by Lynda Aicher
“That’s so foreign to me.” He hunted her solemn eyes but found only curiosity when he’d feared judgment. “It sounds…lonely. Did you miss your family?”
He shrugged. Getting out of the silent house had been a blessing. “It was the norm for us with no example outside of TV shows on how it could be different.” Leaving Emma behind had been negated by the joy of being free.
“I can’t comprehend growing up like that.”
And he had no concept of being surrounded by her close-knit family. “We can’t choose our families, only our destination.”
Her brows quirked up. “Famous quote?”
“Personal motto.”
“But you can create your own family.”
“If you know how.” He shrugged that comment off before she could counter and cycled back to his sister. “Emma played the part of the wealthy prep school girl living in New York City perfectly.” Beautiful with a quick wit and strong front, she’d thrown herself into the new freedom with a reckless thirst for belonging. “I’d found my surrogate family in hockey. My teammates were the brothers I’d always wanted. The bond and structure I’d never had at home. Emma surrounded herself with more girls who were lost like her.”
He could end his story there, take the simple truth and avoid the rest. Behind him, the presence of the piano loomed like a menacing curse that was joy and pain combined. Jacqui wouldn’t know. He would though.
“She was a gifted pianist. Better than me,” he admitted without jealousy, her beautiful music running through the faded tracks in his memory. “She should’ve been at a conservatory by the time she was fifteen, but she refused to go. It was too solitary for her. Too competitive for friends, she’d said.” She’d been as desperate for a surrogate family as he’d been.
“Did she stop playing then?” Jacqui’s question broke through his haze of the past. He blinked, looked up and exhaled. She truly cared. The truth showed in her eyes and intense expression.
“No. She still played at prep school. I did too,” he added. “I was a guest pianist in the orchestra when the hockey schedule allowed.” Which had decreased down to almost never by the time he’d been a senior. By then, his athletic path had overshadowed his creative. And like his sister had stated, the piano didn’t give him the family he’d craved. Not the way hockey had.
And where was that family now?
He cleared his throat, hand flexing around the strands of hair now wound tight around his fingers. Jacqui winced. Damn. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosened his hold until her hair slid free.
Her smile eased his worry. “I like it when you play with my hair.”
“Yeah?”
“It feels nice.”
A lot of women had scolded him for messing up their hair by playing with it. “Good.”
She’d been tapping soft patterns on the back of his other hand and bent knee for a while now. A song. What, he didn’t know, and he wondered if she realized she was doing it. He didn’t mention it though because he didn’t want her to stop.
“When did you quit playing?” she asked, nodding toward the piano to indicate her intent.
He almost glanced back at it then forced himself not to look. The view was better in front of him. A truth in so many ways.
“When Emma died.” His heart clenched, the old ache so familiar it was just another part of him. “I was so angry. Angry and hurt with a heavy dose of guilt that I couldn’t make myself play without thinking of her and everything that would never be.” A flash of that old pain roared up to lash at him, but Jacqui’s consistent tapping notes chased it back, gave him strength when he wanted to avoid it.
“I understand the hurt and anger,” she said. “But why the guilt? Were you there?”
“No.” If only he had been. If only he’d pushed more when he’d suspected the drug use. Had taken more time to be there for her. “It was at school.” His dry chuckle was filled with cynical mirth. He rubbed his eyes, pressing until the stinging burn receded. “The cover-up performed by the school was classic and unfortunately expected. No way did they want to be associated with the prescription fishbowl roulette game the students had been playing for years.”
Jacqui frowned, her fingers pausing. “People really do that?”
The innocence of the question struck him as sweetly ironic. She had no idea about a side of life he’d been immersed in since childhood. Drugs and sex had been the entertainment of choice for the bored, and every private school he’d attended had been filled with an abundance of bored kids.
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened until she blinked, sitting back. “Wow. I thought that was only done in movies.”
“They had to get the idea from somewhere.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, swearing, his sarcastic snort getting lost behind his palm. “Or maybe we stole the idea from the movies. Who knows?”
“Did you play that game?”
“No.” He spoke the truth with a firm conviction. “I had hockey and I wasn’t risking that family for a short high. In more ways than one, the sport saved me.” And what was it doing now?
She squeezed his hand. “I’m happy you had something else.”
He was too. Even if it was a rough boys-club sometimes based on forced comradery more than true friendship. Mutual respect was better than anything else he’d had.
“I’d seen signs of use on Emma,” he went on, “when I saw her on breaks. But she blew off my concerns and I let it go—repeatedly.” He should’ve pushed more, but his parents should’ve pushed too. Seen what their daughter was doing. Only they hadn’t—or had ignored it.
“You were what? Nineteen?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “She died in May. I entered the hockey draft in June.”
She squeezed his arm. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Not so much. If anything, her death made me more determined not to lose my hockey family.”
“But you finished college, right? With a bachelor’s in music history.” She cringed around a sheepish smile. “I saw that on your profile. On the internet.”
