Page 24

Twenty-Four

Luna

“I need to see Aiden!” I tell the security guard. “Aiden Black from the Grizzlies.”

He looks down his nose at me.

Probably because I’m acting like a crazed fan.

When really, I’m a panicked wife.

Then, not deigning to answer, he looks away, going back to his job of manning the hallway and not allowing any peons like me back into the player’s area.

“It’s just. He got hurt and…” I bite my lip, force the words out. “He’s my husband.” His brows lift, but he doesn’t otherwise comment. “I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up.”

Probably because he was stretchered off the ice.

My husband of one day?—

My friend.

The boy I loved.

The man who welcomed me back with open arms.

And we’ve had one day together before my bad luck, before the Maybelle curse, has infiltrated his life.

That’s nonsense, baby girl. I hear Gram’s voice in my head. The curse isn’t real and you know it.

I don’t know it.

Because my mom, my sister, Grams, and now…the man I care about.

No, it’s more than that. More than caring.

Aiden is…the man I never stopped loving.

And this is my fault. My fault. My ?—

“Hey!” I hear and my gaze jerks from the big, hulking man in front of me to the big, hulking man striding my way.

Smitty’s hair is sweaty and he’s still half-dressed, but his eyes are calm and collected as they hold mine. “He’s good,” is the first thing he says when he gets close enough to speak at a semi-normal—but what I assume is quiet for him—volume. “They’re taking him over to the hospital for a CT?—”

I gasp.

He just reaches forward, his big hand surrounding mine as he holds my fingers securely. “That’s a normal thing, babe. They follow the concussion protocol after a shot to the head like that.”

“They stretchered him off,” I push out between numb lips.

God, I hate watching him play hockey.

“Yeah, they did.” He tugs me toward him, saying to the security guard, “She’s with us, yeah?”

The guard nods back, steps aside to let me pass.

But I barely notice.

Because I’m too focused on Smitty and what he’s saying. “Aiden was alert and talking when they brought him back. He’s with the trainer now and you can go to the hospital with him if you want.”

“Does he—?” I pause, nibble at my lip again.

“Does he what?” It’s a gentle question, far gentler than anything I’ve heard from him up to this point, and I find that the soft tone means that I can push out the rest of the very scary questions.

“Does he want me there, you think?”

Something crosses behind Smitty’s eyes.

Then he tucks a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, honey,” he says quietly. “He wants you there.”

I nod, and when he tucks me close to his side, I barely even notice that he’s sweaty, that he doesn’t smell all that great. I’m just thankful for his size and strength and guidance as he takes me through the twisting corridors without hesitation.

It’s only when we stop outside a closed door that the nerves start to come back.

“He’s fine,” Smitty says, seeing me hesitate. “He’s with Doc, but you can go in.”

I nod again.

Smitty knocks and we hear a voice call out to, “Come in!”

“You got this.” Smitty smiles encouragingly as he twists the door handle, pushes the wooden panel inward.

I start to step inside then stop, turn back. “Smitty?”

His gentle giant gaze comes to mine. “Yeah, Luna girl?”

My heart pulses at the nickname, but I don’t have space to process how nice that feels, how nice he’s being, how much I like all of that, how much I want it to be forever, to have men like him, a man like Aiden in my life.

But I don’t have time to verbalize all of that.

So, I just nod at Smitty and murmur, “Thanks.”

Somehow, I think he sees all of that flowing through my head because he nods, mouth kicking up on one side. “You’re welcome.”

Then he strolls away, skates clomping on the mats as he walks.

I shore up my courage, brace against what I might see, then move into the room.

And go completely still.

Aiden is watching me, his green eyes lucid and clear.

“Oh, my God!” I gasp that panic lurching to life again. “Are you okay?”

His eyes might be lucid and clear but there’s a bruise blooming on his cheek. A huge, ugly bruise with?—

“Oh, my God,” I gasp again.

Of course he’s not okay.

He got hit with a puck in the freaking head!

“Luns,” he says.

And there are stitches in his cheek, a neat line of them bisecting all of that black and blue and purple.

“ Luns,” he says again.

I blink.

Realize that he’s holding his hand out. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Only, my feet can’t move. They’re glued to the floor and something trails through his expression when he seems to realize that. “Am I good?”

My eyebrows drag together because that doesn’t make sense.

He’s not good—he has a honking bruise on his face and stitches holding his skin together and he got hit in the freaking head with a freaking puck and?—

“You’re good,” I hear the other man say—the one who must be the team’s doctor, or Doc as Smitty referred to him.

Doctor or not, I open my mouth to remind them both that Aiden is not good.

But before I get that out, he’s on his feet and moving toward me.

I notice that his gait is smooth, even, that his eyes continue to remain lucid and pain free, but it’s only when his fingers wrap around mine and he pulls me against his chest that I manage to speak.

“You’re not good,” I fret, running my free hand gently over his chest and arms and shoulders, not daring to touch him anywhere near those bruises or the cut that’s been sewn closed. “You need to sit down and?—”

The other man brushes by me with a soft, “Excuse me.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Aiden says over my head.

“Any time.” A beat. “Meet in the parking lot when you’re ready and we’ll get the scan taken care of, yeah?”

“Yeah, Doc.”

The door closes and I push back gently against his chest, accuse, “You’re hurt.”

“It’s only five stitches,” he says and I feel my mouth fall open.

“Only five stitches? That’s five too many! Not to mention the bruise and the fact that you were carried off the ice on a stretcher!”

My voice catches and I clamp my lips together.

His eyes twinkle. “You’re trying to not to demand that I quit hockey, aren’t you?”

The question is amused, but I’m anything but.

Because I was thinking exactly that.

And it’s annoying he knows that.

Because it’s not rational and because I can’t help but think exactly that and because he has five freaking stitches in his face.

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“The CT is just a precaution.”

“Smitty said it’s part of the concussion protocol.”

He scowls. “Smitty is a fucking loudmouth.”

I take his hand, draw him forward. “We need to get your stuff.”

He shrugs and shakes his head. “The team will grab it and make sure it’s on the plane.” He slips his hand from mine, goes back to the table where he’d been sitting, where he’d been sitting getting those fucking stitches. “And your bag is here.”

I frown.

He answers the unspoken question, “I sent someone back to the hotel to get it.”

Because I couldn’t bring it into the arena, so I’d left it with the concierge.

“Aiden,” I whisper, heart squeezing.

“You’re not alone anymore, Luns.”

My heart squeezes again.

“And we have each other’s backs, right?” He touches my cheek. “You worrying about me and a few stitches and I…” His lips brush over my forehead. “And I need to…make sure that sexy lingerie makes its way back home.”