19. BROOKLYN

CHAPTER 19

brOOKLYN

H er breath hitches when I grab her hand to inspect the cut. It's maybe a quarter of an inch but bleeds pretty profusely. What probably makes it sting even worse is that her hand is all sudsy.

I reach forward to run the tap again. It brings me flush against her, and I don't move away even as I rinse her hand under the water spray. Instead, I pluck the soggy sponge from her other hand and toss it away, before bring her hand under the tap too.

"I can wash my own hands." Liv tries to tug free and I don't let her.

Tucking my chin on the top of her head, I say, "You should also be able to do the dishes without hurting yourself, yet here we are."

"Touché," she grouches.

The sane, logical part of my brain is screaming at me to stop. Friends don't do what I'm about to. But I still let my pea brain take over.

I circle my left hand around both of her wrists, locking them in place. With my right hand, I pick up the hand soap container and squirt a little on her hands. I start rubbing the soap on her damp skin, slowly sliding my fingers between hers, up and down—just making sure her skin is thoroughly cleaned off food debris and the more abrasive dish soap. I'm extra careful with her left hand, running the pad of my thumb just under the cut to wipe a way a trickle of blood.

"You know," I can't even pretend like my voice isn't NSFW right now. "You gave me a paper cut recently."

"Hmm?" That almost sounds like a moan, or it could be my wishful thinking.

I clear my throat slightly. "At the admin office, when I gave you back your schedule."

"Oh, really? I was in a hurry and didn't even notice."

Her voice has always been husky and right now it's doing things to me. It's nothing short of a miracle that I can still form coherent sentences.

"In a hurry to not see my face?"

"That's right." She chuckles softly. "Feels like a lifetime ago but it was what, a month ago? Two? And now you're everywhere."

Not everywhere. I haven't been in her bed yet.

Shaking my head hard, I step away from her so she can grab the kitchen towel. She passes it over to me and picks up the kitchen roll for herself.

"Go put on a Band-Aid."

"Yeah, okay." She keeps her head down as she walks by me, but even her hair can't hide the blush on her face.

Once I'm alone in the kitchen, I run my lemon scented hands down my face. "What are you doing, asshole? This is the opposite of taking it slow." Now I can't get the picture out of my head of her in the shower and my hands soaping her up.

I slap my cheeks hard enough to sting possibly as much as her injury. Tugging my sleeves past my elbows, I set out to work on the dishes now that she won't be able to.

"Hey, that's my job," Liv complains as she returns, her voice dancing behind me as she circles around the island, bringing her vanilla scent closer.

"You're on drying duty now," I say, motioning at the growing pile of dishes I've placed on the rack. She unhooks a different kitchen rag from a cabinet handle above me, and starts working. "So, the game."

"Right."

I offer a grim smile to the cabinet because I've never heard her sound so excited to talk about a sport she despises.

"It's not like I'm complaining that we lost our first game. Our opponents are the reigning champions and they're just tough, you know? But…" I trail off because this saucepan has some gunk I just can't get out. "What the hell did you cook on here?"

"That one wasn't me. It was Mina, grilling pig intestines on it." I gag and she starts laughing. "I'm kidding, it was regular sausages for breakfast."

I dry heave again anyway. Suddenly the smells are a little less tolerable.

"Surely you've seen worse at a house packed of gross jocks?" She's still laughing, and I guess I'm glad it's helped dispel the weird mood I incited. Pretty sure Mina would be extra pissed at me if she found out I tried to make a pass at Liv.

"Well, yeah. But I won't give you any details because then you'll be the one puking your dinner."

"Gah. Back to hockey."

"Right." I shake my head, grinning even though getting back on the topic should make me miffed. "What was I saying?"

"You're allegedly not complaining. "

"I'm not. But I just wish the rest of the team cared half as much. Especially the seniors." I lean my head back and close my eyes, sighing. The good mood's vanished. "Yet, they're pissed that I was made captain even though they just don't care enough to even deserve a jersey."

"So, let me get this straight. They're lazy but self-entitled?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Just like their buddy Liam Roberts. But that's not a name I'll ever bring up in her presence.

"They sound like the opposite of you. No wonder you're annoyed."

I gasp. "Was that a compliment just there?"

"Yes." She gives me a look like I'm possibly having my biggest blimbo moment. "Brooke, you do know you're at the level of your heroes, right? I'm surprised the pros are even letting you finish college."

I blink hard. "I, uh…."

Liv's eyes leave mine to focus on the pot lid she's drying. "I've watched your games."

"But you weren't there tonight."

She glances up at me again and I don't care to correct my slip up.

Yeah, I noticed. I've been looking for her in the stands my whole life, even when I knew she wouldn't be there.

"I mean…" She glances back down. I try to focus on the remaining dirty dishes as she speaks. "Back during the Dark Age—that's what I'm dubbing the last year and a half—I still watched your games sometimes. Not in person, but on the computer."

"Huh. Why?"

Liv shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt."

Shit.

Why is my whole body tingling?

Especially behind my eyes ?

My voice is garbled as I say, "So let me get this straight. Even though you hated me, you still kept tabs on me?"

"I never hated you."

My pulse spikes the way it does when I'm about to deliver a heavy check against the boards.

"And you think I'm a good player."

"Yes, purely from an objective standpoint. If you keep it up, you're going to have one of the most amazing careers in the pros. And that… that's terrifying."

The cup I'm washing slips from my hands. I fumble but it still falls. At least it's plastic and doesn't break.