He leaned in to kiss away her apparent guilt at looking him up online. “I don’t hide it.”
“And you shouldn’t. A degree from Harvard is impressive.”
That depended on who was asked. “I guess so.”
She smacked him on the arm, the hit barely stinging. “Yes. It is,” she insisted, all indignant for him.
Most people didn’t care. “I went there for the hockey program.” He skipped the on-scholarship part. It didn’t seem important when his family had easily paid more to send him to private schools for thirteen years.
“You got a great education while you were there.” She squinted at him. “Why’d you stay when you were drafted after your second year? You could’ve left school then if your degree wasn’t important to you.”
He couldn’t hold back his grin. She was too damn smart, but not for the reason she thought. “I liked where I was. They were my team.”
Understanding ebbed into her expression and she nodded slowly. “And you’ve been with the Glaciers since you left Harvard. That’s unusual in today’s sports environment.”
“I’ve been lucky.” He tried to shrug her observation off, but her headshake said she wasn’t buying it.
“Six years with the same team. Three different contracts and no trades. It could be luck. Or it could be your determination to stay with this family.”
And she got it in one. But then, it hadn’t been that hard to figure out, given all he’d shared with her.
He ducked his head, unsure if it was embarrassment or shame that rolled in his stomach. “For someone who doesn’t like hockey, you know a lot about it,” he grumbled.
She prodded his chin up until he met her gaze. “I never said I didn’t like hockey. I’ve been surrounded by it my entire life.” A smile softened the hint of exasperation in her words. “I’m just not obsessed with it. Or I wasn’t until I met you.” The playful lilt helped to settle his
nerves. She wasn’t judging him.
“So you’re a fan now?”
She wrinkled her nose, dropped a kiss on his lips. “Maybe of one player.”
Warmth flamed hot and welcoming into his heart. Jacqui was beyond everything he’d dared to think he could have. Above him in so many ways that counted more than her bank balance or lineage.
“Yeah?” He drew her in until she pitched into him. “Do I know this guy you’re interested in?” Her throaty chuckle bounced over his lips before he closed his mouth on hers. He found her heated depths immediately, sought her taste and pulled it in. Sweet and dark. Warm and giving. So goddamn giving it overwhelmed and buried him.
She nudged his shoulders, and he slid down, head coming to rest on the arm of the couch. She settled over him, the kiss deepening until he was lost in everything her. Her flowery scent and soft hair that fell down to caress his arm. Her possessive touch that drove him crazy and had him willingly surrendering to her.
He cradled the back of her head and pushed up to claim her more. To find the heart of her so he could keep it with him.
Her tongue swirled with his, pushed back then disappeared behind the sharp bite of her teeth. The pain shot across his lip, stung as she licked over it, left soft pecks to soothe it. His groan was rough with emotion, heart drumming so hard he was certain she felt it.
God. What she did to him.
Was this what love could be like? What more was like?
He had no idea, only vague expectations based on watching other people. Of seeing what his friends had found while he’d stumbled in the dark.
He gripped her bottom and ground his hips against her. His hardening dick rolled over her abdomen in a game of foreplay that fired his groin and ignited his desire.
His lungs were begging for air when she reared back with a gasping inhale. Her chest heaved over his, warm air blasting his cheek. Her gaze bored into him, hunting and searching for things he didn’t understand but wanted to learn.
She was so tender yet strong, a contradiction he relished. Needed, even.
Slowly, she sat back to loom over him in a position he’d quickly come to favor. Her sweater showed off her full breasts and thin waist without being revealing, the high neck more enticing than any cleavage plunging display.
She skimmed her fingers down his jaw, over his upper lip, sadness easing into her dark eyes to chill his passion. His heart clenched and he grabbed her wrist to lower her hand.
“What?” he asked, concern deepening his voice.
She sucked in a hitched breath, blew it out then slowly removed her sweater. He tracked each inch of skin as it was revealed. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the cups of her bra, and he slid his hands up her sides, only to be stopped by her firm hold on his wrists.
His eyes snapped up, freezing at her hesitant fear before it was forced behind the hard determination he’d seen before.
She released his wrists to trace the faded line of the scar about two inches wide midway between her collarbone and the upper curve of her right breast. The scar she’d been so sensitive about before.
Confusion crushed in to press on his chest. What was he missing?
“This is my chemo port scar.” Her voice was void of emotion like her expression. Blank while he struggled to understand what she was saying.
“Chemo port…” He repeated her words, comprehension sinking into the thick barrier of denial he didn’t want to let go of. “You have cancer?”
God, no. Please no.
Sickness heaved in his stomach and burned up his throat. He couldn’t lose her when he’d just found her. Not now. Not like that.
Her head was shaking though, her hand settling over his racing heart. “Had,” she emphasized. “Twice. But I’ve been in complete remission for almost eight years.”
Had. Remission. Almost eight years.
The words looped in his head until they took hold. She wasn’t dying. Not now at least. But…
“What?” he forced out, the word rough with worry and the waiting axe. “There’s more, isn’t there?” He sensed that with every instinct he’d honed on the ice.
