Chapter 4

I should have moved faster.

That's what I'm thinking when the noise of pain comes, when I realize that her asshole of a boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—has moved.

Has grabbed her.

Has grabbed her hand, the one that was injured because of him.

Because of that asshole.

I'm moving then, before I'm processing actions, getting between them, shoving him back, not giving one fuck when he topples into the bitch former best friend of Jolie's.

"Sweetheart," I whisper, gently cupping her injured hand between both of mine.

"What the fuck do you think?—"

I allow my head to whip around, my eyes to meet the ex's.

Allow my deadly intentions to boil up, to show on my face.

I've dropped fuckers twice the size of this asshole on the ice, and I'm itching—itching for him to give me a reason to do the same on this snow-covered patio.

Unfortunately, he's a little bitch and he sees that I'm serious (and can back it up), so he just drapes an arm around the asshole ex-friend's shoulders, steadying her.

After hurting the woman he's supposed to love—both emotionally and now physically.

And all over again, I want to punch the fucker.

But…that's not productive.

And not what Jolie needs.

"Come on," I say, shifting so I can tuck her close, can protect her from the assholes outside and the teeming crowd in the bar then tug open the door, guiding Jolie inside.

And if I hit the latch at the top, "accidentally" locking it as we move then it's just that.

An "accident."

But I do make damn sure the door closes all the way.

Let their trek through the icy, half-melted, half-hardened snow to the parking lot be the beginning of their punishment.

Fuckers.

I bustle her forward, pausing at the table of hockey players only long enough to make my goodbyes and exchange narrow-eyed glares with Theo, just for good measure.

Can't let my opponent on the ice become my friend off it.

Even if he is a good guy.

Yes, I say that begrudgingly, even in my own head.

Then we're out into the parking lot and the cold is biting at my arms and I'm still bustling, this time to my car, tucking Jolie into the passenger's seat, wondering how long it's going to take for her to realize what I'm doing and get pissed.

The fragile that has surrounded her is again fading.

The strength and fire coming to the forefront.

I just hope I can get her to the hospital first.

"Drive me back, Leo," she snaps. "Right now."

So, I didn't make it to the hospital.

But we're close enough for me to see the sign indicating a turn-in for the emergency room, and I ignore her, pulling into the parking lot and cutting the engine.

I round the hood, tug open her door.

She's still clutching her hand to her chest, even as she's glaring at me, even as she demands, "I mean it. Drive me back to the bar?—"

Stubborn fucking woman.

I reach in, unbuckle her belt, wrapping my arm around her middle and guiding her out of the car as I straighten.

There are quite a few perks to being a professional hockey player, I'll admit.

One of those is being in shape, exercising like my life depends on it—and my job does, so my life does in a way.

Which means that I have her out of the car in a couple of seconds.

And I have her against my chest in a couple more.

And I'm carrying her toward the hospital doors in just a few additional ones.

Still ignoring her protests.

Then we're inside and I'm walking up to the desk, seeing the receptionist's face change from bland boredom to keen interest as I approach with a protesting woman in my arms.

"She hurt her hand," I say. "It needs an X-ray?—"

"I don't need?—"

"And for a doctor to look at her. She took a couple of bumps on the dance floor."

"I'm fine?—"

To her credit, the receptionist plays along with the scene I'm making. "Her name?"

"Jolie…" I bend, deposit Jolie into the chair in front of the desk and start digging into her purse. Rude, I know, but I'm not going to sit—stand—here and argue for eternity. I retrieve her wallet, pull out her ID.

Glancing at it before I pass it over.

And look at that.

Jolie Levine.

Total rockstar name.

And she's twenty-six.

From Tahoe.

Do I memorize her address before the passing?

Maybe.

But I have the feeling this woman?—

She snatches her wallet back with impressive reflexes, considering she's one hand down, and pulls out her health insurance card, glaring up at me. "Do you know how expensive ER copays are?"

"Do you know that this is the only place around to get a cast if your hand is broken?" I counter, but I tug out my own wallet, snag a credit card and hand it to the registrar. "Can you make sure that the copay goes on this?"

Jolie's eyes flash. "I—" A sigh. "I wasn't asking you to do that."

"I know." I brush back a strand of long brown hair, corralling it with the rest of her half-tamed curls. Then, because her expression is so forlorn, I tug the piece of hair. "Consider this our first date. I'd pay for that, right?"

"Really?" she asks dryly. But her mouth is tipping up at the edges.

I'm making her smile.

Victory is mine!

Also, keeping that thought in my head because I need to maintain my cool factor.

My victory is short-lived though. Because her smile fades as she glances over at the woman on the other side of the desk. "I haven't had a guy pay for a first date in…ever." A tap to her bottom lip. "Have you?"

The other woman makes a face. "Nope." Then her face clears, mouth tipping up. "Though, I can't say that's completely true. I've had one man pay for the first date." She holds up her hand, showing off a glimmering diamond. "And he ended up as my husband."

For some reason, I glance down, my heart pounding…

To find Jolie staring up at me, eyes wide and color high. "I?—"

The door to the waiting room opens with a loud click that has our gazes jumping apart, has me realizing that we've been staring for who knows how long. Long enough that the registrar has stepped away and my credit card is sitting on the counter and…

A nurse is standing in the open door. "Jolie?" she calls.

Even though the waiting room is empty.

Even though it's just us there.

Even though it's just us in the universe, the only two people on the planet, the only?—

Obviously not, dipshit. Considering the nurse is watching us with her brows raised, waiting for us to move.

So she can take care of Jolie.

So she can take away Jolie's pain.

I. Am. A. Total. Dipshit.

I back away from the chair, give Jolie some space so she can get up and walk to the open door.

Then I do something else in a long line of probably shouldn'ts.

I follow her.