Kiss And Make Up: My Ex Is The Hockey Captain

Arabella's POV

"Divorced?" The words escaped my lips before I could stop them.

He looked at me.

For a second, neither of us said a thing.

Then the athletic trainer placed himself between us. "Easy. Don't move your neck."

I blinked, coming back to myself.

The rink.

The championship.

The first game for me.

And then him.

I forced myself to tear my eyes away from his face and focus on the assignment in front of me. "What's the level of his pain?" I asked.

"Around six," the athletic trainer responded.

"Numbness?"

He shook his head.

"Dizziness?"

"No."

"Vision problems?"

"No."

I nodded and grabbed the medical kit.

My hands were steady. At least they looked like that. Inside, however, I was falling to pieces.

four years.

four years of convincing myself that the boy I once loved was nothing more than a painful memory. And now I was kneeling next to him, applying pressure to the gash above his eyebrow.

His blood smeared across the white cloth.

"Hold still," I mumbled.

His eyes didn't move away from my face.

I tried to make them stop and failed miserably.

As soon as my fingers brushed his skin, memories rushed into my head. His hand clutching mine beneath the old oak tree, his thumb drawing circles on my knuckles, pressing his forehead to mine and whispering that I was the only person he needed. His warmth surrounded me when he'd hugged me close.

The idiotic smile he'd give every single time I'd complain about being cold because he knew I was stealing his jacket.

I pressed the gauze tighter.

He winced.

"I'm sorry."

The corner of his mouth curved upward. "You're not."

I shot him a glare.

Of course, he knew me so well.

His eyes were fixed on mine. There was something in them.

Something I recognized.

Something that made my chest hurt.

I tore my gaze away from him.

Don't.

I couldn't afford it.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with him.

"Look forward," I mumbled.

"I am."

I frowned, he was staring at me. I knew what he meant.

My heart skipped.

I hated that it could still do that because of him.

"Look at the athletic trainer," I mumbled.

"I prefer looking at you."

I froze.

Half a second of silence stretched around us.

Then I reminded myself who I was.

I pulled my hand away from his forehead. "Your concussion seems to be more serious than we thought," I said.

He smiled.

That smile.

God.

I hated that smile.

I hated that some tiny part of me still recognized it before my brain could remind me why I shouldn't.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You just got thrown into the boards."

"And survived."

"Unfortunately."

His smile disappeared.

I instantly regretted the words, although they were true but his eyes changed. The playfulness was gone, replaced by something quieter.

Some sort of pain.

Or perhaps I was imagining things.

I turned back to the cut.

"We'll need band aids to cover it up. It should be fine with just that and some other clean-ups," the athletic trainer said after a closer examination. "We'll take him to the sports medicine clinic."

As soon as the words left his lips, his gaze grew sharper. "You're coming?"

I almost laughed. "It's my assignment."

"Right." His voice was low.

I hated that voice, I hated it because it still sounded familiar. The voice he used to say my name softly.

The voice he used to say he loved me.

The last time we'd spoken.

I swallowed.

"We need to get you off the ice."

He allowed the athletic trainer to help him get up. When he finally stood, he wobbled slightly. I instinctively reached for his arm.

The second my fingers touched him, I felt that.

This ridiculous familiarity. Like my body remembered him as if I'd not spent years teaching it not to.

I let him go immediately.

He looked at my hand.

Then at me.

He lingered on my eyes.

Too long.

Long enough for something to shift inside me. I broke the eye contact first.

Of course I did.

Because I was a coward.

Or maybe because I was smart.

I wasn't sure anymore.

We finally got to the medical area, and the athletic trainer took control there. She asked me to apply some cream on the wound.

I held the small tube and pressed out the cream from it to my index finger. My gaze met his as I applied it to his cut.

He kept looking at me while my gaze travelled from the cut to his eyes continuously.

I was only trying to ignore his eyes.

After I was done with that, I stayed because that was what I was supposed to do.

I prepared equipment.

Prepared supplies.

Collected his basic information.

Anything that kept my hands busy and eyes away from him. Yet I still felt him watching me. Every few minutes, I glanced at him.

And there he was.

Looking at me.

As if he were trying to remember me.

As if he were trying to find the girl he'd left behind.

I hated him for that.

Mostly because some part of me wanted him to remember.

The game resumed.

The athletic trainer released him to go back on the ice after the referee confirmed that he could join the game, and he returned to the bench and got back on the ice.

I watched from the medical area.

I shouldn't have, but I did. He played as if nothing had happened.

Quickly.

Focused.

Relentlessly.

The crowd chanted his name each time he touched the puck. I tried to remind myself that I was watching him because I was a part of the medical team.

Nothing else.

It wasn't because of him.

Absolutely not.

When the game finally ended, the whole arena burst into cheers.

They had won.

His teammates swarmed him.

He lifted his stick above his head.

Everyone was celebrating.

I clapped with everyone else on the medical team, but my smile felt wrong. I wasn't celebrating him.

I reminded myself.

I was celebrating the success of my first assignment.

That was all.

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

There were post-game assessments, equipment checks, report preparations, and enough chaos to make me forget for a while that my past had just crashed into my present.

By the time everything was over, my feet hurt.

My shoulders hurt.

My brain hurt.

My heart?

I wasn't going to dwell on that.

I took off the volunteer vest and collected my things.

The athletic trainer glanced at me. "You did great today."

I smiled. "Thank you."

"Especially since this was your first game."

"I'm glad I didn't embarrass myself."

"You didn't." She patted my shoulder.

"Go home and get some sleep. We'll see you next week."

I nodded and left.

The university's sports medicine clinic was located on the ground floor of the athletics building. During games, it was the main treatment area for players, but on regular days, it provided treatment for injuries, rehabilitation, and physical therapy.

I pushed through the glass doors and cool air hit me in the face.

I took a deep breath.

Finally.

It was over.

I could go home.

I could shower.

I could go to sleep.

I could pretend that today had never happened.

I took three steps along the walkway.

Then stopped.

Every muscle in my body froze.

Maxwell was standing under the lights near the entrance to the clinic, still in his team jacket. His hockey bag was lying next to him. His hair was wet, likely due to taking a shower and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.

And he was waiting.

For me.

I looked behind me, perhaps he was waiting for somebody else.

No one was there.

I looked back at him.

Maxwell's eyes found mine immediately and he took a step closer. "Arabella."

My stomach clenched.

I tightened my grip on my bag. "What are you doing here?"

He stopped a couple of feet away. For a second, he said nothing. Then his eyes wandered over my face.

There was no resentment there.

No bitterness.

Just a question.

A question he was waiting to ask for four years.

"I think we need to talk."

I stared at him.

Four years ago, I would've given anything to hear that.

Tonight, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to hear it.