by Kendall Ryan
“That was Coach,” he says, answering my unasked question.
“Oh.” I let out a relieved breath. “What did he say?”
“They were working out a trade to New England for Kress—for your—for Jason,” Grant says, seemingly trying to pick the least damaging words to say. “I’m not sure if you knew that.”
I shake my head. Jason never said anything.
“But with this morning’s news, that’s fallen through. And now they’re talking about suspension.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
He nods gravely. “The league takes this kind of thing very seriously.”
A pregnant pause hovers between us, except for the scuffling of my dog’s feet on the tile floor of the kitchen. Poor Hobbes has no idea what’s going on, and he’s as cheerful as ever.
I pick up our uneaten plates of French toast and take them back to the kitchen, setting them neatly on the counter before I pick up Hobbes and carry him to the guest room with me. Grant follows, leaning against the door frame with one arm above his head.
“What are you doing?” he asks when I begin stuffing what little I brought with me back into my suitcase, and Hobbes circles my feet anxiously.
“I’m leaving. Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I should really pack up and move to my friend Georgia’s place for now.”
It’s the only thing I can do. I don’t want to complicate things for Grant. He’s been so nice to me. Maybe there’s a reason why he couldn’t tell his coach where I am. Maybe me being here will cause a problem for him. I can’t have that.
“Are you going to go to work today?” he asks, his voice disapproving.
“Maybe.” I shrug, feigning a casual posture in the midst of all the craziness I’ve landed in.
“You can’t,” he says, his voice low and firm. “Jason knows where you work. Does he know where your friend lives?”
I sigh. Grant’s right. I just don’t want to admit it.
“Yeah, he does. He went there this morning.” My hands pause on the zipper when I hear Grant move into the room. With one step toward me, the whole room seems to shift, suddenly growing so much smaller.
“Don’t you think he’ll try again? He knows where to look for you. I don’t want to scare you, but he’s going to be volatile even more so now that the video has been broadcast. And when he gets word of the suspension, he’ll be a ticking bomb.”
I chew on my lip.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Ana, and I don’t want him getting anywhere near you. I think it’s best if you stay here.”
I meet Grant’s eyes, and for once, he doesn’t look away from me immediately. Instead, he holds my gaze, and I hold his.
As much as I’d like to pretend I’ve got all of this under control, I really don’t. I am that rag doll of a woman on the television screen, propped up by only a fragile self-esteem and a faltering sense of direction.
“Okay.” My voice comes out as a hushed whisper.
Grant lets go of a breath he’s been holding.
Oh my God, he’s relieved. Grant is relieved that I’m staying with him. He wants to protect me. These thoughts barrel through the noise banging around in my head, clear and resonant among the rest.
“Good,” he says with a grunt. “Should we eat first, or do you want to go and get your car?”
I remember the now-cold breakfast I’d been so excited about. Now with my stomach still tied in a knot, I doubt I could eat a bite. “Let’s just get it over with and get my car.”
He nods. “You got it. Come on.”
Grant leaves the room, but an outline of his shape in the doorway remains, imprinted on my eyes. The world suddenly feels larger again, unfamiliar and wild, but also safer than it has in days.
I pick up my purse and shove my phone in it, then follow him to the front door, where he’s putting on his coat. He holds out my cardigan, and arm by arm, I slip into its warmth. I meet his eyes, giving him a genuine smile for the first time today.
He nods back. Apparently, a smile isn’t quite in his emotional vocabulary.
I chuckle. For a moment, I almost forget the context of this situation. Isn’t that odd? The closer I stand to Grant, the safer I feel. Still, he isn’t quite a white knight from the storybooks my mom used to read to me.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in need of a little rescuing right now.
5
* * *
Emotional Battlefield
Ana
When Grant dropped me off at my car, he insisted on waiting with me until I was tucked safely inside, despite the fact that Jason’s car was nowhere to be seen. He asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my day, and I assured him I would be perfectly fine. After a little convincing, he let me pull out of the parking lot of my building, then followed me out, his car trailing closely behind mine for the first mile or two until he turned away toward the training facility.
It’s strange to think that Jason and Grant will be skating across the same ice today . . . especially after the look in Grant’s eyes when he saw the bruise on my arm.
I’m crossing my fingers that nothing dramatic happens at practice today. That’s the last thing I need right now. More drama.
I waved confidently to Grant as he drove away. But now, sitting behind the steering wheel of my ten-year-old Nissan Altima, I really don’t know what to do with myself. I told Georgia I wouldn’t go to work, but it’s a quarter to nine, the start of my workday, and I still have plenty of time to get there. My anxiety is getting the better of me with every passing minute.
Truth be told, I really need to do something with my hands today. Plus, now I’m faced with the very real scenario in which I have to move out and begin paying rent, solely on my less-than-ideal salary. Jason and I had worked out a fair enough payment plan where each of us paid a certain proportion of our salaries . . . well, before he started gambling. Then everything went off the rails.
Jason.
