Beckett staggers to his locker. He’s got his game face on, but his hands are shaking as he digs through his gear. “I’ll drive over to urgent care later.”
“No, Beckett. Don’t be a fucking dumbass. You’re not getting behind the wheel of a goddamn car,” Julius snaps. “Pierce is going to drive you. You’ll see the doc. I’m calling him right now, and he’s going to order you off the bench for the rest of the week, at least. Jesus fucking Christ, this is exactly what we need, with the season coming to an end. Paxton? Now this?” Julius slumps. He hangs his head, cracks his neck. “We’re almost there, Beckett. I need you on the ice, and we’re not going to fuck this up. Go home, get in bed, and don’t get out of it until I call you.”
He bends, scoops up his gloves, and vanishes onto the ice with a door slam that leaves the air vibrating. Beckett’s still standing byhis locker, looking like he might fall over if I breathe too hard. The silence stretches out.
“You’re bleeding,” Beckett says without looking at me.
“No shit.” I know I deserved that punch. I deserve a lot more. He should have caved my face in with his stick, then skated over my chest and left a set of grooves there for good measure. “Let’s be good little boys before your team captain comes back to fuck us up some more.”
Beckett drops onto the bench, fingers shaking so badly he can’t get the laces on his skates undone. “Fuck,” he whispers. It’s the softest sound he’s made all day.
I kneel in front of him and undo the laces, one skate and then the other. They thud to the floor. I look up. His eyes are soft, but he’s breathing hard, nostrils flaring.
I run my palms up the back of his calves, slow, feeling the twitch of muscle under my touch. His eyes narrow, and I know he remembers he’s supposed to be pissed at me.
“Fuck you, Pierce,” he says, shoving me back. He steps over me, but has to catch himself against the locker.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I stand, grab the hem of his jersey, and peel it over his head. He doesn’t fight me, just lets me strip him down, piece by piece, until his gear’s in a heap and I’m pulling his street clothes out of the locker.
He doesn’t even hit the shower. Which means he’s actually scared. It also means he’s going to stink up my car with his scent, and it’s going to drive me absolutely fucking crazy on the drive over.
I stuff his clothes into his arms, and he just stands there, blinking at me like he’s forgotten how to get dressed. He drops everything but his jeans. Shaking them out, he leans a shoulder against the lockers. His movements are slow and exaggerated as he carefully steps one leg, then the other into his jeans.
Fuck. Now, I’m scared. He’s holding on to both hands as he stomps into his sneakers.
“Let’s go,” I say, and he follows me silently, out into the cold.
Chapter eighteen
BECKETT
Thecarjerkstoa stop with a squeal of tires. I throw my hand out, catching myself on the dash. Pierce takes a deep breath, gearing up for a string of profanity.
“I swear to god, Pierce,” I say, “if you lean on that horn,Iwill punch you in the face.”
He snorts, winces, and flips off the car that cut us off, but his hands clamp down at ten and two on the steering wheel, like that will hold back his drag race tendencies. This is exactly why Liam and I never let Pierce drive our cars.
I roll down the window, just a crack. The air inside the car is thick with our scents. Normally, a great thing. Right now? It’s too much. The hum of traffic seeps in and fills the dead space between us.
I glance at the crook of my elbow and peel off the Band-Aid and the little square of cotton. The IV helped. The nausea is gone,and the world has stopped tilting under my feet. I can actually see straight again. The dehydration was the bigger issue, apparently. The doctor said she was surprised I hadn’t blacked out on the ice. I didn’t tell her I wasn’t sure I hadn’t blacked out.
“What’d you eat today?” Pierce asks as we blow through a yellow light.
“Whatever, man.”
“Ah, exactly. You didn’t eat.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Pierce’s jaw twitches. “Really? Fine. That’s funny. If you were fine, they wouldn’t have hooked you up to an IV. That’s dehydration. Yes, because you don’t drink, because you forgot to eat, so you’re off your meal plan, and you think you can just power through.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say. Like I was going to stop for snacks when I was wrapped around Ash?
“You absolutely forgot, or you decided that it didn’t matter. Either way, same outcome.”
“The IV helped,” I mumble.
Pierce sighs, but there’s a softness to it. “Of course it helps. Electrolytes matter, sodium matters. You just can’t live on energy drinks and protein bars like half the team. Especially with a concussion.”
