Ihaven’t seen Gage at all today since he’s been practicing at the rink for the big game. I’ve been trying to keep up with the Reapers this season, but I underestimated how much information I’d actually retain with an eight-year-old teaching me the ropes of a very complicated, very elaborate sport.
I’m nervous for Gage. I know how hard he’s worked to get his strength back, but I can’t stop second-guessing if it’s too soon or if I should’ve pushed him harder. What if something goes wrong? What if he’s not a hundred percent better and hurts himself again? I don’t think I could recover from something like that. I don’t think I could forgive myself for something like that.
The rink is awash with blue-and-black jerseys, and large signs and Styrofoam fingers wave about, converting eager fans into one united mass of rowdy scream-shouts. The cold chill torpedoes through the thickness of Gage’s jersey and settles bone deep, prompting me to burrow even further into my personal polyester safe haven. Unlike Gage’s real jersey, this one smells of fresh pine and lacks that lingering body odor that could make a flower wither upon exposure.
We haven’t really told anyone we’re official. The fans definitely don’t know. I’m not sure if any of his teammates know. But walking around with his name splayed on my back in giant letters, walking around with his mark
on me—it armors me with impenetrable pride, the kind unaffected by public insight.
I can’t believe I’m in public right now as Gage’s official number one fan. The last time I wore his jersey was when I was still convincing myself that I hated his guts. This time, the only thing I hate is that he’s not rearranging my guts. That’s some damn good character development if I do say so myself.
I’m headed to wish him luck before the game, and I’m just hoping that I won’t mess up any of his pregame rituals. When I round the corner into the main tunnel, I find Gage in his giant, padded gear, standing next to a decked-out Fulton.
They’re turned half-toward each other and half-toward the rink, mumbling about God knows what, and I awkwardly try to get Gage’s attention without crashing full speed into their conversation.
But thankfully, it doesn’t take long for my boyfriend to notice me and for his whole face to light up brighter than a polar sunrise. He walks over to me and embraces me, which basically feels like the equivalent of hugging a cloud.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says, giving me a slight squeeze before letting go.
My nerves keep backflipping all over the place, and now that Gage has effortlessly captured my heart’s attention, the chaos continues as it swoons and tries to jump into his arms. “You are?”
“Of course I am, Spitfire. You’re my lucky charm.”
“How do you know I’m lucky? I’ve never seen you play before.”
He takes his helmet off and sets it on the ground. “You’re my lucky charm when it comes to life, not just hockey.”
Oh.
Oh.
Judging by the incendiary heat that’s just risen to my head, my cheeks have probably gained a new pink tone to them. I thought all these nerves were supposed to disappear when you become a couple! And these butterflies feel like a swarm of wasps terrorizing my stomach.
I really don’t know what to say. At this point, I’m more anxious than Gage is, and he has a game to play in front of the entire world after being off the ice for three months.
“I—”
Completely oblivious to my miniature freakout—or maybe not—he leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss that seems to silence every nonvital activity in my body, and I mentally thank myself for wearing platform boots today so I can link my arms comfortably around his neck.
There’s just the right amount of sparks. Not too little to be overlooked, but not too much to set both of our libidos on fire. It’s a kiss of reassurance and stability. I melt against him, in the safety of his arms, and both of us slowly pull away at the same time.
“And you’re wearing my jersey,” he notes, taking his gloves off so he can rub the material between the pads of his fingers, as if he needs to be convinced that this is all real.
“I thought you might like it,” I offer coyly.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Something dark traipses through his eyes, turning green into gunmetal, and his gaze lowers to my lips, which only exacerbates the second heartbeat in my nether regions that was perfectly content with being out of service.
His voice is low, lecherous, promising things that I can’t in good conscience resist. “Shit, Cali. As much as I love seeing you in my jersey, I can’t wait to see you out of it —”
“Hey, guys! Hey! Still here. Right here. Literally right next to you,”
Fulton half-shrieks, waving his arms at us like a frenzied traffic cop.
I cringe. “Sorry, Fulton.”
“It’s okay! No, I’m totally all for you guys getting freaky-deeky. I just don’t want a front row seat. I tend to be forgotten a lot. Not in a bad way, though! I kind of don’t understand social cues and when to leave.”
Laughter furls out of me, shaking my shoulders gently. “Do you also overshare?”
Fulton has to pause and think for a second. “That is what I’ve been told before.”
Oh, Fulton. You sweet, sweet thing.
The truth is, I might’ve come down here with an ulterior motive in mind. And because this is the best thing my twisted little head has ever come up with, I can’t keep hiding this secret any longer.
“You remember when we made that stupid bet over Teague’s goal?” I ask, flirtatiously dragging my finger up and down his arm, getting a sick sense of satisfaction when he still shivers under my innocent little touch.
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, the corner of his lips tugging up into an arrogant half-grin.
“Well, I went to that tattoo session you booked for me and followed through.”
“Oh, really?” Gage brushes his lips over the shell of my ear, his breath warming the stretch of neck located right below. “Where is it, Spitfire?”
I lift the hem of his baggy jersey up just a little and turn around, revealing the inked set of numbers on my lower back, sandwiched right between the crescents of my back dimples. A small, fine-lined tramp stamp.
Gage goes quiet—probably taking in the beauty of it all—before all hell breaks loose and he screams at the top of his lungs. “What the fuck, Cali?”
The rest of his teammates look over at us, half-concerned, and I shoo them back to their own personal conversations.
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
I’ve only seen Gage truly mad three different times. Scary mad. Like, mad to the point where his blood pressure was aneurysm inducing. One, when I teased him about Dilbert before he ended up ripping my clothes off.
Two, when I teased him about my secret lap dance…and then he ended up ripping my clothes off. And three, when I just showed him the tattoo I got to honor our agreement.
“Calista,” he growls in a low, demonic-sounding voice, a guttural warning that starts in the pit of his stomach and vibrates outwards.
I feign confusion. “What?”
“That’s not my fucking number.”
My fingers touch the seemingly permanent brand, and I pout, putting to use that one semester of high school when I was obsessed with theater.
“Yes, it is,” I argue.
