Page 4 of Bound

He clenches his hand into a fist, and he drops it to his side.

There might be regret on his face, might be a thousand other emotions trailing through his deep brown eyes.

But I don’t get the chance to see them.

Because just as quickly as he started to stop me…

He’s turning away.

Only…why do I get the sense that he’srunningaway?

CHAPTER TWO

Jackson

The fucking sandwich tastes like sawdust.

Not simple carbs and fast-acting sugars and a dash of protein to sustain my blood sugar.

Eaten exactly forty-two minutes before the game.

Part superstition. Part necessity.

I work my ass off on the ice.

I can’t have my glucose levels crashing as I’m trying to chase down a puck or sprinting down the ice on a breakaway or battling on the boards so the fuckers on the other team don’t get a free shot at our goalie.

But my normal pregame snack tastes like shit.

And I know it’s because of Claire.

Because of how I am with Claire.

A dick.

Sighing, I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth, forcing myself to chew and swallow, to eat the snack I don’t really want, that I’m not hungry for. Not the first time and itwon’t be the last. My blood sugar doesn’t always play nicely with the contents of my stomach. But I know that I’m going to need it.

So, I make myself choke it down.

Bite, chew, swallow.

And repeat until I finish it.

But I’m still cursing my asshole of a pancreas.

Could ya just produce some insulin so I don’t have to waste a good chunk of my brain power at all times trying to sustain my blood sugar and can instead focus on other shit?

Like hockey like the rest of the guys.

Like points and checks and maintaining a good plus-minus.

Like—

I sigh.

For better or worse, that’s not my life.

Brushing the crumbs off the tips of my fingers, I pull on my gear.

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