Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (75)
The flight from the Pittsburgh airport is short. I try to sleep, but with the uncomfortable seat I got at the last minute, dead center between two other people, and the ice on my head, I can’t relax. When I land, I pull up my hoodie and take an Uber back to my apartment.
Our doorman sees me approach, and when he tries to rush over to help, I stop him. My limp is bad, but I don’t want to call more attention to myself. Shooting him a smile, I hobble into the elevator and slump against the mirrored wall on my way up.
My body screams in agony, yet a part of me wants to move faster. My jingling keys fall from my hand to the floor. I reach down to get them with a series of grunts, and when I’m about to insert the key, the door flies open to reveal a misty-eyed Sage.
She stands there, eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. Her curly hair frames her face, and her fingers grip the doorframe tight enough that they whiten. The weight of her gaze practically emanates from her expression, enveloping me as if I can feel it physically.
Sage reaches for my arm and lets me shift my weight to step inside. I put just enough weight on her, but she’d be crushed if I leaned on her the way I need to right now. Once we enter my room, she retreats a step, leaving me to stand alone. She looks either terrified or nervous, but she doesn’t say anything to tell me which one it is.
“I’m okay,” I reassure her, hoping that’s what she’s looking for.
The smallest breath of relief pitches her tense shoulders down. “I saw the hit, Elias. Both of them.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “It was terrifying to see you like that.”
Her words catch me off guard, and a warmth spreads over the pain in my ribs.
“You were worried about me?” I can’t suppress the smile that tugs at my lips.
“Comes with the job description.” Her deflection is lined with bitter humor. She fidgets with her hands and doesn’t look at me. I don’t like it.
“Is it a self-care night?” I ask.
“It’s Wednesday, I don’t usually ...” Her voice trails off, her gaze shifting over my bruised and battered body with a blend of pity and concern. “Yeah, it’s a self-care night.”
She helps me to the bathroom, using all her strength to aid my limping form. Then she twists on the faucet to fill the bath with water and sifts through the cupboards.
“You’ll need to soak in a hot bath first. I have Epsom salts,” she informs me, pouring the lavender-scented salt into the steaming water.
“Take it with me.”
She freezes.
“I saw your performance. Probably one of your best, so I’m sure you need one too.”
She stares at me wide-eyed. “You watched it?”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” I say, “but next time, send me the link so I don’t have to ask your uncle.” I take a step closer until we’re mere inches apart. Her breath hitches when the backs of her thighs meet the edge of the bathtub, and I resist the urge to wince as I lean in. “Will you join me?”
The long column of her throat moves before she looks at the water and then back at me. “But you’re ... you know.”
“It’s not a bad word, Sage.”
She sighs. “I know. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
I run my thumb along her jawline and meet her eyes. “I’m in pain, Sage. Make it better.”
She barely nods, her body betraying her reluctance as she steps closer, drawn in by an invisible force.
As I shed my clothes and sink into the hot water, every ache in my body seems to melt under the heat. Meanwhile, Sage lingers by the tub, her demeanor cautious as she stares at my reddened skin. It’s ironic—the girl who straddled my lap with abandon is uncertain about something as simple as sharing a bath.
“Need me to close my eyes?” I tease. But I spot a flicker of unease in her gaze that makes me stop. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just I know my body looks different and my muscles are more defined,” she starts. “But I love my body, and I told myself a long time ago that I will never let anyone dictate how I feel about it.” She breathes heavily, and I can’t understand why she has to say this. “I’ve worked really hard, and I’ve fought through a lot of self-image issues. You don’t become a ballerina without every instructor from the age of eight telling you that you can stand to lose a few pounds. Or that beauty is pain, and starving yourself is a part of that pain.”
Her words hit me like a semitruck. “You think I’m like them? Those sick people who prey on people’s self-esteem because they have no clue that healthy bodies look different?”
Sage blinks rapidly. I want to reach out and comfort her, but I know that my words are what she needs.
“Jesus, Sage. From the moment I saw you, I couldn’t look away. And it had nothing to do with your body or face. It was just you. Your energy, your determination, your strength. That’s all that I could see. It was blinding.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Come in here, and I’ll show you how much I mean it.”
A surge of victory ensues when she strips off the long T-shirt—one of mine—and then her panties before dipping her foot into the steaming bath. I bite my fist to keep from groaning out loud at the sight of her. She tries to maintain distance as she sits between my legs.