Gage runs his hands through his hair and grips the strands, a lick of lunacy raging in his eyes and highlighting that one forked vein throbbing in his forehead. “No, that’s Fulton’s number,” he tries in what I think is supposed to be a “calm” tone.
Fulton looks at my back to inspect the tattoo for himself, and all I can hear from behind me is a storm of subsequent laughter.
“Oh my God. Cali, that’s awesome!” Fulton enthuses.
I keep the hem scrunched at my navel as I give a half-hearted shrug.
“Oops. I must’ve gotten them mixed up.”
Gage’s last-ditch effort to remain calm gets thrown down the goddamn drainage pipe. “Mixed up? MIXED UP?” he shouts, somehow louder than the surround sound of a thousand plus voices in the skyscraper arena. “He wears a twenty-one. I wear an eight. AN EIGHT.”
He’s losing it. He’s all sweaty and red and huffing like he’s just snorted a line of cocaine or blown down a pig’s stick house. If he wasn’t swathed in layers, I’m assuming his muscles would be all hard too. Hard and coiling and maybe even glistening with perspiration.
That shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. I’m a cruel, cruel person.
He drags his hand down his face. “Please…please tell me that it’s fucking fake.”
I stick my finger in my mouth—which he watches very intently despite being furious with me—and then pop it from my lips, wiping the wet pad over the dark numbers, even rubbing a bit to show him that they don’t smear.
“You’re getting it lasered off. I don’t care how much it costs. That shit isn’t staying on you.”
“Come on, Gage. It’s small. You’ll barely even notice it’s there,” I insist, knowing full well that he will know it’s there when he takes me from behind, fucking a girl who’s marked with another man’s jersey number.
God, this is giving me such an adrenaline rush. The tattoo’s obviously not real. Henna. Should come off within a few days, but the kill-all expression on Gage’s face right now was worth every penny.
His fingers crumple into a fist. “No. Nope. You’re not saying anything.”
Then he whips around to deal with Fulton, gunning him down with a blood-red haze clouding both his eyes and sensibility. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he mutters under his breath, which is a thousand times more terrifying than if he were to yell it.
All the color drains from Fulton’s face. “I had nothing to do with this!”
“I don’t care. I’m going to shove my fist down your throat, rip your spine out, then wear your bloody jersey number as a prize.”
Both Fulton and I are speechless.
Dear God. I’ve created a monster.
The starting anthem for the Reapers blares over the speakers, and the guys file into a single line, ready to make their grand entrance. This is fine.
Everything’s fine, right? Hockey’s an aggressive game. This will make him play better. Right?
Before Gage joins the rest of his teammates, he looks me dead in the eyes and smiles like a sick bastard. “I’ll deal with you later.”
REMEMBER when I thought Gage would be nervous to be back? He’s not. In fact, I think I gave him enough rage to fuel an islandic village. He’s only missed one goal of the entire game, and we’re already on to the second period. His blocking is so precise that the other team is getting antsy and making poorly judged shots. He’s killing it out there. It doesn’t even look like his hip flexor was torn at all with the way he’s moving.
“What did you say to him?” Hadley asks, eyes bolted on me while she stuffs a handful of popcorn and M&M’s into her mouth.
I deviate from the game. “Huh?”
“Did you flash him a titty? Promise to suck him off if he won?”
I gasp and slap my hands over Teague’s ears—who’s thankfully too mesmerized by the grown men on skates to pay much mind to the very inappropriate conversation happening.
“Hadley! There are children present!” I scold, but in the same breath, a mischievous smile materializes on my lips. “I just gave him a little something to motivate him.”
Am I worried about whatever punishment is awaiting me after the game? Yes. There’s really nothing else for me to say. I don’t know how, but Gage will probably find some way to edge me for an hour until I regret ever pulling this prank on him. Or he’ll kill me. Both are equally bad.
I remove my hands from Teague’s ears, and he presses his grubby face against the plexiglass, looking the most focused I think I’ve ever seen him.
His eyes follow the puck’s every move, leaping meticulously from player to player. He looks so proud of Gage, admiration emanating off his little body like a second skin.
Hadley nudges my leg with the toe of her boot. “You dirty little slut. I love that for you. Ugh! Going off and having crazy, passionate sex with a hockey star.”
She sniffles and pretends to wipe an invisible tear from her eye. “They grow up so fast.”
The arena comes alive with a collective cheer that rumbles underfoot, and judging by Teague’s springy celebration, Gage must’ve blocked another potential goal. The atmosphere, the people, the fanfare—it’s such a step up from Teague’s minor league games. Hell, the Reapers have a full theme song and a giant Grim Reaper cutout that descends from the ceiling at the start of every game. And they have a Jumbotron for kiss cams and capturing celebrity lookalikes.
I’m dating an NHL player. I’m dating a famous NHL player. Not just that, but Gage worships me. I’m pretty sure he’d lay his body on the ground so I could walk over a puddle and not get my shoes dirty. I don’t know if my life will ever feel real again. Everything’s perfect.
I’ve finally allowed myself to be happy with the man of my dreams, I’ve come to accept my mother’s new living situation, Teague’s admitted that the teasing from his teammates has stopped, and I only sometimes get existential crises during my three a.m. showers. The studio isn’t doing too bad either. With Gage helping finance my mother’s stay at the nursing home, extra money from her would-be medication cost is going toward bills and groceries. And with Teague and me not scraping by every week, I’ll be able to give him a normal childhood.
Of course, if it was up to Gage, he’d take care of everything with his yearly eight-figure salary. He still supports me teaching, but he doesn’t want it to be a source of financial stress. God, he’s just… perfect.
But as perfect as things may seem, life can’t always be stuck on this continuous, upward path. Eventually, the bad weighs it down again, and life has to come back to the middle. A regression to the mean.
And instead of a moderate period following my high one, a low one comes in place of it…in the form of a repeated trauma that I’d never wanted to live through ever again.
Out of my peripheral, an offensive player crashes into a defensive player at an abnormal speed, creating a buildup of bodies that tumble across the ice, heading straight for the Reapers’ goal. Heading straight for Gage.
