Icebound (Boundless Players)

“Watch out, Nina!” In a burst of frantic energy, Rhode barrels through the door, breaking the lock.

The metal pings against the wall as he rushes into the bathroom. I clutch his sweatshirt tight against my bare chest. He’s panting heavily, his face etched with concern as he attempts to process the chaotic scene.

Rhode’s eyes go wide in the mirror. “What happened? You’re bleeding.”

“Your cat,” I gasp, wincing as my skin throbs like someone scraped a cheese grater down me. “I think the thunder scared him, and he jumped off the cabinet and clawed me.”

“Fuck.” He rushes to me as I hunch over the sink.

An expression that rivals the storm raging outside settles over his face. “Yeah, he does that. I’m sorry. It’s like he forgets he has claws.”

“It’s okay.” I wince. “You did warn me he doesn’t like thunderstorms.”

“Do you always stand up for the little guy?” He squeezes my bare shoulder, and his gentle touch is so warm, so inviting, that I lean back, seeking more of his comfort.

He drops his hand.

Goosebumps prickle on my drafty skin like an invisible handprint. “You’re not little, and I stand up for you. You should hear my trash talk when I watch your games. I’m getting good.”

His lips twitch, but his frown remains in place. “Let me get the first aid kit. He really got you bad.”

Rhode digs through the cabinets until he pulls out a heavy-duty medical-grade kit, laying the materials out on the counter while I cling to the sweatshirt.

He doesn’t seem to notice I’m topless as he treats me with the care of a pediatrician. I really need to stop imagining him at night, and in the morning, and okay, that one time at lunch.

He brushes my hair to the side with the lightest of caresses, and goosebumps spring back to life under his soothing touch.

“Charlie,” he whispers.

I go rigid at the name etched on my shoulder. His callused fingertips scratch the mark that feels more like a scar than a tattoo.

“Who’s Charlie?” he repeats with a dark edge to his voice I’ve never heard before.

Our eyes connect in the mirror, and there’s no more thunder to cover our heavy breathing. His gaze travels down my wet hair, lingering on my collarbone, and dips to the swell of my breasts, then stops. The blue in his eyes darkens, raging like the Atlantic, but a second later, his expression calms. I tug his sweatshirt higher.

Using one hand, I grip the marble counter hard enough to break the ledge. “Charlie’s our sister. Charlotte.”

I’m surprised the admission slips from my lips so easily, but there’s a steadiness in him that I think my chaotic soul craves.

“You have another sister?”

“No. I had a sister. She died when I was five because of a heart condition, so I barely remember her. Most of my early childhood was spent in hospitals because of it,” I say in a robotic voice.

Time’s not an excuse for grief, but I never got to know Charlie since she left the world so young. It feels like I’m telling someone else’s story.

The only thing her memory haunts me with is a curse of anxiety because my child brain couldn’t process death. At least, according to Dr. Ghosh and her love of all things diagnoses. That woman would put me in every box if she could, but I don’t want my personality to fit inside the confines of someone else’s lines.

“I’m sorry,” Rhode whispers, and even though it’s two light words, I feel the weight of them.

“It’s really fine.” I shrug, giving him my real smile. “It was a long time ago. The only thing I remember is that every night, no matter how sick she was, Charlie would always come in and flutter her eyelashes against my cheek to say goodnight, but that stopped when she died.”

His thumb brushes my bare shoulder, stroking once, twice, three times. “I’m still sorry. Losing someone is hard no matter when it happens.”

I bulldoze right through the moment. “Thanks, it is, but I’m really fine. I’ve been in therapy for years, so that helps.”

“I bet.” He squeezes me gently. “Alright, but if you ever need someone else to listen, I’ve got big ears. We’ve all been through a little bit of hell.”

“True, except you’ve actually got really normal ears.”

With a short chuckle, he brushes away the hair on the curve of my neck, and I go rigid at his warm fingertips. “Can I ask about the four-leaf clover right here?”

“Oh. Yeah, that one’s easy. I felt like my life was a mess and I needed some more permanent luck. It hasn’t worked out that way.”

“Not sure about that. I feel pretty lucky that I met you,” he blurts. The words hang heavy in the air, steaming up our conversation.

He quickly shifts his focus and starts rummaging through the first aid kit. “Anyway, why do you have so many tattoos? Are they for fun, or do they all mean something?”

“Some are ridiculous, like the barcode on my ass, but some of them mean things. I like that tattoos are an outward sign of a person’s soul. I can’t change my appearance, but I feel like tattoos are a way to show people the parts of me that I want to be seen.”

A corner of his mouth lifts but falls just as quickly. “I like that.”

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“None that you’ll see,” he mutters, shifting on his feet. He abruptly changes the subject before I can ask where the hell he has a tattoo. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”

He examines my back, hissing in a breath. “Chicken got you good. How’re you not pissed at my cat right now? I love him, but I’m furious with the menace.”

“He was just scared.” Rhode brushes an alcohol swab against a scratch. He’s gentle, but it still stings. “People do stupid things when they’re scared. Animals aren’t any different. I’m not going to hold it against him. I wouldn’t want someone judging me at my worst.”

“I bet your worst is still better than ninety percent of people’s best.”

I scoff. He hasn’t seen me curled up in a ball and sweating on the floor. He’d probably sprint away like Isaac. “You barely know anything about me.”

He frowns in the mirror. “I know things about you.”

“Oh really? Like my first name?”

