wrong.

But stripping down to my underwear?

In front of Steele?

That feels dangerous.

Then again, is it any different than wearing a swimsuit?

Still…

For some reason, it feels like more .

I hesitate for half a second until he shifts again, unsteady and gripping the tile tighter.