Everything happens so fast. They’re halfway across the ice, and then there’s a pile of bodies crushed against the boards. The entire crowd goes silent—nothing but the onrush of frantic shouts from refs in the echo chamber of the stadium. I choke on the breath refusing to budge from my throat. My heart…my heart just stops. It doesn’t drop to my stomach or skip a beat. It stops entirely, and time freezes around me like the rest of the
world is moving in slow-motion while I’m stuck helplessly in the middle. I can’t feel any part of my body. Everything is numb, cold, a flame of life that’s been stubbed out like the butt of a cigarette.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but he’s not moving. Medics start to roll out with stretchers in tow, and the shrill wail of an ambulance pierces my eardrums, which is the only noise to rip me from my paralyzing bubble.
The rest of his teammates stay stranded out on the ice, waist-deep in shared confusion and concern.
It’s like I’m standing in the middle of the rink with a single spotlight shining down on me, blacking out the empty rows and the bloodstained corners of prior mistakes. Everything is crumbling around me, my world falling to chunks of debris and pulverized masses, leaving broken terrain that’s impassable when I know Gage is on the other side counting on me to reach him. But I can’t. I can’t reach him.
I shove through the panicked mob of people, ignoring the shrieks of my name by a little, high-pitched voice, bruising myself on the brunt of bodies that all flood toward the nearest exit. Tears ribbon down my face, blurring my vision in ink blots, and the moment my heart restarts with a barely there hum, it cries out to be reunited with him. Cries out above the screeching sirens and the traumatized screams and the culmination of pain swallowing every inch of my body in white-hot flashes of fire.
His lifeless figure is getting farther away from me. Pleas fire off my tongue in quick succession, begging the world to stop for a single fucking second, begging my legs to move faster when they’re fighting against the hold of quicksand.
I let the tears impair my vision, I let the ache in my thighs burgeon, I let the breath flee from my lungs. I rub every nerve ending raw because being forced to feel is better than being catatonic. I don’t know how, but I traverse the eighty-foot-long rink without stumbling or slowing one bit. My hands clamp down on the side of his stretcher, my waterlogged eyes fixed on the beaten and battered state of his body where padding wasn’t enough to protect him. Where I wasn’t enough to protect him.
“Please don’t leave me,” I cry, holding his gloved hand, letting my body be dragged out of the arena and to the double doors of the ambulance. My fingers don’t slip—they don’t leave him, even if he can’t feel me here.
Hiccups and sobs are slurred beyond comprehension, tear-ravaged eyes burning despite the water that steadily flows down my wind-bitten cheeks.
“Please don’t go, Gage. I can’t do this without you. I need you.”
You promised you wouldn’t leave me.
AN ODE TO MY BROKEN HEART
CALISTA
I’m back in the one place I never thought I’d be again—among the barely living and the graves where once-beating hearts now rest in an eternal sleep. Fluorescents and disinfectants greet me with welcoming arms, the buffering beep of heart rates on expensive machines tailing me down bland, alabaster halls that form unsolvable labyrinths. Snapshots of the game flip through my mind like jaundiced camera film in a projector, and I can still hear Teague’s screams ringing in my ears, steeped in an unbridled fear that no child should ever have to experience.
I haven’t left Gage’s side. It’s only been a day, but he hasn’t woken up yet. The doctor deduced that he must’ve suffered major head trauma when he was thrown up against the boards, and that while the damage isn’t lasting, it might take him a while to come to. There’s a contusion on his head that’s swelling, underscored by a plum-colored bruise, but thankfully no bleeding occurred from the injury.
I know he’s going to be okay. I know he’s going to wake up. But there’s a small part of me that’s hyper focused on the what-ifs of this scenario.
What if he doesn’t wake up? What if the injury worsens? I can’t…I won’t be able to deal with that alternative reality. I need Gage to be okay. I need him to come back to me.
His heartbeat is steady, but instead of trumpeting out a life anthem, it sounds more like a funeral ballad. His chest rises and falls rather peacefully, and I rub my thumb over the back of his knuckles, repeating the fruitless
ministration as if my touch will somehow bring him back to consciousness.
His hand is cold, as pale as the sheets of frost that’ve started to settle on trimmed lawns in the early morning. The sun’s already begun to rise, bleeding warm tones of yellow over the sky like the running yolk from a split poached egg.
Every time my bloodshot eyes trace over his rigid form, it feels like my heart begins to hemorrhage, guilty nerves tossing my stomach into a permanent upset. The tears have receded for the time being, but my cheeks are still overwiped, and my ichor-mottled bottom lip is still overbitten.
Gage is my everything. He’s my whole world. If I lost him…I’d lose myself too. If he wasn’t on this planet anymore, I’d follow him wherever he went, even if that meant leaving behind the people I care about most. I can’t do this without him. I can’t breathe without him. I know we only just made things official, but I can’t imagine my future without him. He was the one person to give my life purpose again after I found myself stuck in a tireless, repetitive cycle. He saved me from myself—from my fears, from my self-doubt, from my self-hatred. He saved me, and there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to do to repay him. What he’s given me is priceless. What he’s given me is a second chance at life. What he’s given me is a first chance at love.
I don’t know if you know this, but humans are a lot like elephants. And Gage is my elephant. They mourn just like we do, and when their partner dies, their grief can become so detrimental that it results in their death as well. They stop eating and drinking. They even stay close to the deceased and sometimes carry their bodies around as if they’re still alive.
Gage is a part of me. He’s the best part of me. I’ve always lived my life with a heart half full—a heart so consumed by responsibilities that it never sought love anywhere else. I was so consumed with caring for others that I’d given up on caring for myself. Gage cares for me on the days when I can’t, and that’s something that only happens when you’ve found your soulmate.
Instead of him being the anchor mooring me to the dock, now I’m the one stretching myself to keep him from drifting off to sea. I’m the one who has to be his rock—who has to be strong for the both of us. And I’ll never let go. Not even in death.
“I’m here, Gage,” I whisper, squeezing his palm in the idiotic belief that he’ll return the gesture. “I’m not leaving until you wake up.”
There’s a knock at the door that curtails the start of another crying session, and I’m not sure who I was expecting, but all of Gage’s teammates are standing in the doorway, holding various get-well gifts for him.