“I know more than that.” He rips another alcohol swab with his teeth. The sound ignites a flicker of heat in my core. Now, I’m imagining him doing that with a condom. “I know you like peppermint tea and plants. You’re an artist. You’re doing a pottery fellowship in Argentina—”

“You remembered that?”

“No. I listened,” he repeats my words from earlier, hitching up a corner of his mouth. “You have a complicated relationship with your sister, but I can tell you love her. You chew cinnamon gum. I know you stand up for people and that you have eight piercings on your right ear and four on your left. Maybe I don’t know the big things, but I’ve noticed a few little things about you.”

He snaps his mouth shut as soon as he finishes talking like he doesn’t want any more words to slip out.

I blink. He got my eight piercings right. One of those earrings is a tiny stud. “You noticed all that?”

His shrug is stiff enough to creak. “I pay attention, but I’m a goalie. It’s my job to watch and observe people. Alright, you ready? This’ll burn.”

I’m reeling from Rhode’s admission, but he’s got a good point. Watching people is ingrained in his goalie psyche.

I give my head a hard jerk, steering my thoughts back to the moment because I do not need to be fantasizing about a man who wants nothing to do with me. “Do it. I can handle pain.”

“I figured. You’re a strong one.” He dabs it on my back, and I hiss. It really burns, but at least physical torture ends faster than emotional pain.

“Sorry. I know it stings,” Rhode whispers. “What can I do to make it better?”

For some reason, I don’t think asking him to give me an orgasm would go over well, but that’d be a nice distraction at the moment.

I pinch my eyes closed to combat the warmth burning on my skin that rivals the heat in my body. “Distract me. Tell me something. Anything.”

Rhode launches into a story about the season Wyatt bet him they wouldn’t make it to the playoffs, so he had to shave his head when they did. His eyes never stray from my back, but his jaw is tight as he speaks like he’s the one in pain. There’s a tiny muscle that won’t stop twitching in his cheek.

As he rubs slow circles on the scrapes, covering every inch with antibiotic ointment, my mind drifts to some dirty places, wondering if he’d use his fingers to circle my clit in that same motion. I sigh at the pointless thought.

He wants to give someone a ring, and I want to give someone a condom.

As he meticulously patches me up, my grip on his sweatshirt goes lax, slipping down to reveal the swell of my breasts. I catch Rhode’s gaze drifting down, lingering for a split second before darting up.

As he places a Band-Aid on my wound, the sharp, sudden sensation pulls me back from the brink of my fantasies.

“There.” He coughs. “Our good luck charm’s good as new.”

I grip his sweatshirt. “I’m not your good luck charm. That was all you. You guys were amazing out there. Have you not seen all the post-game highlights?”

He tosses the antibiotic tube back into the first aid kit, crossing one leg over the other as he leans against the sink like he’s casually talking to one of his teammates. “Yeah, but they still won’t stop bringing up my retirement because it’s my contract year.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I have to decide if I’m going to renew for another season, be a free agent with another team, or retire from the League. If I want to stay, I have to play my hardest so our general manager thinks I’m worth keeping.”

I let the sweatshirt slip a fraction, only to see if his eyes drop again. They stay on my face. “That sounds like a huge decision. Have you thought about retiring?”

He rubs his jaw like he’s got the weight of his team on his shoulders, and I wish I could say something to ease the pressure, but the only thing I know about hockey is that there are three periods. Though, I’m learning. “Yeah, but I don’t know what I’d do without hockey.”

“Anything. You could do anything. You still have your whole life ahead of you.”

He sighs loudly. “It doesn’t feel that way. I feel so old compared to the younger guys, and I swear it’s the only thing the media’s been asking me, even with our wins.”

I study his reflection in the mirror, but he keeps his focus on my scratched back. “You’re not old, and age doesn’t matter. You can be ninety and have the youngest soul, and you can be eighteen and be a crotchety curmudgeon. Stop worrying so much about what you can’t control, like your age, and show them how talented you are on the ice, because you are.”

His gaze latches onto mine in the mirror. He needs to be careful with those baby blues because a woman could drown in that look and never come up for air.

I clutch the sweatshirt to my chest. “What?”

His eyes never wander from my face. “Nothing. It’s just nice to talk to someone about all this. I have to be strong for my team, but I don’t have to fake it with you.”

“You can talk to me whenever you want. I’ve got big ears, too.”

“You’ve actually got really small ears.” He leans forward with a tender smile, tugging my earlobe like I’m a kid, which has me wanting to drop this sweatshirt on the floor.

The warm whisper of his breath caresses my skin like a summer breeze, smelling of mint and smoke. The scent of him is subtle, nothing like the overpowering fragrances of other boys.

Rhode Tremblay is all man. But he’s not a man because he’s assertive or strong—no, anyone can be those things. He’s all man because he’s kind and thoughtful.

A door slams.

We jump.

“Tremblay, where you at?” a deep, familiar voice shouts. “Is Phil here yet? We brought shit for fish tacos, and Patty-Daddy brought a fuckton of blubes for Betty!”

“Stop cursing in front of my daughter. She’s about to say her first words any day.”

Loud footsteps thump down the hall, and we jerk apart, but not before two massive men fill the bathroom doorway. The blond guy with an adorable baby strapped to his chest slaps one hand over his eyes, and the other over the baby’s.

Micah Cruz does the opposite, letting his gaze rake over my body. Apparently, Micah still flirts with anyone that has a brain.

His black hair is shorter now, and he’s clearly been lifting a lot of weights. Rhode moves to stand in front of me like a bodyguard, shielding me from Micah.

“Well, hot damn, Phil. Look at you. I like the new tats. What’s going on in here, and how do I get an invite?”