Page 81 of Icing Hearts

Fifteen minutes ago, I thought I’d be doing this for a completely different reason. This should have gone differently—a profession of love, apologies said, promises made. And then…just us.

When I move to lower her the zipper of her damp jeans, she says my name. She—she says, “Tory,” in a pained voice as though she believes I expect something from her in this moment. As if she’s sorry she’s disappointing me by turning me down. And I’m disgusted at myself for misrepresenting my character so gravely that all I can do is hold up the pair of gym shorts in my hand to share my intentions.

She looks relieved. Relieved.

After I’ve just learned that her father is abusing her, Clara looks relieved that I’m not expecting to get lucky. It’s then that I realize I have a lot of work to do. Trust is multi-faceted and just because I earned enough to know this, doesn’t mean I have it all.

I hook my fingers in her waistband, and she shimmies out of the damp denim and underwear while I keep my eyes glued to her perfectly manicured toes. They’re pink. They’re always pink. Everything about her is always pink and fluffy and happy—all while she’s been hiding this.

She kicks the pants away and braces her hands on my shoulders while I hold out the athletic shorts for her to step into. Heat radiates from her hips, warming my cheek. Once they’re up and over her hips, I wrap my arms around Clara’s thighs, relishing the way her delicate fingers weave through my hair. They’re deft, as if they’ve performed the act so many times it’s become second nature—as if this isn’t the first time.

Then I steel myself with a deep breath before capturing her ocean eyes with mine. They never waver as I shift to sit on the edge of the bed and pull her close.

I lift the shirt hem, forcing my hands to make the gentlest of touches, lest I remind her of him. With the whisper of a butterfly’s wing, I brush my lips along her bruised ribs in a featherlight kiss. She lets me pull her close, no choice but to straddle my lap. I kiss her forearm in the same manner—replacing his touch with mine.

She shivers as I kiss her collarbone and whisper, “You are a treasure. Anyone who harms you, doesn’t deserve to walk this earth.”

“Thank you.” She says it politely. It’s cursory, like she doesn’t believe me.

“I mean it. Look at me, Clara.” When she meets my eyes, I make her a promise fiercer than any I’ve ever uttered.

“He’s never going to hurt you again.”

She slumps against my chest and begins to sob. Not the cries of someone in mourning. She sounds relieved. She sounds like someone who got taken by a mass murderer and somehow managed to escape. It’s the sound of the cry they let out as they’re limping away and see help just over the horizon.

I stand, and she wraps her legs around my hips instinctively. This doesn’t feel like the first time either. It feels like coming home—like she is my home, and I’m her safe place, and there’s no one and nothing else but each other in this moment. As if no peril will befall us if we just stay here.

I ease back against the headboard, careful not to bump her injuries and wrap a blanket around both of us.

Through her sobs she says, “I try so hard. I just thought—I thought, I mean she was perfect. I thought if I was perfect like her, he would stop.”

I stroke her hair. “I know, Clara. I know. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, and there’s nothing you could have done better. You didn’t deserve this. He’s just…evil.”

Clara cries hard for a while. She grows quiet just when the night is at its darkest. We listen to the distant waves in silence. “I never thought you’d get close enough to see. No one ever has.”

And in this moment, I’m so immensely sad for her and so incredibly guilty; I vow to protect her for the rest of our lives. “I see every part of you, Clara. Every piece. Every facet. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this. He’s never going to hurt you again.”

There’s a lot more that I don’t tell her.

I don’t admit that I did rig that game of Spin the Bottle. I don’t tell her that I still believe that night could’ve been the start of something. I don’t tell her that I had planned to walk alongside her every step of the way while she grieved her mother’s death. And I certainly don’t tell her what her father said to me at the funeral.

I don’t tell her it makes my heart soar when I see her in my jersey, or that I flip my shirt tags out so she has an excuse to touch me. I don’t tell her that I threatened my teammates to make sure we sat next to each other on every bus ride, or that I only throw parties to dance with her. Or any of the other million ways I’ve let her take root in me.

I don’t tell her I’m in love with her.

And I don’t tell her that I learned to shoot a gun when I was nine and that I plan on putting this skill to use against her abusive father.

Chapter 49

Victory

I don’t fall asleep. There’s too much inside me that needs to get out. I’m a tremoring volcano that doesn’t want to explode on her. So I slide out of the bed and scribble a note on hotel stationary, telling her I’ll be back soon, if she wakes. I slip out of the door and pad down to the elevator. It’s not until I’m descending to the lobby that I realize I forgot my shoes. These socks will be burned. In fact, I want to burn everything that I’ll associate with what Clara revealed tonight.

As soon as the elevator doors crank open, I gun it for the lobby restroom. Nausea pushes at the back of my throat, and I barely make it into one of the stalls before I retch. Over and over. Some player from another team is washing his hands at the sink. He laughs and tells me to enjoy my hangover tomorrow morning before departing. I spit into the sink and lock the door behind him before the next wave of nausea hits. I felt sick to my stomach as soon as I saw those bruises, but I refused to let myself be emotional in the moment. She needed a rock.

After I’ve sufficiently emptied my stomach and cleaned myself up, I do the only thing I can think of.

I call my father.

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