Flowers, overpriced chocolates, cards, and even a teddy bear bring a pop of color to this desolate prison.
I don’t even know whether I should be glad they’re here or not. I feel terrible. I feel like I’m the one to blame, and maybe they feel the same way too. An irrational part of me tells me that this accident wouldn’t have happened if his hip had been ready. And yeah, both his physical therapist and team doctor cleared him to get back on the ice, but I could’ve spoken up and prevented him from playing.
I stand up hesitantly, watching as Fulton strides over to me, and instead of voicing his disappointment, he immediately wraps me in a hug. It’s not so strong to knock me off balance, but it’s just firm enough to provide me with the support I hadn’t realized I needed.
“Cali, we came as soon as we could,” Fulton says when we pull apart, a consolatory grimace darkening his naturally peppy demeanor.
The rest of the guys all share the same tortured expressions as they slowly filter into the room, loading their gifts onto the table beside Gage’s bed.
So many words are thrust upon my tongue, waiting to charge their way out of my mouth once I open it, but I begin to feel the fear creep back—a new species of fear that’s a thousand times stronger than what I’ve dealt with in the past. “I’m so sorry this happened,” I blurt out. “I should’ve known he wasn’t ready. I should’ve paid closer attention to his hip. He wouldn’t be in this situation if I’d —”
Suddenly, Kit’s hulking frame enters my personal bubble, and he brings my face smack-dab into the middle of his chest, where my apology gets muffled beneath his heaping muscle mass and a layer of cotton.
“This wasn’t on you, Cali. I was watching Gage the entire time. What happened was a freak accident. There’s not a single person at fault,” Kit gruffs.
I can’t really see anything past Kit’s body, but I hear Hayes speak up from somewhere to my right.
“Stuff like this happens all the time out there on the ice. It comes with the territory. I’m pretty sure I’ve been concussed more times than anyone else on the team, and I’ve recovered every single time.”
When I break away for air, I suck in gasps like a guppy out of water, feeling those goddamn tears straddle my waterline. “I know he’ll be okay.
This is just…this is so scary.”
Hayes takes one of the chairs in the room as Casen takes the other, Bristol leans against the doorway, Kit gives me some space, and Fulton lingers by Gage’s bedside.
“Gage is tough. He’s been in this position before, and he was conscious within the hour. They just have him on drugs that sedate him,” Kit reassures me. “He’s resilient. He’ll spring back just like he always has. Dude’s like one of those STDs that keeps coming back even though you’ve taken every precaution there is.”
Everyone in the room gives a half-hearted chuckle, and I unexpectedly erupt into laughter for the first time since the incident. It feels so good to laugh. It feels so good to feel something other than complete hopelessness.
Bristol crosses his arms over his chest. “The first time Gage went to dinner with you, you should’ve seen what a mess he was when he came home. I’d never seen him so stressed before.”
“Yeah. He had this crazed look in his eyes and couldn’t stop blushing when we confronted him about everything,” Casen inputs. “He was fully losing his mind, and he barely even knew you.”
Surprise tethers me in place. “Really?”
“Really,” Fulton chuckles. “Gage has loved you from the very beginning, and Gage doesn’t fall in love with anyone. He’ll come back to you. You just have to give it some time. But he’d never leave you. Not without a fight.”
My heart, for once, is not a floundering set of rhythmless beats. It’s still.
So petrified by the unbelievable amount of love in the room that it doesn’t even know how to function. The fear that once waded through my bloodstream is nowhere to be found, having been deluged with warmth and hope.
“Thank you, guys. Thank you for saying all those things even though you didn’t have to,” I murmur quietly.
Fulton’s mouth matures into a beaming smile. “Of course we had to say all those things. We love you, Cali. You make Gage the happiest he’s ever been. We should be the ones thanking you.”
“He wouldn’t have been able to play this game if it wasn’t for your help,” Hayes adds.
“Get used to us,” Kit chirps. “You’re a part of the family now, and knowing Gage, you’ll be a part of the family forever.”
Oh, God. I feel like I’m going to cry again, but for a different reason.
Before I can make a fool of myself with more blubbers and whines, all the guys dogpile me, bringing me into one gigantic team hug that I disappear into.
You’re not alone anymore, Cali. And you never will be again.
IT’S BEEN hours since the guys left, and I’ve made a permanent home for myself right next to Gage’s side. Thankfully, Hadley’s been kind enough to watch Teague while I stay with Gage, wanting to be the first person he sees when he wakes up.
I’m beyond thankful that Gage has such supportive teammates that love and believe in him. After my talk with them, I thought long and hard about the role I played in all of this, and I’ve come to accept that what happened was out of anyone’s control.
I feel myself dozing off, opting to use Gage’s arm as my pillow, when a small voice cries my name from the doorway, the patter of tiny feet rising in volume. I stand up, bleary-eyed, feeling arms wrap around me and a nose bury itself in the notch of my neck.
Teague.
I hug my brother back without regulating my strength, squeezing him so tightly that I’m afraid I’m hurting him, but he never lets go of me. My pulse trips over itself as my heart scampers against the cage of my ribs. I’ve missed him so much.
When we pull away from each other, I check his face for residual tears, on a mission to erase the pain from the stress lines etched into his features.
“Are you okay?” I ask, tucking a curl of his hair behind his ear.
“I want Gage to be okay,” he says, a wet sniffle whistling through his nostrils, the slightest wobble to his chin. His eyes are large, glistening with a splash of moisture, and they look at me like I have all the answers in the world.
“Me too, Squirt. Gage is strong. He’ll be okay.”
“What if…h-he…d-doesn’t…wake u-up?”
Teague’s words rot on my tongue, his worry like a body-deteriorating sickness that I want to cut out and burn alive. I swallow down the sand drying my throat, trying my best to keep my emotions in check. When the first tear starts to fall on my brother’s red face, I catch it immediately, wiping it on Gage’s jersey—which is stained with my own tears.
“He will.” It’s a truth forged from hope so bright that it defeats the shadows of grief preying on young, undeserving hearts.
