Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2) (10 page)

“I expected it. Got a five game suspension.” He shrugged. “I’m more worried about you right now. You don’t look so good. I mean, you always look beautiful, but you’re very pale. Maybe we should go get a drink, put some color back into your cheeks.”

She shook her head in a fast, jerky denial. “No. I can’t… I have to go. I need to get home.”

“Wait, what? I thought we were going out? Ann, damn it, what’s wrong?” He pulled her into his arms, ignoring her protest because he was too worried about her. “Jesus, you’re burning up. You’re sick.”

She scrambled out of his arms, so fast and so full of panic, his own panic spiked.

“Ann, please. Let me get a taxi. I’ll get you home.”

“No!” She shook her head again in that fast, jerky movement. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I…”

Tears filled her eyes, and Brody’s panic went into overdrive. But before he could do anything else, she turned and ran. For a split second he didn’t react, then he took off after her. If she was that sick, she needed help.

He pushed through a clump of milling tourists, grunting at their protests, but it was too late. Ann had disappeared into the crowds.

He had a sharp déjà vu moment of their first date, when she’d also run away from him. And his panic turned into full blown fear.

Ann pushed into her apartment, her hands still warm enough to heat the wood when she pressed it. She dropped her coat and purse on the floor just inside the entryway without touching anything, toed out of her boots, then went to her bathroom. She didn’t even take off her clothes, just climbed into the shower, turned on the cold water and dunked herself under the spray.

Steam rose from her skin, warming the air around her despite the cold water.

Since the blue flames that burst from her skin weren’t typical fire, they didn’t react to fire retardants the way normal flames would. But cold water helped. It wouldn’t prevent the fire entirely, but it was enough of a shock to her system to give her time to regain her control.

One of the more valuable lessons from Nathalie and Mr. Mendez.

She closed her eyes, with her head under the spray, and focused on slowing her heartbeat.

“Pi to the fifth decimal,” she murmured. “Divide by twelve.” She did that in her head. “Now add that.” She focused on the numbers, the sound of her own voice echoing in the shower stall, the abstraction of the equations. Still with her eyes closed, she talked herself through a series of large number calculations, until finally she felt steady and calm.

Another trick Nathalie had taught her—if she focused on multiplying and dividing large numbers in her head, she automatically calmed because she wasn’t thinking about her feelings or panic.

She eased out from under the water, taking a long, deep breath. The air wasn’t steamy anymore, and the cold water was giving her goose bumps. Shutting off the spray, she stripped out of her clothes, leaving them hanging in the shower to dry, and pulled on her robe. Then she went to clean up her coat and purse in the entryway.

Her cellphone was ringing from the depths of her bag. She pulled it out, saw Brody’s number, and pressed ignore, letting it go to voicemail. She couldn’t talk to him yet. Her control felt tenuous at best, and it was all she could do not to revert to shutting down her emotions entirely.

But she was trying not to actually notice those emotions at the moment. If she spoke with Brody, everything would come rushing back.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t ignore the sense of disappointment and failure that tightened her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away and stumbled to her bed, curling onto her side and hugging her knees to her chest.

This wasn’t going to work. She was still too dangerous, still such a mess. He deserved better, someone who didn’t melt metal and nearly burn a stranger. Someone who could revel in her own emotions.

Someone normal.

She ignored the knocking on her door at first, knowing it was likely Brody. What could she tell him?

It took a few minutes before she realized the voice coming from the door wasn’t a man’s. Frowning, she went to look out her peephole. Nathalie stood in the hallway, hands on hips, shouting for her to open up.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she let Nathalie in.

“Brody is having a heart attack worrying about you. He says you’re sick with a severe fever and won’t answer your phone. He’s afraid you’re passed out in a gutter somewhere. He’s searching the streets for you and sent me here to see if you made it home.”

Ann closed her eyes, guilt poking at her control but not enough to damage it. “I didn’t realize… I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes and faced her half sister. “I’m not sick. I don’t have a fever.”

