Page 90 of Game Misconduct

thirty-four

. . .

Nick

Sweaty and breathless, I collapse onto the sheets. My heart races as I wait for my equilibrium to reset.

Beside me, Bex releases a loud, guttural sigh. Her hand roves over the sheets until it finds mine, and I lace our fingers together before bringing her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles.

“You good?” I rasp.

“I think you killed me.” She laughs, exhaustion lining her voice.

But I don’t laugh.

Instead, I freeze as my blood floods with ice-cold terror.

“Don’t.” I barely squeak the word out, my voice choked. “Don’t joke.”

My gorgeous redhead turns to me, propping herself up on one elbow. “You think you’re a danger to me?”

Horrified, I spit out, “I’m not going to kill you.”

“I know you’d never hurt me. You’re not like that.”

Sure, I’ve broken her brother’s nose. I’ve been in my fair share of fights. But that’s hockey. That’s not real life.

But that’s not what she’s talking about, either.

I cut her off with a quick jerk of my head. “My father is the reason my mother is dead.”

She freezes. “What?”

“He may not have held a gun to her head, and he may not have performed the surgery, but it’s because of him—because of what he did—that she is dead.”

On my forearm is a list of Roman numerals. Bex likes to run her fingers over the inked lines. She did that day in Ohio, and now, as if our minds are telepathically connected, she traces a finger over the tattoo.

“This is for her.”

“Her birthday and her death day,” I confirm. My throat spasms around emptiness. “He didn’t qualify for a liver transplant because he hadn’t been sober long enough, and he pressured her to donate. She wouldn’t let me. I wish it were me.”

Bex’s eyes fill with sorrow. “Nick…”

“I don’t wish I were dead. If anything, I wish it were him, so she would still be here.” I clear my throat. “But instead, she caught an infection, and by the time she went to the hospital, she was already septic. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

My voice catches. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Moisture fills my eyes, and I duck my head. I don’t want her to see me like this. As discreetly as I can manage when we’re naked in bed, I try to rub at my eyes, try to clear the telltale signs.

Before I know what’s happening, Bex wraps me in her arms, pulling me into her. Her breasts press against my bare chest, but I can’t even let myself enjoy her nakedness. Not when I feel like my soul has been splayed open for her to see. Not when she knows my ugly truth.

“She forgives you,” Bex murmurs, her small hand roving over my back. “You have to let go of this pain you’ve been carrying for the last fifteen years. You have to let yourself heal.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

She pulls back, laying her hand on my cheek. “Do you remember the other day, when you told me to trust you, and I was standing in my own way?”

Unsure of where she’s going with this, I dip my chin in a wary nod.