Memories of last night flash into my head, me sitting on his lap while his fingers curled inside me with that clouded, intense expression. My eyebrow arches as I give him a cool, flirty smile.
His gaze sharpens and he lifts his brows in interest.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask lightly, still smiling.
“You.” He winks, and I burst out laughing.
“Good.” Finally.
A gaggle of kids shuffle up to us, interrupting. “Can you teach me how to skate backward?” one kid asks Rory.
Rory leans down, setting his hands on his knees. “I sure can.” He looks to a little girl standing beside the boy. “You want to learn, too?”
She points a chubby finger at me. “I want her to teach me.”
Rory winces. “She isn’t very good.”
My mouth falls open and I laugh. “Not very good? That’s only because I had a bad teacher.”
He grins.
“He’s always trying to hold my hand,” I tell the kids, wrinkling my nose.
“Ew,” the boy says, and the girl giggles.
Rory and I smile at each other, his eyes spilling over with light and affection.
“How about a friendly competition, Miller?”
Five minutes later, the orange cones are set up on the ice and players and parents line up behind us to take their turn racing through an obstacle course. Rory and his teammate, a boy with glasses and an adorable gap between his two front teeth, finish to a round of cheers.
I smile down at the little girl clutching my hand. “Ready?”
With her eager nod, we’re off, only skating as fast as she can while everyone cheers for us. I look over to Rory and stick my tongue out at him, and the kids laugh. We’re weaving through the cones, and she’s a little wobbly on her feet, so I skate backward, holding her hands the way Rory did for me the first time.
“Look at those moves, Hartley,” Rory calls. “You must’ve had an incredible teacher.”
I laugh, but as I grin back at him, something catches under my skate. One of the cones. I suck in a sharp gasp, stumbling and dropping the girl’s hands as my skate slips again.
I hit the ice, knocking the wind out of my lungs, and white-hot pain shoots through my ankle.
CHAPTER 52
RORY
People descend on Hazel, crowding her.
“Everyone back off!” My voice booms around the arena as I hurry over at full speed. People give her space, but not fast enough. “Move the fuck back!”
“Dude, there’re kids around,” Owens mutters to me.
I don’t care. My pulse pounds in my ears as I crouch down to Hazel, looking her over, moving my hands over her limbs.
No blood. Her ankle is still on straight. It doesn’t seem like anything is broken.
“Rory, I’m fine,” she says, but she’s wincing. Hazel is in pain and she’s wincing, and it’s my fault.
I said I wouldn’t let her fall. Fear leaks into my blood, making my chest hurt.
“She needs a stretcher.” My voice sounds different. Tense and sharp and loud.
Hazel puts her hand on my shoulder, and I can feel how wild my eyes are. She puts on a reassuring smile.
“Rory, I don’t need a stretcher,” she says softly. “I’m okay. I just slipped.”
I take her hand, the one she used to break her fall, and inspect it. The heel of her palm is red. My fingers skim over the delicate bones of her wrist but nothing seems amiss. Swelling, but not broken.
“Alright.” The medic crouches beside us. “What hurts?”
“I’m okay—” she starts.
“Her ankle and her wrist,” I answer. “And probably her tailbone. We need to go to the hospital.”
She hit the ice so hard I heard her teeth clack. My mind keeps replaying her eyes going wide as she fell, the way her lips parted with worry, and my chest tightens again.
“She might have a concussion,” I add.
I don’t miss the look she exchanges with the medic. “I don’t have a concussion,” she says, “and I definitely don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“Yes, you do. You could have a fracture.” My throat knots.
Hazel is hurt and it’s because of me.
I can hear myself, I can hear how insane and upset I sound, but right now all I care about is making Hazel feel better. Making sure she’s okay. Protective instincts fire through me.
Fuck.
Behind us, the kids, parents, and players watch me lose my mind. Ward meets my eyes and arches a brow.
I look to Volkov, waiting nearby. “Call Dr. Greene.”