Nathalie held her gaze for a long moment before nodding. “I see.” She glanced around. “I think we’d better talk. Just let me text Brody to tell him you’re here and safe.”

When Nathalie was finished, Ann led her to the long, narrow living room and motioned her to the couch opposite the exposed brick wall. “Would you like something to drink?”

Nathalie waved that away. “Sit. Talk.”

Ann told her everything, from the fight to nearly burning a man in the crowd in her panic to leave. When she was done, she felt both better and worse for having admitted everything out loud.

“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’ll never have a normal life. I waited too long to get help.”

“Stop. You’ve only been working on your control for two months and then only practicing with us a couple times a week because of your job. Just give it time.”

“Time won’t help me with Brody. He’s not going to wait around forever.”

“If he’s worthy of you, he will.”

Ann tried to smile at Nathalie’s fierce tone, but she failed. “It’s not that, it’s… It could take me years before I’m able to control myself enough to have a normal relationship. I don’t
want
him to wait that long. It’s not fair to him. He’s such a good man.” She glanced away, swallowing hard. “I really like him, Nathalie. I could…I could love him. But what’s the point when I can’t even take him to bed without worrying about burning down the building?”

“If this wasn’t such a serious conversation, that comment could be very funny.”

Ann scowled. “When other people talk about burning up the sheets, they don’t mean it literally.”

Nathalie snorted a half-laugh. “I get it. I do.” She patted Ann’s knee, then quietly, said, “It might be a little late to break up with him, though.”

“Why?”

“Men don’t charge around town in a panic over their sick girlfriend if they’re not…invested. Yours isn’t going to be the only heart broken.”

Ann tried to wave that way. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s only been a couple of months.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

“You and Alex have been together for a while now, right?”

“A bit over a year. But I knew I was in love with him a lot faster than that.”

“What are you saying?”

“There are just as many emotions involved in a breakup as there are in staying with someone. Worse when two people are in love.”

“We’re not yet.” But the declaration sounded hollow even to Ann.

“Deny all you like. That’s your choice. Break up with him if you feel you have to. But just know it won’t make things any easier. Not for either of you.”

“What else can I do?”

“As I see it, you have two choices. One, give him up and move on, putting off relationships until you’re confident of your control. Which, by the way, you might never be if you don’t test it.”

Ann hated the idea of giving up Brody. She didn’t want to. But it felt like the only option. “What’s my other choice?”

“You work harder at your control and take a chance with Brody. We can use the excuse of you supposedly being sick to disappear for two weeks. You can come stay with my dad and train full time. My grandma is back from her trip to Spain, so she can help, too. I’ll come out when I can around my work schedule. We’ll push you, hard, test you and train you. Like boot camp.”

Ann stared at Nathalie as she considered the offer. “Will that work? Can I cram learning better control like that? This isn’t a college exam.”

“You’re highly motivated. Anything is possible. But, if at the end of the two weeks, you still don’t feel you can maintain enough mastery over the pyrokenesis to have a relationship, you’ll have to have the hard talk with Brody.”

Ann swallowed and stared at the rug covering her hardwood floor. It was a chance. Slim but real. If she didn’t take it, she’d definitely lose Brody, and she’d always wonder if she’d sacrificed what could have been the best thing in her life because she was afraid to try.

She’d never even hoped for what she had with Brody before coming to New York. Now, could she really let the chance at happiness go without a fight?

He would fight.

So would she.

She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go pack a bag now. You’re sure your father won’t mind a house guest?”

“He’ll be delighted. I’ll call him while you’re packing.” As Ann headed back down the narrow hall to the bedroom, Nathalie shouted after her, “You’d better text Brody, too. He won’t give you the space you need to train otherwise.”

Ann took her time composing the text, wanting to ensure Brody would give her space but not worry too much. She hit send then pulled out a small suitcase. And as she packed, she allowed hope to settle into her heart.

