Page 73 of Poetry On Ice
I curse and pull myself up by my core, flinching when my ribs remind me I was treated like a human punching bag earlier today. I stomp my feet as I walk, dragging the blanket with me.
I yank the door open and take a quick step back.
I’m not sure who I expected, but if I’d put much thought into it, Bodie would’ve been my prime suspect. Or maybe even Coach because of the way he’s been fussing tonight.
It’s neither of them.
It’s Ant. He’s at my door, wearing a somber expression with fine lines of accusation drawn around the edges. “What are you doing here?” he demands.
“I-I live here.”
He takes me by the shoulders, moves me gently to the side, and lets himself in, dropping an overnight bag on the floor. “I heard you tell Coach you were going to your parents, but I knew,I knewyou weren’t going to do it. You were making that face you always make when you’re about to be impossible.”
“I’m fine,” I grind out.
“The hell you are. Now get your ass on the sofa and don’t move unless I say so.”
“I was on the fucking sofa before you rang the fucking doorbell,” I grumble as I walk back to the living room. I’m pissed and unhappy about being bossed around. I’m also smiling so hard that I’m forced to lift the blanket to hide the bottom half of my face.
Ant orders in a too-healthy, high protein, high veg option from a restaurant that only uses organic produce.When it arrives, he serves it to me with a large glass of water and monitors my food and liquid intake with grim determination.
He has me unlock my phone and sends a message to the team from me, telling them I need to take a raincheck on dinner tomorrow night. I’d argue, but I have a feeling it if I don’t do it voluntarily, he’ll confiscate my phone and do it for me.
He lets me watch the game right up to the point where I take the last hit and then he switches the TV off.
“I want to see the end of the game, asshole,” I cry. “That’s the whole reason I’m watching.”
It falls on deaf ears. I’m marched up to bed and watched as I brush my teeth in much the same way he watched me eat my dinner.
“Bed,” he says, pointing a thick finger at me. “No arguments and no funny business. And put some pants on.”
“No funny business? Who the hell agreed to that?” I whine and complain about it, but against my better judgment, I do put some pants on. When I’m dressed, I pull back the covers sullenly and get in.
He ignores me and takes his sweet time getting ready for bed.
“If you were hoping I’d be asleep by the time you got into bed, the joke’s on you,” I say when he finally slides beneath the covers. “I’m not even tired.”
It’s a lie, a white one, but a lie nonetheless. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and I’m so exhausted it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open.
I clench my teeth against the threatening yawn and snuggle up to Ant, tugging on the quilt and tucking it around his shoulders so he’s nice and warm and no cold air can find us. I nestle my head into the space between his neck and the pillow and let my hand roam down his chest.
“Uh-uh,” he says when I get near his navel. “I meant it. No funny business, Princess. You took a fuck-ton of hits tonight. You got banged up. The last thing in the world you need is to subject yourself to more impact.”
“But I like this kind of impact,” I whine. “This kind of banging is good for me. It helps clear my sinuses.”
“Your sinuses aren’t the problem.” I expect him to admonish me more, given what his mood has been like so far tonight, but he doesn’t. He bites back the bark of a laugh and curls an arm around me. When it’s quiet and dark and the day’s events are starting to fade, he kisses my forehead lightly. “Go to sleep, baby,” he whispers. “I’ll check on you in two hours.”
“I’mfiiine.”
It’s the last thing I say before I pass out.
He wakes me at two a.m. and makes me answer the usual questions. “What’s your name? What day is it? Do you know where you are?”
“I’m Robbie McGuire, the best Vipers wing in history. It’s Saturday night. I mean…early Sunday morning. And I’m at home, in bed with my boyfriend.”
He lets the boyfriend thing go but that’s as far as he can go. “The bestleft-wing,” he corrects firmly.
I toss and turn a few times, too hot and too cold because of the pants and the fact Ant isn’t inside me. As much as it pains me to admit, I am a little headache-y and my mind is foggy. I’m moody too. “You shouldn’t have woken me up, you ass. Now I can’t fall back asleep.”