Not when I don’t know if what she sees between us could last beyond the next few weeks.
With her hair down, it fans across the pillow around her. I can’t help but brush my thumb across her cheek at the softness that takes over her face. I don’t pull away quickly because I don’t want to wake her.
Or maybe I just don’t want to leave yet.
When I glance at the nightstand on her side of the bed and see the time flashing on the alarm clock, reality takes over, and I slide my arm out from under her carefully.
I pull on my workout clothes and grab my keys, then stop long enough to leave a note on the counter for her.
Outside, the cool air hits in a way that makes my lungs burn. The drive to the rink is quiet, my mind still stuck back in that room with Brinley.
By the time I get inside, I don’t even bother with the locker room. I head straight for the training area, where a few guys are already getting worked on or stretching out from last night’s game.
“You look like you got banged up,” one of the trainers says, glancing up as I walk in. “How’s the shoulder?”
“I’m good,” I tell him automatically.
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he gestures toward an open table. “Sit.”
I do, rolling my shoulder once like it’s nothing. It’s sore. The tightness is still there, worse now that the adrenaline’s worn off.
He presses into it, testing the range. I grit my teeth enough to hide it.
“You got driven into pretty hard.”
“Yeah,” I grunt as he hits a tender spot.
He nods like he expected it. “You’re not getting on the ice today.”
I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”
“Light work,” he says instead, already moving on. “Hit the bike and do some stretching. No pushing it. Not if you want to play later this week.”
I don’t argue with him, not if it means I’ll be able to play.
A little while later, I’m in the weight room, half going through the motions. I go through a few sets with resistance bands, working on light movement. It doesn’t feel like it’s doing much, but every rep is a dull reminder that I’m still feeling it.
I ignore it, though. I always do.
Coach steps into the conditioning room, his eyes lingering on me, his expression as hard as ever.
When conditioning winds down, my body is still buzzing. Sweat drips from my brow as I grab a towel and wipe my face.
Coach Dawson waits just outside the locker room, leaning against the wall like he’s been there a while. His posture is rigid,his jaw clenches tight. He’s the kind of man who keeps himself locked up tight, never letting things get too personal.
“Rowden.”
His voice stops me mid-step, and I turn toward him.
“You good to go for Thursday?” he asks.
That’s it.
Nothow’s the shoulder?
Notmedical clear you fully?
Not evenyou took a hell of a hit last night.