Teague’s mouth knots into a frown, and this time, I’m not fast enough to stop the river rapids from flowing freely. “I don’t want him to go, Cali. I want him to stay here with us,” he sobs, balling his fists and banging them against my chest.
I pull my brother back into an embrace, bearing the hits that rattle my breastbone, doing everything in my power to take his pain. I hate seeing him cry. I hate it even more when I can’t be the one to fix things. All I can do now is be here for him. All I can do is love him and tell him that everything’s going to be okay.
I’m not running into my mother’s arms anymore, crying and screaming and losing it. Now I’m the one who gets all the tears and heart-wrenching howls of pain. I’m the one who gets to keep everyone afloat. Not has to but gets to. This is my purpose in life—being my brother’s protector. I just wished I’d gotten better at it a lot sooner.
“He’s my best friend,” Teague bawls, blowing snot bubbles against my front.
He’s mine too.
“Shh, shh. I know it hurts, Teague. But we have to be strong for Gage.
He’d want us to be strong.”
“I-I…don’t think…I c-can.”
I crouch down in front of Teague and rub my hands down his arms.
“You can. I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know, which is one of the endless reasons why Gage loves you. And when you love a person, you always find your way back to them. Remember that time you got hurt on the ice?” I ask.
Teague nods, trying his best to fight the quiver of his bottom lip.
“Remember how strong you were? How you got back up right away and didn’t cry? Gage needs you to be that strong for him.”
My brother rams straight into me with another hug, letting me pet his back like my mother used to pet mine when I was upset, and I siphon each
negative worry from his body, determined to carry the weight of his crumbling world and reinforce it. A wail of my own almost leaps up my esophagus, but it’s smothered when Hadley voices her presence.
She opens her arms up as Teague runs to her and disappears in her oversized sweater. “Come on, Teague. Let’s give Cali and Gage some privacy,” Hadley coos, tucking him close to her leg.
We’ll be outside, she mouths to me before they desert the room, leaving Gage and me alone once again, the future of our relationship hanging heavy in the distilled air.
I grab Gage’s hand—as if the five minutes I wasn’t holding it has somehow hurt him—and I bring his knuckles to my lips, trying to warm the frozen flesh with a shaky kiss.
I foolishly thought I had cried all the moisture out of my body, but more tears toe the shoreline of my eyes, and the beginning of my words launch from my mouth in a rocky, fumbling start. “Gage, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m sorry this happened. I’d switch places with you in a heartbeat if I could. Seeing you in pain…it fucking kills me. I feel like I’m losing my mind without you here. Like, you’re here, but you’re not really here. I just need you to come back to me. I need you to make stupid jokes and pay me cheesy compliments and annoy the living hell out of me. I need you to wrap your arms around me when things get hard because it’s the only place in this entire world that I feel safe.”
I force a breath as my tears splatter the hospital sheets, permeating the thin material in shapeless blobs.
“I need you to kiss me when I get trapped in my head. I just need you, okay? I can’t do this without you. I can’t do life without you. You’ve shown me what it means to sacrifice for the people you love. You’ve shown me how to be strong for myself so that I can be strong for others. You’ve shown me kindness and understanding in times when I was a complete asshole to you. You’ve waited for me even when I wasn’t ready because you never wanted to leave me alone—because you knew how lost I would be without you.”
No spike in his heart rate. No twitch of his fingers. No nothing. Just stillness. Just silence.
“I was devastated when my mom got sicker. I’d never been at such a low point in my life. But with you, it’s not just devastation. It’s something so exceptionally worse that I can’t put into words what it does to me. I’d
rather be dead than live with this feeling—this grief that never seems to run out, this impending fear of losing the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I was so focused on protecting my family that I hadn’t even realized you’re my family now.
“I was so scared to give you all the pieces of me because I’ve never surrendered myself wholly to anyone before. I used to be full, unbroken, until the world chipped away at me. Nobody in their right mind wants a bunch of broken pieces. But you have every piece of me. You made them into something beautiful, just like you did with the scars on my palms. You never once saw anything wrong with me, and I love you so, so much for it.”
I love him. So much that it doesn’t seem remotely possible for this amount of love to fit into a human body. I knew it all along, but I was too scared to say it out loud. This whole incident reminded me that tomorrow isn’t promised. You need to say the scary things out loud in the unfortunate chance that you may never get to.
I’ve lost all composure, sobbing and crying like a child while I rest my head over Gage’s lethargic heart. It doesn’t bring me the same solace as it usually does. It feels like an unspoken goodbye. A goodbye that I’ll never be ready to utter for as long as I live.
“Oh, God. And I lied about the tattoo,” I weep, printing my face of makeup onto his shirtfront. “I’m a terrible person. It’s fake, okay? I didn’t think telling you would put you in the hospital. Not that it’s, like, a direct result or anything. Or maybe it is. Maybe you were so riled up that you didn’t notice the players coming for you, and now your head is traumatized and it’s all because I pulled a stupid prank on you —”
“I knew it.”
What? Oh my God. Am I hallucinating? Where did that voice come from?
I suck in a large sniffle and peel myself up to locate the source of the sound, certain that it’s just my delirium conjuring up Gage’s voice, until my gaze lands on the poorly veiled, crooked half-smile painting his lips.
“Gage? Is that…really you?”
He squints open one eye. “I’m not dead, Cali.”
“Oh my God.” I immediately wedge my arms under his body and embrace him, holding him so close to my chest that his back comes off the hospital bed, and a couple of groans escape him.
“Sorry!” I apologize, setting him back down on the firm mattress.
He winces. “’S okay. Grandpa’s just not as springy as he used to be.”
“Oh. Ew.”
“Glad to see you aren’t treating me any differently. Even though I’m hospitalized. And in pain.”
“Do you need me to kiss it better?”
His eyes fully open, but then they lower to half-mast, and he gets that devious grin on his face again. “That depends. Where are you kissing me?”
Aaand I’m starting to feel less sorry for him. “Seriously?”
“Just come here, Spitfire,” he demands impatiently—which is bold given his state right now.
