Page 54 of The Dating Coach
"I'm fine," I said, but she was already moving closer, her med student instincts taking over.
"You're not fine," she said flatly, eyes cataloging every visible injury. "You're favoring your left side, your breathing is shallow, and you're gripping the wall for support." She turned to my father with polite steel in her voice. "Mr. Delacroix, I'm Gemma Spears. I'd shake your hand, but I need to get your son to the trainer before he does something stupidly heroic like pretend broken ribs are just a bruise."
My father stared at her – this small, fierce woman who'd interrupted his grand moment to fuss over his son. "You're the swimmer."
"Pre-med student, actually," she corrected. "Swimming just pays for school. Kind of like how hockey is supposed to pay for Liam's education, not define his entire existence."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Henry coughed something that might have been a laugh.
"Did you know," Gemma continued conversationally, "that repeated rib injuries can lead to chronic pain and respiratory issues? Probably not ideal for someone withprofessional sports aspirations. Or architectural dreams, for that matter. Hard to draft blueprints if you can't breathe properly."
"You told her about the applications?" My father's voice went dangerously quiet.
"I told her everything," I said simply. "Because unlike some people, she actually listens when I talk about my dreams."
"Your dreams?" He laughed, harsh and dismissive. "You want to throw away guaranteed millions to play with building blocks?"
"I want to build something that lasts longer than a career-ending injury," I shot back. "I want to wake up at forty without CTE, able to remember my children's names. I want—"
"What you want," he interrupted, "is to follow this girl around like a puppy, letting emotion override twenty years of preparation."
"Okay, that's enough." Gemma stepped between us, small but immovable. "Liam, we're leaving. You need medical attention. Mr. Delacroix, with all due respect, your son just played through obvious pain to win a crucial game. Maybe try 'good job' instead of berating his life choices."
She took my hand, tugging gently. "Also? That hit was late and dirty. If you really cared about your son's wellbeing, you'd be filing a complaint instead of lecturing him about architecture applications he submitted months ago."
“Architecture,” the word came out like a curse.
“Yes—architecture, not hockey,” I confirmed.
"We'll discuss this later," he said, ice in every syllable.
"No," I said, surprising us both. "We won't. I'm done discussing. I'm done pretending hockey is my only option. I'mdone letting you live through me." I squeezed Gemma's hand. "I'm just done."
We left him standing there amid hockey gear and shattered expectations.
In the training room, Gemma hovered while the trainer examined my ribs – bruised, not broken, though it didn't feel like much difference.
"You didn't have to do that," I said as ice packs were applied. "Confront him like that."
"Someone needed to." She perched on the edge of the training table, close enough that I could smell her shampoo. "He was being a bully, and I don't like bullies. Especially ones who hurt people I—" She stopped, color rising in her cheeks.
"People you what?" I prompted, probably more eagerly than was dignified.
"People I care about," she finished softly. "A lot. Maybe more than I should."
The trainer finished his work and discreetly left us alone. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid over weeks of tutoring and family crises and careful boundaries.
"Gemma," I started, but she pressed a finger to my lips.
"You're hurt and high on adrenaline," she said. "This isn't the time."
"When is?" I caught her hand, keeping it against my face. "We keep waiting for perfect timing that doesn't exist. Maybe we should just—"
She kissed me. Not gentle or questioning, but certain and claiming. My ribs protested as I pulled her closer, but I didn'tcare. She tasted like possibility and home and everything I'd been afraid to want.
"Stop talking," she murmured against my lips. "For once in your life, just stop talking."
So I did. I stopped talking and started showing her everything words couldn't capture. The months of want, the careful distance we'd maintained, the way she'd become essential to my existence – it all poured into that kiss until we were both breathless.
