Page 15 of The Cutting Edge
“Thanks for this, it was really thoughtful of you. As you can tell,” I say as I point to the TV, “I’ve been going a bit crazy without my phone. Did you get Mrs. Markham home okay? Is she alright?”
“Mrs. Markham's doing well. Poppy and I got her settled in. She’s at home with a night nurse, and I’ve arranged for someone to be there tomorrow as well – so I don't want you to feel like you have to rush out of the hospital at 6 am to go take care of her.” He smiles as places the bag on my bed next to me, sort of lingering nearby.
“Thank you, that was so incredibly kind of you.”
“It’s the least I could do,” he says with sincerity. “I could have accidentally killed you tonight. That means I owe you my life.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the rule when yousavesomeone’s life, at least according to the movies. I don’t think you’re supposed to owe somebody your life when you accidentally almost kill them.”
“Well you should,” he says solemnly.
“Nah, that would never work,” I grin. “Think about all those action movies – Jason Statham or Vin Diesel or Bruce Willis back in the day would need amassivespreadsheet to keep track of all the people they almost killed. And then you get into a situation where you know, you have to like divide up your life into 237 equal parts to pay off your debt, and the whole thing is an administrative disaster. Your theory is flawed, it would never work.”
He shakes his head, trying to suppress a laugh and failing miserably. “You’re a trip, Coco. Also, just to keep things simple, Icouldmake a concentrated effort not to almost kill anyone again. So then it would just be you.”
“I think not almost killing anyone else is a fine plan,” I say, digging into the bag eagerly to grab my cell. There are 37 notifications from a strange number that’s probably Logan’s, and 14 missed calls. Same number.
“Wow, you really know how to blow up a girl’s phone,” I tease.
“Generally, that’s not necessary,” he grins mischievously. “Generally the people I call don’t play so hard to get…”
“Oh no?” I tease.
“No, not so much,” he laughs, grin widening. “But it was the least I could do, especially considering I’m the reason you’re here in the first place. Mrs. Markham was more concerned about you than herself anyway. Poppy was worried too.”
Placing my phone on the rolling tray table, I drop my skate bag on the floor on the other side of my bed. “Ah, so that’s why you’re here. To check on mefor the ladies…not because you were worried about me or anything…” The words are out of my mouth before my brain even has a chance to engage and stop the runaway train. DID I JUST SAY THAT?
He looks amused and pauses like he’s contemplating his response carefully. “Nah, I just love horror movies and I wanted to check out that dent in your head.”
“Oh my god, do I really have a dent?” I panic and quickly glance around the room for a reflective surface.
He cracks up, “I was just messing with you. Here, here, look.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps a few buttons, then hands it to me in selfie mode so I can see my reflection.
I hold it up, realizing that even if I do have a dent in my head I wouldn’t be able to see it. The area where the puck hit me is covered with a bandage.
“I’m sure you don’t have a dent. Probably. I was just messing with you. But you know, if you did, you could just wear your hair to one side, like this…” he laughs as he pushes all of his dark hair to one side. I roll my eyes at him and he laughs as he runs his fingers back through his dark locks to smooth them out.
It’s funny, and kind of sexy, if I’m being honest. The room goes quiet as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like a caged tiger – and I feel instantly embarrassed, as though I’ve kept him here too long, or not been adequately hospitable.
“Um, do you want to have a seat? I ask, motioning to the recliner next to the bed. “Or do you need to get going?” I can feel my cheeks flushing, and desperately hope he doesn’t notice.
He saunters around my bed and sits down in the recliner on the opposite side – first dragging it a few inches closer to my bed and then sort of squishing his giant 6'4 frame into the slim chair. The hard muscles in his thighs flex as he sits, and I’m completely mesmerized. It’s like a muscle ballet down there under his jeans.
“That guitar thing is wild. I love it when the guy tries to just go with it and totally makes up a song on the fly.” I’m lost for a second, and then I realize he’s talking about the TV.Right.The customs agents in the Spanish airport.
“You watch this show?”
He grins at me sheepishly, “It’s on late at night and I spend a lot of nights in hotels. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping and it helps me come down after a game.”
“Why can’t you sleep?” I’m more intrigued than I should be.Be-have. Your-self. Co-co.
“I’m team captain, and I feel a lot of responsibility for how we play. Also, after playing hard for a couple of hours, I get kinda hyped up. We all do. You have to find a way to burn off all that post-game high.
My brain is suddenly spinning with possibilities for how he could burn off some of that post-game energy.Down girl.I’ll confess, it’s been a while. Between my figure skating classes, and practice, and physical therapy, and the sports psychologist, and the costume fittings, and my 87 odd jobs, I can’t remember the last time I had a good roll on the hay with somebody. I haven’t had a real relationship since, well…it’s been a while. Most of the guys I’ve dated love theideaof dating an Olympic figure skater, but aren’t willing to accept the ambition and dedication it takes to compete at that level.
A lot of men just can’t deal with everything else coming second. Including them. Including my dad.
“I don’t think I ever put two and two together that you’re a hockey player,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed. “But I know what you mean – I can never sleep after a competition either.”
