Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(25)

"Orting, Mase! Knock that shit off!" Coach screamed at us, the veins in his neck popping out again. "What the f*ck is wrong with those two?" he asked, mostly to himself. Our trainer was laughing beside him.

Leo and I skated away from him, laughing as well. Sure enough, when we got back to Chicago, Terry was gone.

After that road trip, I was feeling it. Not only was I missing Ami, but f*ck if I wasn't tired. I'd been beaten to shit these last few games, and that night against the Sharks did a number on me.

We got home early Sunday morning, and I crashed as soon as my head hit my pillow. I didn't wake up until noon Monday morning.

First thing I did, well, besides eat? I headed to the hospital to see Ami.

When I walked in, she did a double take, and I realized what I must have looked like. I looked like hell. My face was still swollen after Matzy and I had gone at it a week ago, and now there were ten stitches right above my eye from Thursday's game against the Sharks.

Wearing a hat didn't shield it as much as I hoped it would. Ami noticed right away.

"Whoa, big guy, what happened to your face?" Ami asked, fighting the medications the nurse had just given her. I could tell my visit would be short tonight, but she did seem to perk up when she noticed I had food with me.

My hand instinctively moved to touch the purplish bruise I was sure was forming. "Oh, I got in a fight."

"Wow, how's the other guy doing?"

I laughed, taking out the Shi Zhi Chicken I got on the way over here. Ami eyed the box and gave a half smile. "You want some of this, don't you?" I teased, holding the fork out.

Ami leaned forward, scanned the door, and then took the bite.

I never wanted to be a fork more in my life than I did right then.

"Good, eh?" I gave a nod.

Her cheeks turned the cute pink color I loved so much. She smiled, chewing slowly. "You have no idea. This food in here is shit."

She lay back against the bed; her hands folded over her lap. I watched her and then handed her the rest of the take out box. "Here, enjoy."

"What are you going to eat?"

"I got more." I held up the Szechwan Chicken I was sure had too much kick for her, and we ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Really, though, what happened to your face?" She seemed concerned and that was cool to me. She cared. "Did you really get into a fight?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, how's the other guy?"

"He's fine, but I got in a few licks, too." I smirked, remembering the look of O'Hara having to go to the locker room to be stitched up. "How are you feeling tonight?"

"Better now…" She tipped the empty box my way. Impressive. She looked tired, even more than me. "I've been better, and I look better than you."

I didn't know what Ami looked like before the accident, but color was finally taking over the pasty complexion she usually had.

"What do you do that you got in a fight?"

"Work."

"What do you do? Hey, why were you gone so long? I was beginning to think I'd have to friend Smelly Doctor."

I was surprised as hell that no one had told her what I did. I thought for sure that douche of a doctor would have when I secretly paid off Ami's medical bills last week and he asked how I had that kind of money. "I'm a hockey player. I was on a six game road trip these last two weeks."

"Like in the NHL?" I nodded and she smiled. "That's really cool. Who do you play for?"

"Chicago Blackhawks."

"What number are you?"

That one I hesitated with. I was the same number as her brother would have been, and I didn't want to bring her down. Not tonight. She waited, though, so I finally caved. "Number five."

"I had a feeling you were." Eyes downcast, a soft smile slowly disappeared into what I knew was coming—sadness. I distracted her with just talking.

We continued to talk, enjoying the food I brought, our conversations ranging from music we both liked, to movies, to restaurants in Chicago. She had only been here three weeks before the attack but had fallen in love with a few restaurants, most of which were my favorites, too. I made mental notes of a few, wanting to sneak in take-out for her again.

I learned what drew her into ballet. She claimed she never grew out of the princess phase as a child and loved to dance. She told me a story about her wearing a princess crown for three months straight until her mom bought her ballet slippers for her fifth birthday. That was when she learned to dance. All through school, and up until her family died, she danced ballet. That led her to Ballet Chicago. "It's not like I want to do it as a profession," she paused, looking over at me. "I just love to dance. It's therapeutic almost. I would actually never consider doing it for a career. It's what relaxes me. Like yoga."

I could definitely understand that. Every hockey player I know had something other than hockey that relaxed them. Leo, he loved to ride his street bike. Unfortunately for him, he had limitations because of his contract with the Blackhawks. Our contract prohibited us from doing anything dangerous. That included riding street bikes.

Remy, he liked to fight— in a game, in a bar—that was just him.

I understood needing something therapeutic. Me? I worked out.

As with any relationship with the opposite sex, whether you're friends or lovers, the conversation eventually ended up intimate. "Do you have a girlfriend? I can't imagine she'd be too happy with you coming here every day."