“Oh, yeah. So, just me being silly. I was in the showers, and I thought I’d rinse off some of the dirt in my hair. You know, by leaning forward?” Her laugh is suspicious and my gut tells me she’s making up some bullshit right now. I say so with my face, my head cocked to one side while my eyes grill her for the truth.
“What? Oh, just me not thinking clearly. I’m fine, maybe cold, but . . .” I swear there’s a slight quiver in her lips, but she stretches them into a smile before I can call her on it.
“And you’re in here because?”
Her eyes flare briefly with her quick swallow. She’s thinking of an excuse. This doesn’t add up.
“Clothes. I thought maybe I left some in one of the cubbies, or maybe there were some shirts in storage.” She wraps her arms around her body and bounces on her feet, letting her mouth shiver with the chill. She isn’t making up being cold.
I glance around the space, then move to the corner where boxes from past seasons have been stacked for what looks like years. There’s a layer of dust on them that is scoopable. I slide one box to the ground and it sends a cloud of shit into the air. I wave it away from my face, coughing.
“There might be some in here,” I say, flipping open the cardboard flaps to reveal yellowed long-sleeve shirts. She’s probably screwed in the pants department.
I toss her one from the middle of the stash and she peels her clothes away without warning, saying thanks as if this isn’t a big deal.
“What? You’ve seen all this,” she says, laughing through the words. Her hands shake as they work to pull her wet shirts away, and I swear there is more to it than just her being cold.
“Oh, I remember.” I smile as I move closer to help her pull the rest of the sodden mess over her head. The wet fabric keeps rolling. I play along with her, flirting. But now that I’m close I study her bare arms, her neck, the small of her back, looking for signs that something else happened here. Her skin is blotchy in places, red spots on her arms that could either be bruises forming or a reaction to the cold and the wet fabric.
I ready the dry shirt for her to slip her arms inside while she pulls her sports bra down her arms. My damn male instincts can’t help but look at her breasts, nipples puckered into tight tips that make my mouth water. She reaches her hands into the bottom of the shirt I hold up, the length gathered in my hands, and I help her work it up her arms and over her head.
“Maybe . . . two of these,” she says through chattering teeth.
I breathe out a short laugh, her hard nipples practically cutting through the cotton shirt. I nod, knowing in my gut that now is not the time to respond to this physical craving I can’t help but feel. She’s comfortable with me, but she’s not okay. Something else is going on.
I grab another shirt from the box and help her layer it over the first, then flip through the rest of the boxes in the pile, coming up with old scorebooks and helmets but nothing that will warm her.
“Alright, well.” I shrug, tugging my sweatpants down so I’m in my boxer briefs and a black hoodie. I toss my sweatpants at Hollis and she catches them in one hand while holding the other against her mouth in a fist, poorly hiding laughter.
“What?” I hold my arms out, knowing how funny I probably look. Also knowing that my reaction to her naked body is very apparent. When her eyes lower to my erection, I shrug, and her cheeks redden.
“I was fine wearing these home,” she says, her teeth still chattering from the cold.
“Liar,” I say, kneeling in front of her to help her roll the long socks down her calves while she slides her pants down. She leaves her sliding shorts on, for modesty I’m sure, and even though they’re soaking wet, I don’t press the issue.
I take over pulling the wet pants down over her knees, her pale skin beading up from the instant chill, and that’s when the bright red scratches along the inside of her thigh come into view. I freeze my position and stare at her skin, my mind racing through dozens of awful scenarios. The one conclusion that I know is certain—she struggled.
Hollis stops breathing and her body goes incredibly still. I lift my hand and brush my knuckles along the line of abrasions that run from the curve of her knee up to the middle of her inner thigh. I lift my gaze but she’s stoic, clutching my sweats to her chest while she looks straight ahead. So much work is going into her expression to hold it at peace. She’s doing her best to give nothing away, but it’s her breath—or lack of—that speaks volumes. Leaning into her, I kiss the bruise forming along her knee and shut my eyes when her hand pushes my hoodie back and sinks into my hair.
“Tell me what happened.” My request is soft, and I get the answer I expect.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
I kiss the deepest red line again and blow to cool it, the goose bumps far from this part of her. With a hard swallow, I finish helping her pull her legs and feet away from the wet pants, then let her balance herself on my shoulder while she steps into my sweats. When I stand, we’re inches apart and her mask is not prepared. It’s only a glimpse, but her eyes are glassy. It’s a different kind of emotion she’s feeling; there’s a simmering to it. Those aren’t tears from fear or crying. No. That’s from anger.
“Hollis.”
“I said I’m fine. It’s nothing,” she snaps.
Foolishly standing in our