She could do this. For him. For herself. She would do this.

Brody hated that he couldn’t go see Ann, hated that she still wasn’t taking his calls, though she did send him a few texts. He hated more that he didn’t fully understand what was happening.

He flopped onto his huge couch and flicked restlessly through TV channels, gave up, dropped the remote on the coffee table, and resumed pacing his apartment—the same thing he’d been doing for two fucking weeks when he wasn’t at the gym or out for a long run. He’d started and stopped at least twelve different books, unable to focus on his favorite, non-hockey pastime. He’d probably run the equivalent of five marathons. And he’d trained harder than he’d ever trained in his life. It hadn’t done a thing to ease his frustration. Even grueling workouts at his boxing gym hadn’t helped.

Both Ann and Nathalie assured him Ann just had a bad flu—contagious according to a doctor, Nathalie said. Too contagious for him to see Ann. But after two weeks, he was beyond worried. If she was still sick and contagious after this long, could it be
just
a flu? What if she was sick with something worse and they weren’t tell him?

What if she wasn’t sick at all?

He didn’t even have his job to keep him distracted, damn it. He hadn’t minded getting suspended so much because he’d assumed he’d be spending the extra time with Ann. Instead, when he wasn’t working out like a madman, training to stay in shape but without the actual games to shed his restlessness, he paced his apartment, fretting like an old woman, irritable because he felt so damned helpless.

At least he was starting back to work tomorrow. He’d gotten the call just that morning that he was confirmed for the Empires’ next game.

There’d been a media thing going on since St. Laurent’s concussion and Brody’s suspension, led by a reporter out of Montreal. A huge blowup, questioning why the player Brody had beat up hadn’t gotten a suspension but Brody had. There’d been a lot of debate in the sports media, and all of it could have caused the Empires problems if not handled right.

He’d been ordered not to respond to the controversy, so he had politely refused to answer any questions reporters threw out him. He didn’t actually have much to say about it anyway. He’d been too concerned about Ann to do more than notice the debate peripherally. At the moment, how the NHL handled penalties and suspensions was the least of his worries.

He paced into his kitchen, contemplated his empty fridge, and considered ordering takeout even though his appetite wasn’t great. He needed to eat if he was getting back on the ice. Ignoring the phone and pile of takeaway menus next to it, he wandered back out to his living room.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that Ann’s illness wasn’t just an ordinary flu. He wasn’t even sure why that kept nagging at him. Probably because he had too much time to think.

She’d just gotten sick so fast, right after seeing his fight… And he couldn’t ignore the sense that his fight had something to do with what was wrong with her. Which, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, made him think of that first week when he couldn’t see her. All of his worries got tangled together until he was sure his fight, this illness, that first week were all related. Unfortunately, without any actual information, worst case scenarios haunted him.

She’d had a violent ex-boyfriend, or her parents had been abusive, or she’d lived through some other violent encounter, and his fight had triggered a serious episode of PTSD.

She really was sick, maybe even dying, and she didn’t want him to know.

She was married and her husband had caught her at the game.

Though, if the problem involved Ann being married, he was sure Nathalie would have told him by now, if only to get him to stop pestering her about Ann’s health. Maybe. Nathalie was as notoriously private as Semenov and it was impossible to get anything out of either one of them if they didn’t want to talk. But still, he doubted Nathalie would leave him like this if Ann really was married. She’d at least give him a warning hint.

So it probably wasn’t a lurking husband. But some sort of violence in Ann’s past seemed more and more likely. And he felt shittier and shittier for encouraging her to go to that game.

She should have just told him she wasn’t ready yet, damn it.

He flopped onto his couch again, scowling at the silent TV. He’d already gone for a run that morning, but maybe another would help wear him out. They had the Winter Classic in two weeks. There probably wasn’t such a thing as over training for that.

Christmas was coming, too. He’d hoped to spend that holiday with Ann. He’d already bought her a present.