Too young.
And I felt like the worst kind of bastard for wanting her, anyway.
I should've left. Gone home. Put distance between us before this got worse.
But I didn't.
I lowered myself to the floor beside the couch. Back against the wall. Legs stretched out in front of me.
Her hand hung over the edge, still tangled in the fabric of my sweatshirt.
I took it. Gently. Threaded my fingers through hers.
She didn't pull away.
The office was quiet. Just the hum of the old fluorescent lights overhead and the distant rumble of the ice machines shutting down for the night.
I stared at the opposite wall. At the whiteboard covered in half-erased drills and scribbled line combinations.
Her name was up there. Center of the first line. Right where it belonged.
She's the best player on this team.
I'd known it from day one. Before I even knew who she was. Before I knew she was Nate's. Before I knew she'd wreck me.
Now?
Now I couldn't imagine the ice without her.
She shifted in her sleep. Turned toward me slightly. Her breathing hitched, then settled again.
I squeezed her hand. Just once.
She squeezed back.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was nothing.
But it felt like everything.
I should walk away.
I told myself that. Over and over.
Every time her chest rose. Every time her fingers twitched against mine.
Walk away before you ruin her.
Before she realizes what you are.
But I didn't move.
Because every time she exhaled—soft and steady andsafe—I felt a little more human again. Like maybe I wasn't just the wreckage everyone said I was. Like maybe I could be something else. For her.
I wasn't good at words. Never had been. Couldn't promise her things would be okay or that I'd fix this mess we were in.
But this?
Sitting here in the dark. Holding her hand while she slept. Making sure she knew—even unconscious—that she wasn't alone.