Her focus held on her hand where it still rested over his heart. He covered it with his own, sending strength when he wanted to haul her into his arms and shove everything else away.
“I’m not a good risk,” she said, her words barely audible. She glanced up, not lifting her head to peer at him. “You need to know that. The leukemia came back the second time after eight years in complete remission.”
Again, he struggled to follow her words when he was still stumbling over how close she’d come to dying. “Leukemia. Cancer of the bone marrow, right?”
She nodded, an almost imperceptible movement.
The leukemia came back the second time after eight years in complete remission.
I’ve been in complete remission for almost eight years now.
Acid burned in his throat as logic took hold. “You’re afraid it’s going to come back again.” He didn’t need to ask, he could see it in the weight that pressed on her shoulders and haunted her eyes.
“It’s a possibility.” She swallowed. “One I live with every day.”
One he’d have to live with if he wanted to be with her. That was what she was telling him. Could he do it? Dare to love her when she could be dying even now and not know it?
“And,” she went on, “the treatment potentially messed with my reproductive system.” She swallowed. “There’s a good chance I won’t be able to have babies.”
As if babies were something he’d reject her over. Or the cancer, for that matter. Even if it meant the risk of her dying was higher than normal.
He sat up, slowly shifting until he held her tight in his arms. She ducked her head onto his shoulder, hugging him. This was peace right here. Pure and honest.
Henrik closed his eyes and held on as his world spiraled out from beneath him. This he could do—had to do. The rest… He had no clue how to handle any of it. But he couldn’t leave her either. Not by choice.
Chapter Seventeen
Jacqui sought the solid strength of Henrik. The firm confirmation of his embrace, head pressed against hers.
She snaked her legs around his waist and held on with a desperation that scared her. She wasn’t so strong right now. Brave or assured either. And it was okay.
Inside, she was back to the scared child lying in a cold room in a sterile hospital, adults talking around her about blood cell counts and other terminology she was too young to understand. She hadn’t needed to though. Not when the fear had been clear on her parents’ faces. The way her mother had clenched her father’s arm. The red-rimmed eyes and tears her mother couldn’t dash away fast enough, and the continuous swallowing of her father.
The teenage version of herself had understood it all. Too well. By then she wouldn’t allow herself to be scared. She couldn’t hurt her family more by letting her fears show. They’d already endured so much because of her.
But with Henrik, it all came rushing up to churn in her stomach with the constant worry that festered there. He hadn’t bolted when he had every right to. Especially after hearing about his sister. He’d already endured a painful loss. What if she…
No. She couldn’t think it.
It didn’t matter if her stomach hurt too much or if her bones ached more than normal or if she’d had a bloody nose the other morning. She was stressed, tired and the dry air were all to blame. That is all.
That is all.
That is all.
“You’re shaking,” Henrik murmured by her ear, his breath warming her skin. “Let me get a blanket.”
Kind, caring Henrik. How could she possibly let him go?
She couldn’t. There was no way. Not anymore—if there’d ever been.
“Take me to bed,” she told him.
She tightened her hold, legs and arms clamping around him when he stood, no questions asked. Her smile spread through her to nip away at the internal cold that numbed
her.
She couldn’t be weak around her family. Didn’t dare to let any of them see this side of her. They didn’t deserve to have her worry added to their own. They all tried to hide it from her, but she saw. Knew. Had always known how scared they were.
Henrik didn’t deserve it either. Especially after his sister. Yet she was safe here, in his arms. Safer than she’d ever felt.
Henrik tugged the bedding down, somehow holding her with one arm. Not once did she think he’d drop her, feel his arm shake or grip slip. He left the lights off and lowered her onto the bed, following her down until she was curled into his side, covers tucked around them.
Another shiver raked her, a whole-body shudder that had him holding her closer. He kissed her temple, brushed another over her brow.
“What can I do?”
He was already doing it. Holding her. Letting her fall apart without jumping in to try and fix her.
She kissed his chest, held it as she tossed silent promises into it. I won’t hurt you. I won’t die on you. I won’t hold you back. She couldn’t say them aloud, but they were binding for her. Even if she had no control over any of them.
She didn’t want to die. Or hurt him. Or keep him from living his life.
Skin. She needed skin and heat and proof of exactly how healthy she was. That she could let go and love freely. Had she ever done that?
Not that she remembered. Love always came with ties and limitations. Weights that sucked her down.
Tonight she wanted to fly.
His shirt was removed with ease, him taking her hint to yank it over his head and toss it aside. Her purr rumbled in her throat the second his skin hit her palm. She stroked his chest, pressed her cheek to warm flesh. This was better but not enough.
“I want you naked,” she said before she sucked his nipple into her mouth. The bud puckered immediately, giving her teeth something to hold and needle.
“Yes.” His soft exclamation matched the roll of his chest when she bit down on her prize. “Christ.” But he didn’t yank back or shove her away.
Her tender, giving man.