“Maybe just the mess downstairs. I’ve got Lance from here, right now.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, his gaze flicking between Lance and me, maybe assessing whether he’s going to lose it again. I’ve yet to bear witness to his outbursts, but I’ve seen enough of his fights on the ice to know what his rage looks like.
“I can manage this,” I assure him.
He leaves Lance and me alone. I turn on the water and move the shaving stuff aside. “We should wash your hands.”
Lance steps up behind me, pressing his chest against my back. He wraps his arms around me and drops his face into my hair. I freeze for a few prolonged seconds, staring at our reflections in the mirror. He’s massive compared to me with a good foot and a hundred pounds of sculpted muscle filling out his frame. For the first time, I wonder if I should be afraid of him, and the thought makes me sad.
I lift my hands, covering his thick forearms as he tightens his hold on me, burying is face deeper into my hair. He’s muttering something, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
“Lance?”
He makes a sound into my neck. And then I feel the press of his lips. All the right, corresponding parts respond accordingly. My nipples tighten, my stomach clenches, and warmth floods low and heavy between my legs.
Nothing is going to happen between us tonight. He’s drunk and uncoordinated, not to mention emotionally on the edge. But I let him hold me for a little while longer before I coax him to loosen his grip and move his bloody hands under the warm spray. I pump out some soap and run my palm gently over his knuckles.
Lance keeps his face buried in my hair. His lips are still against my neck and now I can feel his hard-on against my lower back. I ignore it and keep working, switching hands to get rid of the dry, crusted blood so I can properly assess the damage.
When I’m done, I pat them dry with the hand towel. He starts to wrap them around me again, but I put my arms up to bar the action.
Lance lifts his head, finally, and gives me a bleary, questioning look. There’s anger under the surface, but sadness and rejection dominate.
“Let me take care of your hands.”
He drops them and steps back enough that I can turn around, but not without brushing against him. When I do, his hard-on rubs against my stomach through his pants. He looks anything but apologetic as he stares down at me. There’s a wall up right now, guarding emotions he fights to contain. I see that now. I see a lot of things I didn’t want to until now.
His fingers brush mine and then his palms travel up my arms, a barely there whisper of touch. Up, up, up he goes, sweeping my hair back over my shoulders. His fingertips skim the sides of my neck, and then he frames my face with his hands—not touching, just hovering. They’re shaking. I can feel the vibration against my skin every time they make accidental contact.
“You’re so perfect,” he mutters. “I’m not good enough.”
“Of course, you are,” I whisper.
He gives his head a slow shake. “I’m really not.” With a heavy sigh he moves over to the toilet and drops down on the seat. Resting his elbow on his knee, he props the other arm up on the counter, giving me access to his raw knuckles.
“Where’s your first aid kit?” I ask.
He points to a set of cupboard doors. I open it and find neatly stacked towels, a shelf of hair supplies, and other random bathroom items.
“It’s on the top shelf. You need me to get it for you?”
“I’ve got it.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and snag the handle, pulling down the kit. I set it beside him on the counter and flip it open. I find the antiseptic wipes and tear one open. Taking his hand in mine, I dab at his knuckles.
“You don’t need to be gentle. I can handle the pain.”
I glance up to find him watching me. “I’m sure you can, but it doesn’t mean you have to endure it.”
He huffs a little and smiles. “I’m good at it.”
“A little too good if you ask me.” I wipe across his knuckles again and blow across them.
“What’re you doing?”
“Taking out the sting.” When all I get is a confused look, I continue with an explanation. “Didn’t your mom ever do that when you were a kid and you hurt yourself?”
“I dealt with that stuff on my own, or my nanny did.”
“Even when you were really little?”
“From what I remember, yeah.” He shrugs. “My mom wasn’t big on that part.”
He’d mentioned before how he and his mom weren’t close, and that he pretty much only saw her once a year, during the holidays.
I refocus on the cuts on his knuckles. Scars litter the back of his hands, ones that look old, and others that haven’t turned white quite yet. He’s been in a lot of fights on the ice, and based on the state of his living room, that aggression isn’t isolated.
“How often does this happen?”
“The parties? I haven’t had as many lately since all my close friends have girlfriends and wives and the bunnies can be a real problem.”
My stomach clenches. I have no idea what he wants out of this, which probably makes me stupid.
“I mean this.” I tap the back of his hand. “But I can see how that would create some conflict.”
“Tash wasn’t invited tonight. She just showed up.”
“It’s really not my business.”
“Sure it is. I invited you, not her. She’s always trying to screw with me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what she does.”
“This is the woman who used to be your team trainer? The one who got fired?” Lance’s arm twitches and his knee bobs. He’s drunk and edgy. “You don’t have to talk about it.” This probably isn’t a good time to have this conversation, anyway.
“I tried to make it something it wasn’t with her and things got complicated. Now she won’t stop making things difficult.”
“Difficult how?”
“She always calls when she’s in town, even though I’ve told her not to. Shows up when she’s not invited, tries to get under my skin and succeeds, obviously.” He wiggles his fingers.
“That’s quite an impact she has.” I move to the other hand, sinking to the floor so it’s easier for both of us. I kneel before him on the plush mat covering the hard tile and rest a palm on his thigh to steady myself. “Sorry.” I rush to move it away, unsure what level of contact is going to be acceptable for him right now, in this state.
Lance covers my hand with his. “It’s you, so it’s okay.” He drags his damp fingers along the backs of mine and he slips his thumb under my palm. Then he lifts my hand and brings it to his cheek, holding his palm against mine to keep it there. I still don’t understand what makes me different from everyone else, but I know it’s not good that I like this dependency he seems to have on me. Or that I want it to continue.
He drags my fingers over his lips. “Why’d you come back?”
“Because I didn’t feel good about how things happened. I don’t think people give you much of a chance, or maybe you expect that people won’t, but I didn’t want to be that person for you, or another person like that in your life.”