I lean in—wary of keeping my weight off his body—and marry our lips, tasting him for what feels like the first time. Even shrouded in the pungent scent of chemicals, he still smells like petrichor and pine, and my heart comes alive in technicolor starbursts. He doesn’t lift his hand to cup the back of my neck, but he’s warm with renewed life.
He’s okay. My person is okay.
Although I want to bask in this kiss forever, I pull away when I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes. “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”
Gage grunts as he hauls himself to a sitting position, the tube of his IV
moving in tandem with the arm he lays over his lap. “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s all I need. That’s all I’ll ever need,” he replies, taking my hand in his to calm the shaking I hadn’t realized was occurring. “Plus, I’ve dealt with head trauma before, and I turned out fine.”
“You know, that does explain a lot,” I say.
He angles his head. “Explains what?”
“Explains all the weird shit you do. Maybe a piece of your skull chipped off and imbedded itself into your brain matter.”
“I happen to think that I’m perfectly normal, thank you very much.”
Of course I can count on Gage to make me laugh after practically coming back from the dead. The resonance of a hearty chuckle cannons into the depressing atmosphere, heralding life like the rosy warmth of a new dawn on the horizon.
Gage leans back, his Adam’s apple fluttering in the expanse of his throat. “Fuck, I’ve missed that,” he admits.
“Missed what?” I question.
“Missed your laugh. Your smile. You. ”
My fingers clutch his tighter, and the bluish offshoots of his veins begin to fade as color returns to his skin. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know. I heard everything. And I’d get hurt a million times over just to keep hearing it. There was never once a doubt in my mind that you didn’t feel the same way about me. It just took you longer to realize it, and that’s okay. Waiting doesn’t seem nearly as long when you’re the one I’m waiting for.”
He heard everything. Every secret that I released from the vault. Every soft and squishy feeling that I’ve hidden behind saccharine sarcasm.
“Thank you,” I cry, this time not bothering to wipe the unbidden emotion spilling down my cheeks. “Thank you for coming back to me.”
Gage lifts his unoccupied hand to my face, swabbing the first of many tears while he flashes me eyeteeth. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me.”
I know it’s a joke, and that good-natured tone of his confirms it, but I can’t stop myself from falling into every sob-garbled noise under the sun, smearing the splotches of makeup I left on his shirt with salt-tinged moisture.
I squash my nose over his heart, needing the reminder that this isn’t some false reality I’ve made up in my head, and he holds me as my whole body rocks painfully. I unload every ounce of strength I’ve clung to, letting his arms heal me in the way they’ve always been made to do. I know he should be the one coming to me for comfort, but I can’t pretend to act like this whole ordeal hasn’t wrecked me completely.
“Shh, Calista. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
“You’ve ruined me, Gage,” I snivel, my heart concaving along with the fortress that’s kept me protected this entire time. My reinforced defenses are finally cracking to expose me to the harsh elements. I give in to the vulnerability, no longer afraid of getting hurt because I know now what the worst pain in the world feels like. “You ruined me the moment I met you.”
Gage cauterizes my bleeding wounds with his love, scars them over with his heated touch. “You ruined me first, Spitfire. All I’m doing is returning the favor,” he whispers.
Just like the first time we met, eyes from two different worlds merge into one, mixing blue and green to create an aurora borealis of color
unachieved even by nature itself. But this time, there’s no hatred or calculated plan for revenge in them.
Gage never breaks eye contact for a second. “Loving you fucking hurts.
It hurts in the best way. Every time I look at you, it feels like my heart’s going to burst out of my chest. And fuck, I’d die without a single complaint if it meant that the last thing I ever saw was you.”
When I pitch forward to kiss him again, I don’t even think about pulling away. “How do you imagine seeing me?”
He smirks against my mouth. “Preferably with my head between your legs. Or riding my face. I’m not picky.”
“You know, for a big, strong hockey player, I can’t wait to tell your teammates how bad you’ve got it for me.”
“Go ahead, baby. They already know I’m pussy-whipped.”
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
GAGE
Afew days later and everything’s still a blur. After my doctor performed some CT scans on my brain to make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding, I had a very peaceful recovery period of low mental concentration. He told me that as long as I got some rest and monitored my symptoms, I’d be fine to go home.
And after I got wheeled off the ice, the Reapers secured another win under their belt. So thankfully, it was all worth it. Kind of. Okay, it was bad, but it could’ve been a lot worse. The headaches have ebbed for the time being, which is good news for me because I wasn’t really a fan of the whole alien-life-pulsating-shit going on in my whack-ass brain.
The minute I got kebabbed by those players, all I could think about was Cali. Granted, I wasn’t allotted a lot of time to think much of anything before my life flashed before my eyes, but still. I followed her voice back to the present—a sliver of light at the end of a tunnel, guiding me to safety past uneven terrain and rain-filled potholes.
There’s no way in hell I’d ever leave her or Teague. Not without a fight.
And to know that she stayed by my side the entire time…I’m going to hold that over her head for the rest of her life.
Calista Cadwell loooves me. She also likes my cheesy compliments.
And my jokes. And my kisses. Getting head trauma was so worth it to hear her admit that.
She opens the passenger door for me and helps me out, making sure to handle me with care as we make our way to the house’s entrance. Now that winter’s well on its way, the brown of the surrounding foliage has been overtaken by the first vestiges of snowfall, dusting powdered sugar over barren lands.
I overestimate one of the steps on the porch and knock into a pillar, feeling pain niggle at my shoulder. “I’m really gonna miss that hospital morphine,” I groan.
Cali grimaces. “Sorry. Should’ve told you there was a step there.
Though I didn’t think I’d need to since you’ve lived here for years.”
I successfully climb the last step standing between me and my glorious, non-chemical-smelling bed. “You’re really mean, you know that?” I grumble.
She makes a face. “I’m not mean; you’re just dumb.”
The silence ironically speaks for itself.
“Ohhh. I hear it now,” she says.
“As my primary caretaker now, you have to be nice to me. That includes no name calling or insults to my intelligence.”
“How can I insult something you don’t have?”
A roguish grin quirks up the corners of my lips. “Every time you make a hurtful comment about me, I’ll be keeping track of how many orgasms you owe me.”
