Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Zander and Paisley give a valiant effort at convincing me to stay and have fun, but Nolan is watching me silently, his blue eyes seeming to absorb every nuance of my body language and words.
“Good night, guys,” I say, walking toward the exit. I can feel the blood draining from my face and the first waves of nausea setting in. I don’t live far from the bar, but I’m considering calling for a ride as I step outside.
The door closes behind me and immediately swings open again. Nolan is standing there, forehead furrowed. “What are you doing?”
I quickly smooth my features into pretend calm. “Heading home, like I said?”
“You’re not walking normally.”
“How do I normally walk?” I ask. I’m talking through my teeth because I can’t keep pretending my ankle isn’t screaming in pain now. Irritation is rising up because I wish Nolan would just let me get home so I could pound some pain medicine, curl up in a ball, and maybe cry a little where nobody can see me.
“Cut the shit,” he says, moving to my side and putting his arm around me. He scoops me up with one arm behind my back and one under my knees. The relief of pressure on my ankle is immediate and so welcome that all I can do is close my eyes.
I feel a tear slip out between my eyelids.
“What happened?” he asks softly. Concern is dripping from his voice, and I have to admit it warms my heart.
He’s already walking as he carries me. From the way he’s headed, it doesn’t seem like he’s taking me to my rental. Jesse’s cabin is too far to walk to, especially if he’s planning to carry me the whole way.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Doctor Knight. It’s late, but maybe she’ll still be there. She checked out Andi when she had that car accident on her way into town two years ago. And when Andi screwed up her ankle.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say.
Nolan keeps walking as if I didn’t say anything.
“You know,” he says. “I’m pretty sure Jesse and Andi started secretly dating after she screwed up her ankle. Should I be worried this is some kind of seduction tactic? A move you’ve seen work before, so you’re giving it a shot?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” I ask. “Because I’m really not in the mood to laugh right now.”
“The best time to laugh is probably when you’re not in the mood.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say, even though his light tone and the conversation are actually doing a good job of distracting me from the pain. I also think the pain may be easing up a little. That’s a relief because it probably means I’ll just be sore for a few days.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” he asks.
“It’s just an old injury,” I say, not really wanting to offer more than that. Honestly, I could fall asleep with the gentle rocking motion of being carried like this and the sensation of his strong arms wrapped around me. My face is pressed into his chest and my right hip is brushing against the hard slab of his stomach, bouncing slightly with each of his long strides. It’s cold out, but I barely feel it.
“From your figure skating days?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Ankle?” he asks. “I fucked up my ankle in college. Double sprain. Of all things, it was just when I was stepping onto the ice for practice. Nothing special, but my skate caught on a divot and I rolled it forward. I don’t think the ankle has ever felt quite the same since.”
“Yeah,” I say. “My right ankle. I was landing a spin in practice a few weeks before Olympic qualifiers. I needed my skate to point straight, but I missed the angle. I was already spinning fast and moving forward. I tore two tendons. Physical therapy helped, but I never got the stability back I would need to do the things I did. The doctors said I wasn’t a good candidate for surgery because of some existing scar tissue. Figure skating isn’t exactly forgiving on wobbly ankles.”
“Damn,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I would do if an injury took hockey away.” He hesitates. “You should be proud that you found something else. That had to be hard.”
I’m probably just feeling emotional because of the mixture of embarrassment and pain, but his words make my eyes water all over again. “Thank you.”
“Fuck,” he says, picking up his pace. “Is it hurting that bad?”
“No,” I say. “I just don’t know if I ever thought about what I did as brave or something to be proud of. It always felt like I failed and stumbled into something else. You make it sound like some kind of heroic redemption arc.” I laugh.