Page 8 of Mother Pucker

I close the gap between us at the steam room doors— and don’t stop. Without giving myself time to think, I plunge past Erik to block the doorway. Arms crossed in front of my chest, I narrow my eyes at him.

But Erik matches me glare for glare, neither of us saying a word. We stand there for what feels like forever, tension and unspoken questions exploding around us like fireworks. Finally, he blows out a hard breath and shakes his head as if making a decision.

“You know I don’t want to go, Payton. I’d spend every minute with you if I could. But—” He stops, the pain obvious on his face now. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, really.”

Before I can say a word, he wraps his long fingers around my upper arms and picks me up off the floor. My shoeless feet dangle off the ground as Erik simply sets me aside and keeps walking.

I’ve always known Erik is strong, but seeing such a casual display of that strength sends shivers up my spine and heat between my legs.

Even injured, he picked me up without the slightest effort. He may as well have been setting a gallon of milk on the counter. There’s no evidence of strain on his face or effort in his eyes— like I weigh nothing at all.

It shouldn’t melt me into a gooey mess, but it does.

“Hey—” I call out as soon as the lusty haze of my thoughts clears. “Hey! Don’t give me that stoic Viking bullshit, Erik. Not now. Talk to me, god damn it.”

Fuck this.

I take a few quick steps and launch myself at Erik from behind. I land against the solid slab of his back and wrap my arms around his shoulders with my hands splayed across the solid plane of his chest. My legs circle the tree trunk of his waist, holding on for dear life. If Erik is angry or annoyed to find himself wearing me like a backpack, he doesn’t show it.

Nothing new there— Erik isn’t exactly the type for big emotional displays or angry outbursts. He might come across as cold and stoic to other people, but I know the truth. Behind that icy demeanor, Erik burns red-hot.

He stops mid-stride, meeting my eyes in the mirrored wall.

“Payton?” Erik sounds more amused than angry. “What are you doing?”

The nonchalant tone of his voice is enough to push me over the edge. I know that something is wrong. What’s more, Erik knows that I know. It isn’t like him to ignore a problem when he can skate through it instead. One way or another, I’m getting to the bottom of this today.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Nordstrom.” I hop off Erik’s back, marching around to face him. “I don’t care if it takes all day. You’re going to talk to me.”

I wait for him to meet my eyes and blow out a long breath.

“I know something is wrong,” I tell him softly. “And I’m worried about you, Erik. But if you want me to go, I will. Say the word and I’ll leave you alone.”

The words hang in the air between us.

Slowly, carefully, Erik stops moving. He sighs, and it’s a sad, resigned sound.

“You really are very good,” Erik says quietly enough to make my heart shatter for him. “I could have hidden it from anyone else, you know.”

He hangs his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

“It’s not weakness to admit you’re hurting.” I take his hand in a tight grip. “That’s why you have a whole team behind you.”

Erik’s fingers are thick and long, his palm dwarfing mine as I wind our fingers together. He looks up at me, amber eyes flashing. That molten gold gaze pins me in place like a butterfly.

“It is if it gets me benched,” he rumbles. “I saw what happened to Emerson. He’s great off the ice, but me? I would make a terrible coach.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

It hits me then. Erik is worried about losing his place on the team by having to wait out a serious injury. I could tell him until I’m blue in the face that it won’t happen, but we both know better. Missing too many games is a death sentence for any professional athlete’s career.

“Maybe it isn’t that bad,” I start. “What if —”

“I won’t risk it.” He interrupts in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Then he’s moving again, those long legs moving at a brisk pace while he tries to outrun his injury by pretending everything is alright. He walks through the changing room without stopping, pushing through the double glass doors and heading straight toward the jogging path that leads to the residential neighborhood on The Nest campus.

I take off behind him, scrambling to keep up. Erik’s house is the first in a row of two-story brick colonials set along the tree-lined path that leads back to the practice arena.

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