Cali snorts, rolling her eyes in the way that makes my dick pitch a family-sized tent in my pants. “Please. You’re seriously going to keep track of how much head I’m indebted to give you?”
I trace my finger along the coast of her jawline, ending my expedition at her bottom lip, where I gently part it from the top with a flap. She stares at me the entire time, lust torching her eyes like a gasoline-fed fire.
“No, Spitfire. I’m keeping track of how many orgasms I’m going to give you,” I clarify. “As of right now, we’re at two.”
Her mouth stays open in shock, goading a shiver to bullet down her spine, and a blush now backdrops those cinnamon freckles of hers. “Care to make it three?” she purrs, threading her arms behind my neck.
I pull her flush against my chest with more strength than I’ve probably used in the last few days. My hands skate down the curve of her spine, saying a quick hello to her adorable dimples before making their way over
her perfect, perky ass and squeezing. “I can make it however many my girl wants.”
She arches the slightest bit into my palms. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Cali takes one of my hands and redirects it to the small of her back, slipping it under her shirt and over what feels like a scar on raised skin. It takes me a second to realize what it is, and I run the pad of my finger over an infinity-like symbol.
“Did you…?”
She nods before turning her back toward me and showing me the very permanent tattoo she’s gotten in place of Fulton’s number. A small eight is inked into her skin, and I’m both relieved and overjoyed that I won’t have to kill my best friend or live the rest of my life as my future wife’s torture victim.
And yes, I said future wife. Because that’s what Cali is. Maybe five years out or so—for her sake rather than mine since I could make this decision right now—I’m going to rent out the rink and propose to her. She’s the only person in this world who I want to give my forever to…well, aside from the adorable child she’s eventually going to pop out. I’m hoping they’ll have her fiery head of hair. And maybe her ocean-blue eyes. And maybe her constellation of freckles. And I mean I wouldn’t be opposed if we had a few more kids, because that just means there’ll be more tiny versions of her for me to love.
Oh, God. Am I crying again? I feel like I’m crying. Come on, man! Get it together.
She turns back around to face me, reclaiming her previous position with her fingers on my nape and my fingers flirting with the possibility of a cheeky display.
“I think your allergies are acting up again,” she comments, a humorous half-smirk rounding her lips.
“It’s actually just eyeball sweat this time,” I joke, feeling tar coagulate in my throat the longer she graces me with those big, blue beauties of hers.
Cali laughs, and the dulcet sound is a solar flare in my veins, shaking the foundation of my bones and hurtling warmth toward the center of my heart. And then, this foreign shyness alters the firm set of her shoulders.
“So you like it then?” she asks in a small voice.
Do I like it? DO I LIKE IT?
“Cali, I fucking love it,” I respond, picking her up in my arms and swinging her around, pulling more of those heavenly giggles from her. She clings to me like she’ll go flying if she doesn’t, nose pressed against the slope of my neck, hands grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. The motion should hurt the bruised state of my body, but it doesn’t. Nothing hurts when Cali’s with me.
When I set her back down, curls of her hair straggle around her slightly pink face, and there’s a permanent smile bringing out the divots of her dimples. She looks breathtaking in the low light of the afternoon, visible puffs of breath twisting from her mouth in smoke-like tendrils. The tip of her nose is reddening by the second, and I have to get her in the house before she freezes.
“You know you didn’t actually have to get my number tattooed on you, right?”
“I know. I wanted to.”
I test the weight of her words against my tongue and love the taste they leave behind. She wanted to. If my heart wasn’t already bloated to twice its size from her love, it would probably blow out of my chest.
Cali’s eyebrows go skywards, digging little furrows in her forehead.
“You’re not going to say something like”—she lowers her voice, which I’m assuming is supposed to be a hilariously inaccurate imitation of me—“why would you do that if we might break up one day?”
“First off, I’m flattered you think my voice is that deep. And second off, that’s never going to happen.”
I can tell her thoughts are going absolutely batshit in her head, so I cut through that tumultuous sea like the propeller of a boat chopping through waves. “Get out of your head, baby,” I coax, brushing the back of my hand over her cheek.
She grabs my hand, the tremor in her fingers matching the one in her voice. “How do you know that?”
“Because I just know these things,” I assure her, winking. “When things are meant to be, they always work out. And we’re meant to be, Spitfire.
There’s no doubt in my mind about that.”
She opens her mouth, but I shut down her rebuttal with another kiss, swallowing those little buds of self-doubt before they’re given the chance to sow their seeds. While I lose myself in the swipe of her tongue and the mintiness of her breath, I fish for my keys and blindly unlock the front door
—my movements accelerating the moment Cali’s hips press into my now-awake cock.
When the partition finally clicks open, I’m expecting a dark and uninhabited house, but I’m greeted with the exact opposite when there’s a flashbang of light and a synchrony of excited voices.
“Welcome home!” they all shout, causing my stomach to freefall to my ass and sweat to break out in places people shouldn’t sweat.
I scream at a decibel level that only dogs can hear, very officially losing my manliness card—though if you ask Cali, she’ll tell you I never had it.
I did. I did have it.
I grab the ever-living life out of Cali to shield her from whatever masked intruder’s been waiting for us to get home, but once my vision adjusts, the only “intruders” we see are the guys.
There’s a large banner hanging from the second-story railing that says, CONGRATULATIONS ON NOT DYING, and balloons occupy the ground, poorly taped streamers sagging from the ceiling. Fulton, as always, misses his mark with a confetti popper, and there’s a sad little noise that fires into the ensuing silence.
Once I’m certain my heart won’t make the same sputtering sound, I turn to Cali. “Did you know about this?”
A hint of devilry in her eyes. “Maaaybeee.”
Fulton drops the cheap cylinder and comes careering into me, nearly knocking me back into the wall as his arms squeeze the last of the breath from my overworked lungs. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought you were going to die,” he cries into my shoulder as I pat his back.
“This has happened like two times before. And I’ve survived every single time.”
“Yeah, but your bones are so brittle now after your hip!” he exclaims way too loudly.
There are some sniggers from the guys, and I stare them down with dead, mirthless eyes, negating their laughter. Dicks. All of them.
