Baring It All
Jason
I flipthe deadbolt like I’m sealing a locker room after a bad period—one hard click that says we keep what’s ours. The curtain fights me; I drag it anyway until no light leaks at the edges. The living room goes gray, then calmer. Rain needles the sill. The fridge hums like white noise in a quiet rink. I take Riley’s hand—cold, shaking despite the brave set of her mouth—and guide her into the kitchen where the under-cabinet light throws a warm stripe across the counter.
Small room. Small world. That’s what we need.
She perches on the stool like it might skate out from under her. I set a glass on the counter. Water, not whiskey. I’m done with choices that ask her to forget.
“Drink,” I say, soft. I’m not the guy who orders her around; I am the guy who steadies. She takes a sip and the tremor slows a notch. My pulse begins to believe it can do its job without punching holes in my ribs.
“Five minutes at a time,” I remind us both. “This five is just breathing.”
Riley nods, ponytail damp at the ends, eyes still storm-bright. I want to take the whole night apart with my hands and rebuild it into something that won’t cut her when she touches it. I settle for the things I can control: locks, light, the distance between her and the window.
“You good to sit?” I ask.
“I’m good to not run,” she says, and the honesty punches something tender and unguarded in me. She curls a hand over her midline like instinct, not performance. I watch that hand and know a new definition of the word vow.
I circle the island to stand close enough that if she falls, she falls into me. “They don’t get in,” I say. It’s not a line. It’s a fact I intend to enforce with my body if I have to.
She studies my face, cataloging tells I don’t bother hiding from her. “You look like you want to fight a building,” she says, voice small and wry.
“I want to fight everything that made you afraid in your own apartment,” I admit. “Short of that, I’m going to make this kitchen the safest place in the city.”
Her mouth twitches at the corner. The first crack in the ice. I put my palm on the counter, close enough to touch but not crowding. “Tell me if I’m too much.”
“You’re the right amount,” she says, and I have to breathe through the sting in my throat. The right amount. No one’s ever asked me to be that; they just asked for wins.
Streetlight slants across the sink and turns the drops on her hair into sparks. She looks at me like she’s deciding if I can carry this, if I’ll set it down when it gets heavy. I don’t look away.
“We start small,” I say. “Make the bubble. Then the plan.”
Her green eyes soften a shade. “The bubble,” she repeats, like she’s trying on the shape of safety.
“Yeah.” I reach past her to turn on the vent fan—more white noise, less of the world. “It’s just us in here. No league. No owner. No cameras. No one gets a vote but us.”
She exhales. It’s quieter than a goal horn and more important. “Okay.” She taps a finger against the counter, a beat finding itself. “Then for this five minutes, we don’t talk about them.”
“Deal,” I say, and lean my hip against the island, close enough for her knee to touch mine. Her shoulders drop a fraction. The room shrinks to breath and rain and the low thrum of a future I’m not letting anyone else write for us.
The bubble holds. Time starts to obey. I slide my phone onto the counter face down and nudge it away like a puck I don’t trust not to deflect wrong. “Okay,” I say. “Breathing’s working. Next five: logistics. We build the skeleton so the heart has somewhere to beat.”
Riley’s mouth quirks. “That’s a horrifying medical metaphor.”
“Then you do the metaphors. I’ll do the lists.” I pull a notepad from the junk drawer—goalie masks, spare batteries, a pen that still works—and click it open. The sound is stupidly satisfying. “Doctors first.”
She twists her water glass, watching the slice of lemon bump the side. “My GP can refer me to an OB. I want someone who isn’t connected to the team. I need privacy more than a fancy waiting room.”
“Independent clinic,” I repeat, writing it down. “We’ll get recommendations from Sophie, maybe Dr. Adams off the record.”
“Adams will keep it quiet,” she says, then hesitates. “I hate asking him to keep anything. It puts him in a spot.”
“I’ll ask.” She opens her mouth to argue; I shake my head. “I’m the one the league tries to bully. Let them try me. Not you.”
Her fingers stay on the glass, but her shoulders loosen. “Okay. Prenatal schedule—first appointment as soon as they can take me, basic labs. I want to read everything before I let anyone draw blood or order a scan I don’t understand.”
“Read everything,” I echo, and the idea that we’re studying for this together makes something warm take root behind my ribs. “We’ll block time on our calendars. I’ll move practice if I have to.”
