“Scarlett—” His eyes drop to my mouth.
For one moment, I think I see something behind his gaze. Then his phone buzzes from his pocket, and the moment is gone.
He blinks, then pulls out his phone. “That’s probably the team, checking if we made it back.” He reads the screen, types something quickly, then pockets it.
“You don’t have to stay, Bren. Honestly, I’m kind of a mess right now. And you’ve done enough for one night.”
“Well, you’re my mess now.” He stands, looking over my ankle once more. “And I want to help you. I’ll keep my phone on all night.”
He pauses at the doorway, gripping the knob. “And, Scarlett? Thanks for tonight. It was…fun.”
And then he’s gone, closing the door softly behind him. I fall back against the pillows and press my palms against my eyes, letting out a groan.
“Dang you, Brendan Marco,” I say to the empty room. I reach for a pillow and press it against my face, letting out a muffled scream.
And it’s not because of my ankle.
“Twelve years,” I say into the pillow. “Of wanting a man I can’t have, who carries me to bed like some kind of romantic hero. Why can’t I forget about you?”
I knowwhy.I just don’t like the answer.
TWELVE
Brendan
When I knock on Scarlett’s hotel door the next morning, it only takes her a few seconds to reach it—a sign she’s either feeling better or very good at faking it.
“You’re actually walking?” I ask. “No pain?”
She looks well-rested, which is more than I can say for myself.
“I took some ibuprofen, and when I woke up, I felt better.” She demonstrates by standing on one foot. “The good news is you don’t have to carry me anywhere today.”
“So I should cancel the wheelchair I ordered for the game?”
Her eyes widen. “You ordered a wheelchair for me?”
“No, but I was seriously considering it.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Marco,” she teases. “But I don’t need your assistance. Today I’m fully functional and planning to enjoy that buffet in the staff box that I completely ignored yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She pastes on that same smile she uses at the coffee shop, the one reserved for customers.
Something inside me bristles. I already miss the girl from last night. The one who stopped pretending, just for one night.
“Would you actually tell me if you were in pain?” I ask,narrowing my gaze. “Because based on past experience, I doubt it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Brendan, you don’t need to worry about me. I appreciated the help last night, but I’m perfectly fine today. Now go take care of whatever coaches do before games.”
She shoos me away, but before I leave, I add, “Don’t twist an ankle dancing alone in your hotel room,” just in time for the door to slam in my face.
Unfortunately, today’s game is a heartbreaker. From missed passes to shots that refuse to go in, we end the third period losing three to one. I make a note to mix up the team drills this week and focus harder on shooting and passing.
When Jakowski sees me writing down a practice plan, he just grunts under his breath. “Forget it. They need to watch game footage. See their mistakes on the ice.”
“How’s that going to motivate them?” I challenge. It seems like pointing out their worst is the opposite of helping them to reach their best.