Now I have to ask her for help. When I’m…broken.
Skylar breathes out a relieved but upbeat breath after she parks the car outside our homes. “Whew. I did it. See? I’m not a bad driver,” she says, and she’s been chatting nonstop on the drive home, clearly trying to make me feel better. To distract me from the pain.
I don’t deserve that either.
I wince and push open the passenger door just as she scurries around the back of the car and offers an arm. I wave her off, frowning. “I’m fine.”
“You’re injured.”
That word rankles me. Not quite likedivorceddid, but it’s close. She tries again to help me, but I shrug off her hand on my arm. “I can walk. I just wasn’t supposed to drive.”
“You’re a grouchy man, but I’m still going to help you get inside,” she says, flashing a smile and clearly trying to make light of my mood.
“I don’t need help.” I grunt.
“You do, Ford,” she says, insistent and strong.
But I don’t want it. Even though everything hurts as I walk up the steps, punch in the code, and head into my house where Zamboni bounds over to me. Her tail wags as she presses close, whimpering her hellos.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I need to walk her with my bruised ribs, and my chest is aching.
“I’ll take her out,” Skylar says before I can even ask.
“Thanks,” I say, guilt shooting through me along with the pain. As she leaves with the dog, I grin and bear it over to the fridge, grab an ice pack, and gently lower myself to the couch. Those polar plunges have come in handy—this ice is nothing.
Except five minutes later, my ribs feel frozen. Skylar returns with Zamboni, then hustles over to me. My dog comes, too, whimpering and nosing me. I pet her. “I’m okay, girl,” I say.
Skylar side-eyes me. “You’re not.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. It hurts too much.
She sits on the end of the couch and gently sets a hand on my shin, rubbing slow circles. “What can I do for you?”
She’s so caring. So giving. But all I can think is how I want to be able to finish the season on my terms. That was my goal—to finish what I started when I was twenty-four and nobody wanted to take a chance on me. To play out the rest of the year. What if this injury leads to another? What if I don’t heal right?
How can I recover when I’m so distracted that I lose sight of the puck?
This isn’t anybody else’s fault but mine. My head started wandering to her just like it did at training with Leah and Corbin. These last few weeks, it’s always wandering to her.
The more that happens, the less I can focus on the job. I’m going to bring down the team. They’re going to bench me before I even finish out the year.
What will my legacy be then?
I’ll just be some guy who stayed beyond his prime. Aplayer who hobbled out onto the ice when he should’ve retired.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. The last thing I want is to hurt the woman I’m absolutely falling madly for. But now I’m injured, and it’s my own fault.
Love makes you annoyingly vulnerable. I’m better off white-knuckling it myself.
This woman? This caring, giving, kind, considerate woman who’s looking after me, who’s taking care of my dog? This woman who bought a toy for my dog? Who puts up with all of my mom’s quirks? Who stood up for me in front of my ex?
She deserves better than a guy who’ll get distracted on the job. A guy who gets distracted isn’t dependable.
“Skylar,” I say heavily.
In a heartbeat, tension radiates from her, and everything must be obvious from my voice.