Slowly, I turn to her. "Why?"

"Because you could get hurt," Olivia says with a soft voice. Sighing, she says, "I've never told you why I hate hockey, right?" She sets the drying rag down and looks up at me, biting her lip.

"No." I swallow hard. We've skirted around this topic all our lives, because I think I've always known why.

"I can't…" She cuts herself off to shake her head. "I can't see what happened to Luz again. And every important guy in my life seems bent on getting hurt playing the most reckless sport in the world." Her chin trembles.

I shut the water tap and stand there for all of one second. That's as much as I can resist.

In the blink of an eye, I breach the distance and wrap my arms around her. Liv stiffens and takes a deep breath, her nose buried in my chest. And then she shifts to settle her cheek on my chest, and I follow suit by resting mine on top of her head. Closing my eyes, I inhale the scent of her hair, holding her a little tighter.

Slowly, she lifts her arms until they circle my waist. I thought everything was perfect earlier, while we sat together eating pizza. But I was wrong. This is perfection.

"Liv." I sigh her name and then, to mask the longing in it, I try for levity. "I'm going to be okay. You know I'm the lovechild between Wolverine and Deadpool."

Her voice is muffled as she mutters, "Your bones aren't made of adamantium and you can't infinitely heal yourself."

"I'm strong as an ox."

"But you're not an ox."

"My point is, I'm going to be fine. So are Aran and Max. What happened to Luz…" I squeeze her tighter. "That was a freak accident. A one in a million thing."

"That's already too many chances." Her hands squeeze at the back of my shirt with more force. "Every time one of you is playing, all my head does is spin one horrible what if after the other."

I pull away just enough for her to look up at me. My heart pangs as she sets her chin against my chest, and I rub a hand up and down her back to distract myself from the fact that I'm yearning for her even though she's in my arms, as close as our clothes allow.

"And yet you, yourself, said I'm a really good player, right? So you should know that I'm trained on how to protect myself, on how technique can keep me safe and healthy, and that there's a whole staff that will look out for me even if I get a paper cut."

"But you wouldn't get a paper cut during a game." She gulps hard. "You could get seriously hurt instead. Did you see what happened to?—"

I brush the hair off her face, leaving my fingers in her hair. "Liv, this is literally the only thing I know how to do. The only thing that makes me feel alive." Besides her, that is.

"And what if it kills you?"

"It won't." I smile at her frown.

"But what if?—"

"It won't," I repeat more firmly. "We're going to manifest good things and not tragedies, okay? Besides, what would kill me would be to not play."

More subdued, she starts pulling away from my embrace and I have no choice but to let her go. Unless I want to steer the conversation to even more dangerous waters.

"But you're going to retire eventually, what then?"

"That's hopefully twenty years down the line, after I've given it my all and squeezed as much hockey out of life as I can." I switch the water tap back on to finish the last dishes. "Besides, I could coach a little league after that. Or maybe join a team's staff."

"You could become an anchorman."

"Would you like that better?" She gives me a weird look that makes me worry I let on too much about how I want her in my life twenty years from now—and beyond. So I rephrase, "As in, would that feel safer to you?"

"Yes, a lot. I'm sure your future wife would appreciate it too."

I choke. She definitely picked up on my train of thought. "W-What?"

"Or maybe she'd be just as reckless, going by Luz and Maddie. I don't think anyone sensible would marry a hockey player." Liv makes a face. "Couldn't be me."

I hum from deep in my throat, my mind churning.

This sounds a lot like a preemptive rejection, but the fact that she's bringing up such a wild topic all on her own means she's thought about it—about being with me. Maybe marrying me.

My body vibrates with energy. Couldn't be her, she says, while revealing that she's terrified about my wellbeing. Because that's how much she cares about me.

"Come watch my games," I spew all of a sudden. "Exposure therapy, right? It's what makes people pull through their phobias. "

"No, thanks. I'm really happy with my hockey phobia."

"Seriously." I huff. "The more games you watch, the more at ease you'll feel. And whenever I get hurt, you'll know exactly under what circumstances. Taking the uncertainty off it should reduce the impact, right?"

" When ? Shouldn't it be if ?" Her face scrunches up.

I nod. "When. It's inevitable. Max sprained his ankle pretty bad during last year's playoffs. And your brother pulled his groin two games ago. Did you freak out then?"

Liv cringes. "I literally don't need to think about my brother's groin ever."

"It's a very common injury for goalies." I roll my eyes. "And you haven't answered the question."

"Well, no."

"So what's different with me?"

She startles, her eyes widening as she looks up at me. "Um, nothing, I guess," she says with a high pitched voice.

Which means entirely the opposite.

I use all my willpower not to grin in victory. Maybe she says she doesn't want to marry me right now—and fine, we're only twenty. But she worries about me more than about her brother or brother-in-law. She may not realize what this means. That she could get to love me.

And I viscerally remember how she kissed me—like she'd been waiting her whole life for someone to make her mewl like she did. At least on a physical level, she already knows we work.

Liv's the one. She's always been the one. I was just too much of a shithead to understand that. All those athletes I dated were like me, more focused on their sports than on anyone else. And that was safe. That was the opposite of Liv, who couldn't care less about hockey or anything else that features in the Olympics. It's the one thing we've never had in common, the excuse I used all the way since high school as to why we'd never work.

When all along she's been the only person to make my heart beat as fast as hockey. And now that I get it, there's no way in hell I'm letting her slip away a second time.

Calmly, I turn back to the dishes and say, "I'll get you season tickets."