Will he come to the spa? He’s done it before, as the whole hockey-following world now knows. By now he’s probably at the training facility . . . and no doubt he’s seen the news report. He wouldn’t risk it, right? Jason may be a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot.
By the time I pull into the hotel parking lot, I’ve convinced myself. Jason won’t come to my place of work unless he plans to leave in handcuffs, not to mention that he’ll most certainly get kicked off the team for walking out of practice. He cares about his hockey career too much to do something like that.
The look on Georgia’s face when I walk through the front door is one of pure shock. She mouths to me, What are you doing here? I only smile back and give her a weak thumbs-up. She shakes her head at me, clearly appalled at my choice to put myself out here in the open like this.
I want to assure her that everything is okay, but we’ve already welcomed our morning appointments. That doesn’t stop Georgia from sneaking a glance at me every so often. Probably looking for bruises.
But the day crawls by, just like any other. Jason never makes an appearance, no drama ensues, and the world keeps spinning. By the end of our shifts, Georgia and I are smiling and laughing, as if today were just a normal day. As if Jason had never stepped into my life.
An alarm on my phone reminds me that I’ll need to take out Hobbes soon, or he’ll definitely ruin that beautiful wool rug in Grant’s living room. Since Georgia took my last appointment of the day, I have just enough time after work to pick up some groceries.
Grant’s kitchen is gorgeous and much more modern than mine, but there isn’t a lot of food. Everything in his fridge seems strictly devoted to protein fueling and meal prepping, understandable for an athlete on a strict schedule. I’m already inconveniencing him enough; I don’t want to mess with that.
At the store, I pick out the essentials for my favorite meals, gathering the ingredients for lasagna, pork chops, stir fry, tacos, and meatloaf. In the produce aisle, I hold my phone limply, debati
ng whether to text Grant and ask if he has any food allergies. I decide against it, remembering how annoyed Jason would get if I texted him while he was busy at practice.
But Grant isn’t Jason, is he? Grant is kind, and thoughtful, and reserved . . .
I find myself smiling, somehow knowing that, regardless of what I buy today, Grant will take it in stride. At least I know he’s not vegetarian or vegan. Those omelets he made were freaking fantastic. My mouth waters at the thought, and I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my mind, chirping, Don’t shop on an empty stomach, Ana! You’ll walk away with the whole store. I look down at my cart load of groceries and frown. Whoops.
Once everything is paid for, I load the groceries into the trunk of my car and take the freeway back to Grant’s condo. Before long, I’m struggling to open his front door, two paper bags full of food threatening to spill onto the nice, carpeted floor of the hall. The door swings open and I gasp, nearly losing my balance and toppling across the threshold. Grant steadies me with his strong hands on my shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, giving me with a perplexed look. Hobbes jumps up, putting his little paws against my knees with a cheerful yip. Grant reaches for the grocery bags before I can object.
“Hi! Oh, thank you.” I let Grant take both bags from me, suddenly empty-handed in his threshold. Kicking off my boots, I shake my head with a small smile creeping across my lips. Will I ever get used to this level of chivalry? Doubtful.
“This is a lot of food,” he says matter-of-factly as we trek toward the kitchen, Hobbes close on our heels.
I begin unpacking the cold foods, pulling out the produce and frozen meats first. “It’s the least I can do. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to make the meals while I’m staying here, as a thank-you for letting me stay. For everything.” Why does my voice sound so high-pitched?
As I lean into the fridge, making room for the new groceries, Grant seems to mull over my offer for a moment. Too bad. I’ve already made up my mind, mister!
Then I wonder if he’s right. Maybe this is too much food, and buying it implies that I plan to mooch off of him for longer than he anticipated. I feel my resolve slip, ever so slightly.
“It’s not that much,” I say weakly. “We’ll get through it quickly. And you can keep whatever we don’t get to when I find somewhere else to stay.”
Grant’s eyes flash, and my breath catches. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I take a deep breath.
“I’m sure we’ll get through it all. I have a good appetite,” he says with a nod, then leaves the kitchen and heads down the hall.
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. Would it kill this man to crack a smile? I decide that’s the goal for tonight. I will make Grant smile with whatever food I whip up for the two of us. Right after I—
“I already took the dog out,” Grant calls from the bathroom. “You can take your coat off.”
I frown, looking down at Hobbes. He wags his tail, happy to have my attention, blissfully unaware of the upheaval our lives have been thrown into.
“Thank you!” I call back. I chuckle to myself, watching Hobbes roll around on the hardwood floors like he’s a puppy again. He really loves it here, the little traitor.
I hear the shower start in the bathroom and a sensation of warmth floods over me. Perspiration forming on the back of my neck, I take off my jacket and return it to the front hall closet. It’s nice to have someone else walk Hobbes for once. It’s been my sole responsibility for the past three years that I’ve had him. Lord knows Jason never volunteered. Another point for Grant.
With these odd but pleasant thoughts brewing, I begin dinner. Lasagna is a no-brainer; it’s quick and easy and always a winner, as long as you don’t overcook the noodles. I start the sauce, letting it simmer while I arrange fresh ricotta and lasagna noodles in a glass baking dish that I find in a nearby cabinet.
