Page 95 of Overtime
“Sure, you can.” Sarcasm drips from his words. With a huff, he picks me up again, and I groan.
“Your back?—”
“Stop worrying about me. I’m not the one who passed out in someone’s arms.”
“I did?” I slur.
Aran crouches a little to open my bedroom door. My vision blurs as he maneuvers us to enter the room sideways. With surprising gentleness, he sets me down on my bed.
“Yeah, you did.” His eyes are dark as he stares down at me with a frown, hands on his hips, nostrils flaring with labored breathing. “Scared the shit out of me. I was this close to turning around and taking you to an ER.”
I open and close my mouth. But I’m more surprised when he undoes the laces of my boots, chucks them off, and walks out of the room without another word. His steps recede and stop when the front door closes. And then it’s silent.
I don’t blame him for running away. If I could, I would.
Now groaning to my heart’s content, I weasel out of my coat and push it off the bed. With just that small amount of effort, I pant harder than Aran after climbing two and a half floors with a fat girl in his arms. There is no position that can help me ease the pain, but I’m a side sleeper, so I turn and wither. Maybe if I stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll start feeling better.
But then the front door opens. I wonder if it’s Ryan, but on Wednesdays, she has a full schedule at school. My bedroom door opens, and Aran’s deep, husky voice sounds again around my bed.
“Put this on.” He appears in front of me, crouching to fiddle with something. Then he stands up holding a heating pad. “Stop giving me that look. Sometimes we get muscle cramps after training and need to alternate between hot and cold. This shit’s amazing.”
“I’m not judging.” I smile a little.
Aran gives me the pad, and I put it against my stomach, trying to keep it upright. He moves away from the window and light streams into my face again. There’s some rustling, and suddenly, my mattress dips with a heavy ball of heat and?—
Aran’s arm comes around me, pressing the pad against my stomach until the heat seeps through my clothes. Until I’m glued against him. He pushes his other arm under my head until I feel his hot breath fanning my neck.
I lie very still as he murmurs, “Heat helps, according to my sisters.”
Yeah. It helps.
It helps accelerate my heart from normal to about to spill out of my mouth along with words he won’t want to hear. I blink hard, but that doesn’t stop the tears from pouring from my eyes.
We stay like that until he has to head out for practice and well past the point of no return for me. Because that afternoon, as I lie in Aran’s arms, his little spoon, I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with him.
CHAPTER 27
ARAN
This is it. The game that decides whether we go to Regionals.
Neither team has scored, and we’re in the third period against the Bulldogs. We’ve had one PK from each side this period alone. I’ve been a freaking wall, but so is the other goalie. Goal attempts are fired from each side like artillery. The boards have even seen blood. The crowd roars with the intensity of a finals game.
The Thunder Bolts’ home arena explodes as I bat a puck away from the net like I’m playing baseball. A group of Bulldogs who are all bark and no bite try to jostle me around while the puck’s still in play. It should get them dinged for interference, but the ref’s distracted. Webber and some Bulldog battle for the puck and soon forget it altogether. Gloves drop and the whistle blows, but more and more players from each team join what’s now a scrum.
I smack my stick against the ice a few times, and one of my guys sees it. That’s our code forstop this shit right now before I make you regret it. Right on, he grabs the next Bolt and pulls him away, and one by one, they leave the Bulldogs to fight each other if they want.
We end up on a four against four, and I pull up my mask and spray water on my face to clear away the sweat before the next faceoff. And off we go again.
The crowd chants, “Go, Bolts, go! Go, Bolts, go!”
But we go straight into overtime.
Bracken brakes in front of me, offering his elbow. “Ready to rumble?”
I bump my elbow with his and say, “Tell Coach not to send the first line in. Amadi’s favoring his left hand and Charles looks ready to drop dead.”
“Aye, Captain.” He takes off for the bench to relay the info before the ref starts the game again.
