Page 112 of Caught from Behind

I keep bracing, ready for the asshole to lash out.

Instead, he’s been…almost affable.

And I don’t really know what to do with that.

I slip off my gloves, tossing them to our equipment guy who needs to finish up his duties without waiting for me to flirt with my girlfriend, but when I turn back to Ella and touch her cheek, she wrinkles her nose.

“Whew,” she murmurs, “I forgot about the glove funk. Ugh.” She pretends to gag. “It’s bringing back memories of being trapped in the car with Knox and his stinky ass gear.”

“Chérie, I had them on for an hour.”

The wrinkles in her nose grow. “And that’s more than long enough.”

I tug a lock of her hair. “Always got something to say, don’t you?”

“Yup.” But she’s smiling. “Now,” she says. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m sweaty and exhausted and Knox is going to kick my ass in the weight room after this in a way I’m so not looking forward to?—”

She opens her mouth.

“But—” I cup her jaw. “But I’m fine. My dad has been…” I shrug. “Fine.”

“Super convincing.” But there’s something in her tone, a clue as to why she’s here. “Fine. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

I tug that strand of hair again. “Well, I’m not going to lie and tell you that my dad and I spent the morning painting each other’s nails.”

She giggles.

“But considering how rough things have been the last couple of years…I’ll take fine.”

“That’s fair.”

I study her closely. Yeah, she’s here because she wants to look after me, but also…there’s sadness clinging in her eyes.

“How’d it go with Kit?”

She winces. “The same. I try to talk to him and he ignores me.” She lifts a shoulder, allows it to drop just as quickly in a delicate, one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t blame him. I just…”

Dammit.

I draw her close, hockey funk be damned.

“You just want to fix it.”

Like she’s trying to fix my relationship with my dad. Like she fixed Donna’s loneliness and set up Nova with Lake.

Because she can’t fix what happened to her.

“I know I’m overstepping.”

God, I love this woman.

“Chérie,” I murmur, stroking a hand down her back.

“You give good hugs,” she whispers, “even while dressed like a marshmallow.”

“Hey now,” I tease, letting her change the subject. “This is protective equipment. Hell, some might even say it’s armor.”

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