Page 105 of Traded

Grinning, I pull up an empty screen and type another message out.

You feeling better, baby?

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I brave the entrance to the station, ducking so I can fit through the door. A shrunken beta that looks terrifyingly closer to dead than alive doesn’t move from behind the counter. I shift past him, wondering if I should check his pulse.

A long, hacking, wet cough answers for me. “Need help?”

“Uh.” I grab a lukewarm bottle of water from a broken fridge and turn to risk the snacks. “All good, thanks.”

There’s not much here. My hand hovers over a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and I snag it.

The dead guy rings them up, eyeing me suspiciously with watery pale blue giant orbs. “I know you?”

“Don’t think so, sir.” I shift in place, glancing out the window for any sign of my ride. “Just passin’ through.”

Still nothing from Rosie. I emerge to a light dusting of rain, taking shelter under the overhang and stalking the latest updates on her day via the hit to our bank account like they’re the latest NPHL stats.

I’m overreacting. Liam’s right, and she is fine.

But she still doesn’t reply.

***

The elevator doors slide open, and I step out. It’s late—later than I intended, thanks to a pile-up on the freeway we had to divert around.

Our hall is full of bags. Most of them are dark green, the logo for the best nesting supply store in Blackwater gleaming back at me in silver foiled script. “Rosie?”

I can’t hear anything. Not the sound of the television, or any sign of her moving around the apartment. Maybe she’s in bed already. My plan is starting to feel more foolish by the second.

I head down the hall, pausing when I hear a shuffle. “Ro? It’s me.”

“Carter?” Her head pops out from around the wall. A rolling pin is raised in her hand. “Jesus wept. I thought you were a burglar!”

It takes two codes and a key card before our private elevator will even move. The emergency stairs are key-coded too. I find myself smiling. “Put the rolling pin down.”

Her hair is damp and braided back from her head. I take in her outfit as she steps out into full view, her face flushing a deep crimson as her mouth drops open. “I—what are youdoinghere? Why aren’t you in Montreal?”

Dropping the bag, I slide my hands into my pockets and try to act casually. “Well. The game’s not until tomorrow. Tonight’s a free night for everyone. I want to spend mine here.”

I study her face. “With you.”

Her color deepens. “You came back?”

“Yeah.” My fingers close around the bag I picked up at the service station, and I tug it free, holding the Sour Patch Kids up to show her. “Thought you might want to share these with me.”

She’s wearing my jersey. My old one. My first one, the one I was given when I was drafted to the Titans. I can’t remember the last time I saw it. “C’mere, Ro.”

Her face crumples, but my arms are already open. The sweets fall to the floor as she takes off, flying through the air between us and jumping for me. Rosie’s tears soak my neck as she buries her face, and I cup the back of her head. Her quiet sobs fucking shred me, and my head turns to find the side of her head with my lips. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

I say it over and over again as she buries herself in me. Her lips find my skin, my neck, the stubble that’ll grow out if we make it through the regular season. When she presses her lips to mine, I’m right there with her in messy, shaking movements.

My shoulder twinges in warning, but I ignore it. If I can’t carry my own omega, there’s no fucking use for me at all. Walking us down the hall, I head toward her nest, but she shakes her head. “Your room.”

Wherever I can be close to her. Kicking open my door, I make for the bed and settle her down into a familiar bottle green comforter. “You were sleeping in here?”

When she nods, my heart cracks a little more. Rosie reaches for me, her hands fumbling with the buttons on my shirt as my hands run up her stomach, seeking the soft skin beneath my jersey. “Wear this more. Looks far better on you than it ever did on me.”

Our lips collide again. Rosie uses her hands around my neck to lift herself into me, my name a plea. “Carter.”