Page 83 of Pucking Sweet

“Fit as a fiddle,” I reply with a reassuring smile. This is calming her down, so I keep talking. “I was born with a weak heart. I practically lived in hospitals. But since we finally got the repairs I needed, I’ve been making this ole pump earn its keep and then some.”

“And they let you play hockey like this?” She blinks twice, lowering her hand away. “Wait, I’m sorry. That was rude.”

I laugh. “No, it’s a fair question. Trust me, the League wouldn’t have signed me if I couldn’t play. This is all in my past. I spent the first ten years of my life thinking I’d be unable to play sports at any level. No running, no jumping, no skating down the ice.”

“What was wrong?”

I shrug. “A few congenital defects with long names and low probabilities. Basically, it all meant my heart couldn’t pump my blood properly. Low oxygenation led to fatigue, weakness, shortness of breath. But I fought my fight and won. Now, every day that I get to keep playing hockey is my little victory lap. Honestly, it’s why I still play. Lord knows I don’t need the money. And my knees would probably thank me if I retired early,” I add with another smile.

I’ve clearly surprised her. “I had no idea. Why aren’t you more vocal about it? I could help you.” She sits forward, her eyes brightening. “Oh! We could do a campaign. Heart health is such an important topic—”

“Whoa there.” I raise a hand to stop her. “This is why I don’t tell people. Especially not media-minded people like you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be anybody’s poster boy. I don’t want to be driving to the beach and see a big billboard with my face and the word BRAVE in all caps. I get enough tokenism being one of only a handful of guys in the entire League who isn’t white. I support my causes privately, and I make my appearances at the cardiac wing of my hometown hospital every time I’m home. My doctors all have season tickets for life. That’s enough for me.”

She nods. “I understand. You want people to see you as an athlete first, not as a heart patient.”

I consider her words for a moment. Is that what I’ve been doing all these years? I’ve spent so long internalizing my own identity as that of “former” heart patient. Iwassick. Now, I’m not. Every day, Ipush my body to the limit again and again, showing it and myself what we can achieve together.

The rest of my family all chose medicine and academia. Dad was a chemist, Mom’s a neurologist, both my older sisters are pediatricians. And then there’s Colton, who always had a point to prove: my body is mine to control. Who would I be if I didn’t feel this pressure to constantly make my body perform? What would I do if I actually had a choice? If I didn’t have to keep proving everyone wrong?

“Colton?”

I look down, catching Poppy’s concerned gaze. Leaving my phone on the floor, I stand and reach out my hand. “Wanna try standing again?”

She slips her hand in mine, and I pull her up. Her other hand goes to my chest as she braces against me. Wobbling, she fixes her shoe. Her palm presses flat against my bare skin, burning me like a brand. Now I’m the one feeling like I can’t breathe. Her finger traces my sternotomy scar again. By the light of my phone, I see the questions shining in her eyes. She wants to know more about me, about my story. I want to know her too, if she’ll only give me a chance. Am I too late? Did I wait too long?

Her fingers inch lower, away from my scar. Christ, now she’s just touching me. There’s no pity in these touches. I reach out on instinct, wrapping my hands around her wrists. “Stop.”

She freezes. “Sorry.”

I let her go and she drops her hands to her sides. The energy in this dark elevator feels suddenly charged. Now that she’s not panicking about her sister or being stuck in this elevator, her mind that never stops churning is thinking about something else. “What is it?”

She bites her bottom lip, worry flashing in her eyes. “Umm, about Lukas—”

“Don’t.”

She looks up at me, and I see I’ve wounded her. She’s trying to communicate, and I’m shutting her down. She feels like she needs to tell me about what happened between them. He’s my friend and my teammate. She needs to unburden herself, but I can’t fucking bear it. “Whatever you’re about to tell me, I don’t want to know,” I say, mytone gruff.

She shrinks back farther. “Okay.”

With a groan, I close the space between us. Cupping her face with both hands, I tip her chin up. “I said I don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“You’re not mine, Poppy.”

Her gaze hardens as her hands wrap around my wrists. “You think I don’t know that?”

I walk her back until she touches the wall again. She gasps, her hip hitting the metal handrail. One hand drops down to brace against it. The other stays wrapped around my wrist, her fingers pressing against my pulse point. Can she feel the way it’s racing? “Whatever happened between you and Novy in DC is your own business,” I explain. “He’s not talking, and I don’t want you to either. You weren’t mine, so you owe me nothing. Understand?”

She nods.

Fuck this. I’m done waiting for my shot with her. I’m done watching from the bench just hoping she’ll notice me. Seizing this chance, I dare to go on. “But you need to know that if youweremine, he would never touch you again.”

She blinks up at me. “If I was yours?”