Once the sauce meets my standards, I finish assembling the lasagna and place into the pre-heated oven. Within minutes, the kitchen is warm and fragrant.
I’ve pulled my thick hair up with a heavy-duty hair tie into a loose bun on top of my head. Based on my reflection in the glass of the window, my cheeks are red, so I grab a glass of water to cool off.
My ears perk up as I finally hear the steady stream of Grant’s shower halt. I can’t help but be amused by the length of his shower—I’ve been toiling away in here for at least a half hour. I guess when you have a body like that, one so big and bulky, you need more time to wash.
And here I am again, thinking about a naked Grant. I down the rest of the water in three choking gulps.
When he reappears, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, I’m coughing pretty violently.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in that classic look of worry he wears so well. His skin is rosier than it usually is, no doubt from the scalding water raining down on his flawless skin . . .
“Wrong pipe,” I say, wheezing as I wave away his concern. Thank God he put some clothes on. I definitely wouldn’t have recovered if he’d come out in a towel.
“It smells great. Can I help?”
I’m struck speechless for a moment by the good-natured tone of his voice before I nod and point to the salad bowl resting near an assortment of vegetables.
“Cut the rest of the tomatoes and cucumbers?” I say when my voice returns.
As Grant gets right to work, I’m impressed with our ability to cohabitate this space as practical strangers. We dance around each other with ease, Grant moving between the sink and the counter, and me checking on the oven’s contents after adding frozen garlic bread and setting plates on the dining table.
I hear the pop of a bottle of wine being uncorked, and turn to see Grant pouring two glasses of a deep red cabernet.
He’s a wine drinker. Huh.
“Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes,” I say apologetically.
Grant shakes his head, passing one of the wineglasses to me. When he extends his arm, I notice a nearly imperceptible wince flicker across his expression.
“There’s no rush,” he says, his voice tight with the effort of masking pain.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my healer’s instinct making me reach out involuntarily to feel his shoulder.
I quickly retract my hand, suddenly aware of a line being crossed. My impulse is always to help, and my expertise is touch, but I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable by disregarding his boundaries. Luckily, Grant seems to think nothing of it, merely rotating his shoulder in small, focused circles.
“It’s nothing,” he says with a short sigh. “I . . . knocked my shoulder on the ice today, and it’s still feeling pretty sore.”
Grant doesn’t seem like the type to go down easily. My twisted imagination takes me down the darkest path, imagining a certain dick-headed teammate slamming into his unsuspecting team captain in foul play.
“Okay, drink that,” I say firmly, pointing to his untouched glass of wine, “and then lay down on your stomach.”
“What?” Grant’s eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them.
“I’m going to help you loosen up, speed up the healing process,” I say, my gentle voice practiced by years of massage therapy. “You’ll see that I’m very good at this.”
“It’s really fine,” he starts to object, but I’m already on my feet, gesturing for him to get into position.
He needs a massage, and I’m determined to help him in any way that I can. After he’s been so accommodating to me, a shoulder massage is no trouble at all. I try not to think too hard about the excitement brewing low in my belly, my fingers aching to touch this man who seems to be made entirely of firm, yet supple muscle.
He gives me another uncertain look.
“Come on, we don’t have much time before dinner’s ready. I promise it won’t take long.”
Grant’s expression changes to one that’s half amused, half frustrated. He tosses back a significant gulp of red wine and huffs a little before laying his lon
g, lean body across the couch cushions.
From this perspective, I have a good view of his broad shoulders, which taper into his sinewy back and down to his trim waist and muscular butt. The man is fully clothed, but something about the fit of his cotton shirt and sweatpants makes me feel like I’m spying on something entirely indecent.
It’s strange that I even notice since Jason has the body of an athlete too. He’s tall, five foot eleven to my five foot two. But Jason’s midsection was soft—a dad bod, he liked to joke. There’s nothing soft about Grant, though, and he towers over me at a solid six feet, four inches.
“Do your worst,” he says grimly, his cheek squished adorably against the soft fabric of the couch.
I lean my hips against his for support, one leg curled up next to his torso on the couch and the other hanging off the edge, my toes tangled in the wool carpet. I won’t straddle Grant, although that would give me a much better angle to work from . . . that would be crossing a line. With soft hands, I lightly rub his shoulder, focusing on the sore trapezius. I know how firm this guy is, but I’m still surprised when the muscle doesn’t budge under my touch.
“You’re very tense,” I say, my voice low. I work my hands into a deeper, more meaningful press, eliciting a strangled moan from beneath me.
“Fuck, Ana . . .” Grant groans, his eyes fluttering closed.
My cheeks warm even more at the way my name sounds from his lips, his voice deep and guttural. His body remains tense beneath my fingertips, and the warmth of his skin permeates mine. My mind races with thoughts of having my hands on his body, his whole body . . .
Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? I need a distraction, fast.
“Do you have any family here, Grant?” I ask, my voice strained.
“No, not anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“I grew up in Northern California with my adopted parents,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something like . . . trust.