“I didn’t want to lose my best friend,” Fulton whispers, and my brief dance with irritation is replaced with a love so strong that it could topple cities—a love that’s been amplified by Cali. A love that I can now share with the rest of my team. A love that strengthens this family bond even more.
“You’re never gonna lose me, Ful.”
I feel a tiny set of arms attack my leg, and I look down to find Teague attached to me like Velcro, his cheek squished against my thigh. “I missed you so much, Gage!”
Fulton lets me go so I can pick the little guy up and properly embrace him, my heart pounding out a stampede in my chest that can probably be heard over the residing sniffles. “I missed you too, Little Man.”
“You didn’t leave us,” Teague sobs, the pain in his tone leaden like the weight of a hundred sandbags, and it kills me to think that he’s been carrying the burden of all these suppressed emotions on his fragile shoulders.
I’m never going to let him carry that kind of pain ever again.
“I’d never leave you guys,” I coo, rubbing circles and easing the tension between his shoulder blades. “Never.”
After Teague snotifies my shirt and refuses to let go for a full five minutes, he eventually peels himself off me so I can hug the rest of the guys, exchanging murmurs of gratitude with them for staying by my side and planning something so unnecessary, yet so heartening at the same time.
I missed being home. Yeah, I was only gone for a few days, but mysterious hospital Jello-O and old reruns could never compete with the camaraderie that’s been home-grown in these walls for the two years I’ve been with this team.
After doling out hugs and thank-you’s, I bring Cali into the side of my body, loving how she fits perfectly like the last missing piece to my puzzle.
And dare I say it, my tears are acting up again. “Thank you, guys.
Again. For doing all of this and being here for me.”
“There’s nowhere else we’d rather be,” Hayes says.
“We haven’t even gotten to the best part yet!” Kit squeals—yes, squeals
—and drags me over to the couch, making me plop my ass down as the rest of the guys join me. There’s a sudden burst of light illuminating the vacant space in front of us like that of a high-powered spotlight, and it takes me a second to notice that the coffee table’s been moved to the side.
Confusion spumes inside me. “Uh.”
A grin lays claim to Kit’s face—a grin I don’t trust. “Shh. Just watch.
You’ll love it.”
Oh, God. As I walk the thin tightrope stretched precariously over a net of panic, I search for the one person who constantly keeps my blood
pressure in check, but she’s missing from the couch. Where’s my emotional support Cali?
Then, as if I’d willed her into existence, she comes trotting out with two other girls and Aeris, and her little entourage are all wearing my jersey.
I’m officially on board with whatever I’m about to witness. They all take their positions with Cali being front and center, and then the starting notes of Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” start playing.
Oh my God. She’s going to dance. For me . I’m finally going to see her perform a full, choreographed dance. I’m finally going to see the last vulnerable side of her that I’ve tried so hard to catch a glimpse of.
She starts to sway her hips along to the catchy beats—her choreography dulled down to a kid-friendly version for the youngest member of the audience—and I’m having a hard time even focusing on her moves because I’m too in love with watching the pure joy on her face.
She steps forward and swings her right arm in front of her head, whipping back around to step together before taking a wider stance. Then she pops her hip to the side and throws her head back at the same time, that slender body of hers undulating to the music. When she comes back to standing, the rest of her posse goes low as she extends her leg perfectly straight in some crazy side tilt.
While the other girls perform some floorwork, Cali’s owning that fucking stage with every enthusiastic facial expression and clean, hard-hitting movement. Her solo is art in motion. It’s everything I could’ve ever dreamed of. She flicks her hands above her head and twirls around, stopping seamlessly in a half-bent pose before rolling back up again. She flings her hair behind her like a trail of fire, and her next move consists of two bent arms pumping in front of her chest.
The rest of her crew joins her in the sequence and mirrors her, and when they come to a halt, all of them do three consecutive turns on one leg. None of them fall out of sync. They’re perfect.
Cali’s perfect.
She resumes the upbeat dance by lowering her center of gravity into a half-crouch, keeping her left knee bent and arching her spine to the same side. And when the chorus rises again in the song, the girls give her some space as Cali does a crazy cartwheel type thing without using her arms. She flips into the air with her perfectly pointed feet, body vertical to the ground, and my tongue practically lolls out of my mouth like a rolled-out red carpet.
I knew she was an incredible dancer, but holy shit. I can’t believe she did all of this for me. She went out of her way to put on this huge production for me. Nobody’s ever done anything so thoughtful for me before. Then again, nobody’s been Cali.
Fuck. I grow more in love with her every passing day, which is goddamn impossible because my love for her has exceeded all metaphysical bounds of reality. It’s immeasurable. And at this rate, I’ll be a goner when that five-year mark comes around. I’ll be surprised if I even last five years to wait to propose to her.
If I thought she was beautiful just simply existing, she’s even more beautiful when she dances. There’s no sight of the tortured girl I met three months ago. She’s not overthinking or trying to contort herself to please everyone’s expectations. She’s not punishing herself for things out of her control. She’s free. And I helped make that possible for her.
I haven’t done a lot of things in my twenty-two years of life, but what I have done is shown the best person on this fucking planet how incredible she is. And that’s an accomplishment greater than a Stanley Cup.
When Cali ends the jaw-dropping routine with a pose on the ground, applause explodes from the couch, and I rush to her as fast as my legs will carry me. She rises up to meet me, shock giving leeway to cashmere-soft vulnerability.
“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding from me all this time,” I exclaim, feeling my cheeks pinch with a Cheshire grin. “I always knew you were a beautiful dancer, but fuck. That was—I want to watch you dance for the rest of my life.”
Maybe it’s because she’s still catching her breath, but she fails to produce any words, the wideness of her eyes speaking volumes more than the aborted response on her tongue. So I bridge the silence and take her in my arms, dip her, then kiss her with raw abandon. I shatter into unimaginable colors, dark and light playing in a chiaroscuro over my eyelids. Unconditional love and undying reverence merge together to fuel the bass-like cadence of my heart.
And when I grant her a second to breathe, she eschews it and pulls me in closer, rejoining our lips as if the sun’s never promised to set.
I think I could get used to this.