Page 136 of Over the Line

I fidgeted on the couch, literally queasy with worry. There wasn’t even any point in texting him because he kept his phone on silent in his locker during games.

Come on, come on. Can we get an update? Like, maybe before the game is over?

They’d just started the third period when Liam had gotten hurt, and now they were better than halfway through it. So, there was a chance we wouldn’t get an update until the postgame media availability, and even that might not be⁠—

“Good news for Pittsburgh fans!” the commentator exclaimed. “Liam St. Clair has returned to the Pittsburgh bench.”

The camera shifted to the bench in question, and sure enough, there was Liam, sandwiched between Temo and Chris. His features were still taut, but he was there, which meant he wasn’t seriously hurt.

All the air rushed out of me as I sagged back against the couch.

He was okay. Sore, probably, but he was okay.

Thank fucking Christ, he was okay.

In fact, a moment later, he and his line were out on the ice. As he skated up to the faceoff dot in the defensive zone, his lips were so tight, they’d completely blanched. His eyes were full of pain, and he didn’t bend down quite as far as he usually did for a faceoff.

The puck dropped. Liam fought for it, same as he always did, and sent it to Temo. Chris, Temo, and the defensemen were heading north with the opposing players hot on their heels. Liam, too, but he lagged behind a bit. Not terribly so, but he definitely wasn’t playing at full speed. The more he moved, though, the better; maybe he’d just needed to loosen up a little?

His shift ended, and the camera caught him making a “thank God that’s over” face as he sat down on the bench.

He was okay, right?

He played one more shift in the final three minutes of the game, and he got an assist on Drizz’s empty net goal. When the final buzzer sounded, the Phantoms had won 3-1.

As the players filed off the ice, I grabbed my phone and sent a text.

Hey, you okay? (grimace emoji)

I fully expected his reply to take a little while. Media availability, hydrating, showering—he often didn’t check his phone for an hour or more after the game ended. That was fine, even if I couldn’t draw an easy breath while I waited. I needed to know he was okay. Not just okay enough to play hockey—he’d said himself hockey players would play through pain—but truly okay.

Finally, my phone pinged.

Liam

I’m good. He just caught me at a weird angle.

Good to hear. I was so damn glad when they showed you back out on the bench. I was worried!

Sorry to worry you. (sad emoji) I was honestly okay. Trainers just wanted to be absolutely sure I hadn’t fucked myself up.

And you didn’t? You’re sure you’re okay?

Just sore. (sad emoji)

I’m sorry. Glad you’re okay, though. Mostly.

I’ll be fine by the time I get home. Then I’ll make us both sore.

In a good way?

In the best way.

CHAPTER 33

LIAM

“You okay, Saints?” Craws eyed me across the club table as the plane leveled out. “You look…” He pursed his lips.