“Eyes on me,” I say, because I need him still and because I can’t afford the past right now. “You pass out, I’m writing ‘drama queen’ in your chart.”
He huffs a laugh that sounds like gravel. “As if you’d risk a paper trail.”
“I love paper trails.” I thread the needle. “They keep billionaires honest.”
His gaze flickers, then settles into that grumpy amusement that used to get me in trouble. “Try me.”
“Hold.” I press the edges of the cut together, clamp, and clean. He doesn’t flinch, but the tendons in his wrist jump under my glove. The crowd crests on a near miss and crashes back down. Someone behind us pounds the boards with a stick—three sharp booms that echo in my ribs. I breathe with the count. In. Out. Stitch.
“Do you ever stop giving orders?” Jason asks, voice low enough to hide under the noise.
“Do you ever start following them?” I tie off the first stitch, quick and neat. “Stop flexing.”
“You’re digging at bone.”
“I’m nowhere near bone,” I say, and because muscle memory is a rude, disloyal thing, my thumb makes one slow pass to test stability. The same thumb that remembers the slope of his hip, the notch at his collarbone, the places that undo him. I clamp down hard on the thought and on the skin. “Don’t be a baby.”
He leans in, breath a fraction warmer than the arena air. “You used to call me worse.”
“I was younger.”
“And nicer?”
“Smarter,” I say, and set the second stitch. The antiseptic burn rides up my nose. If I keep the jokes coming, maybe he won’t notice my pulse in my throat. Maybe I won’t notice the way his eyes soften every time I touch him.
Coach barks a line change. Bodies shuffle; helmets knock; a spray of ice dusts over the dasher and catches in my hair. I don’t move. I’m a fixed point while the team orbits and collides.
“Lane,” the team doc calls from down the bench, “status?”
“Two more minutes,” I answer, not looking away from Jason. “He’s fine.”
“Define ‘fine,’” Jason mutters.
“Skating, shooting, and pissing me off.” I snip a tail and reach for more gauze.
A shadow leans over us. “Hey, lovebirds,” a rookie chirps, sweat dripping off his nose, grin filthy. “Want me to give you a minute? Maybe light a candle?”
Heat punches my face. My hand stays steady. “Want me to staple your mouth shut, Collins?”
“Careful,” another voice adds from behind him. “HR’s gonna need a cigarette.” Laughter ripples down the line.
Jason’s mouth quirks. The look he gives me is pure gasoline—reckless, daring me to strike a match. He could say something to shut them up. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He likes it when I burn.
“Eyes front,” I snap at the peanut gallery, not trusting my own. “Next person who talks gets an ice bath and a tetanus booster.” They scatter like pigeons, still chuckling. My heart jackhammers like I just skated a full shift.
“Still terrifying,” Jason says, softer. “Didn’t miss that.”
I ignore the word miss. I set the third stitch, neat as a signature I refuse to claim. “You’re going to wear extra padding over this,” I tell him. “And you’re going to like it.”
He tips closer, voice a scrape along my nerves. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll sit you.” I tighten the knot. “I’ll duct-tape you to the bench if I have to.”
His laugh is a low, rough thing that tightens every muscle in my body. “Kinky.”
“Medical.” I reach for the final strip, determined to end this clean and clinical. Determined not to look up and drown in the thing I’ve been pretending I don’t want. My gloves creak. The needle catches light. One more stitch and I can breathe again.
I lay the final butterfly strip against his skin, smoothing the adhesive with the flat of my thumb. The cut has stopped oozing; the arena hasn’t. The roar rises, falls, rises again like a tide that wants to drag us under. I can feel eyes. Maybe that’s paranoia. Maybe it’s experience.
