Delayed Penalty Part 8

"Wow, how's the other guy?"

"He's fine, but I got in a few licks, too." I smirked, remembering the look of O'Hara having to go to the locker room to be st.i.tched up. "How are you feeling tonight?"

"Better now..." She tipped the empty box my way. Impressive. She looked tired, even more than me. "I've been better, and I look better than you."

I didn't know what Ami looked like before the accident, but color was finally taking over the pasty complexion she usually had.

"What do you do that you got in a fight?"

"Work."

"What do you do? Hey, why were you gone so long? I was beginning to think I'd have to friend Smelly Doctor."

I was surprised as h.e.l.l that no one had told her what I did. I thought for sure that douche of a doctor would have when I secretly paid off Ami's medical bills last week and he asked how I had that kind of money. "I'm a hockey player. I was on a six game road trip these last two weeks."

"Like in the NHL?" I nodded and she smiled. "That's really cool. Who do you play for?"

"Chicago Blackhawks."

"What number are you?"

That one I hesitated with. I was the same number as her brother would have been, and I didn't want to bring her down. Not tonight. She waited, though, so I finally caved. "Number five."

"I had a feeling you were." Eyes downcast, a soft smile slowly disappeared into what I knew was coming-sadness. I distracted her with just talking.

We continued to talk, enjoying the food I brought, our conversations ranging from music we both liked, to movies, to restaurants in Chicago. She had only been here three weeks before the attack but had fallen in love with a few restaurants, most of which were my favorites, too. I made mental notes of a few, wanting to sneak in take-out for her again.

I learned what drew her into ballet. She claimed she never grew out of the princess phase as a child and loved to dance. She told me a story about her wearing a princess crown for three months straight until her mom bought her ballet slippers for her fifth birthday. That was when she learned to dance. All through school, and up until her family died, she danced ballet. That led her to Ballet Chicago. "It's not like I want to do it as a profession," she paused, looking over at me. "I just love to dance. It's therapeutic almost. I would actually never consider doing it for a career. It's what relaxes me. Like yoga."

I could definitely understand that. Every hockey player I know had something other than hockey that relaxed them. Leo, he loved to ride his street bike. Unfortunately for him, he had limitations because of his contract with the Blackhawks. Our contract prohibited us from doing anything dangerous. That included riding street bikes.

Remy, he liked to fight- in a game, in a bar-that was just him.

I understood needing something therapeutic. Me? I worked out.

As with any relations.h.i.+p with the opposite s.e.x, whether you're friends or lovers, the conversation eventually ended up intimate. "Do you have a girlfriend? I can't imagine she'd be too happy with you coming here every day."

"No." I laughed. "No girlfriend."

"So what about you? Any boyfriends that I need to worry about coming in here?" I asked, suddenly very intent on the television. I didn't know why I asked that f.u.c.king question. Stupidity again. She had already told me about her deal in Oregon with her last boyfriend, but I still asked.

"No, you're safe," she said dryly.

"Really?"

"I only just moved here and before that I was in a long relations.h.i.+p. He left after my family...well, you know. He was a p.u.s.s.y. When I got here, I immediately started working at Ballet Chicago and then met Blake Keldrick, one of the dance instructors who allowed me to take cla.s.ses while I worked. I didn't do much but clean-up after and train the younger girls. Blake was helping me get back on my feet. He wasn't my boyfriend or anything, but I lived with him and his wife, Sena."

You could see the confusion in her eyes trying to remember anything about that night, but she couldn't; the memories just weren't there. When I saw the tears, I tried to think of anything I could to change the subject, mentally smacking myself for the slip-up. She didn't need this s.h.i.+t right now.

"Listen," I said quietly, leaning forward to touch her hand that was near the edge of the bed. Her fingers curled around mine. "I'm sorry I brought that up. Let's talk about something else."

She seemed to brush the thoughts and tears away quickly, a glimmer of a smile was there. "Tell me about hockey."

I leaned back in the chair before I spoke, wanting to give her a feel for the sport. Choosing my words carefully, I explained why I loved it through the sights, smells, actions, and more importantly, the heart that went into the sport. Through all my memories and stories about my life, she listened intently, smiling.

When I left that night, I waited until she had fallen asleep. Detective Paulsen was there in the lobby on another case, and I stopped to talk to him.

"Listen, she said something about a guy named Blake...have you questioned him?"

"Blake Keldrick?"

"Yeah I guess so."

"Yes, he's the dance instructor at Ballet Chicago. He's was the last person she was spotted with. He was brought into custody and questioned but released. His DNA wasn't a match, and his story for the evening matched the witness reports."

"So who was he?"

"Evan, this is really none of your business," Paulsen said, appearing annoyed. "I'm not sure the attachment you have to this girl is healthy. She's had something horrible happen to her. There's no sense in making matters worse for her."

"So having the douche that hurt her on the streets is okay with you?" Defensive, I stepped forward, my chest inches from his, and his eyes flickered with the slightest bit of intimidation for me. "Tell me, Paulsen, how do you sleep at night knowing there are guys like that on the street walking around with your wife and daughter?"

"Don't make this personal, Evan."

I didn't appreciate his tone. I wanted to teach him a f.u.c.king lesson about telling a hockey player not to make something personal.

"See, that's where you're wrong. It's not personal. It's the right thing to do."

"Could have fooled me," he said, getting arrogant. "You seem awfully attracted to her."

I wanted to punch a cop. I really wanted to punch a cop.

Don't punch a cop. Don't punch a cop.

I didn't punch the cop. I wanted to be allowed back in this hospital, and I thought for sure he wouldn't allow it had I punched him. What I couldn't understand was why the guy hadn't been caught yet. I also knew, and tried to remember, this happened all the time. Ami wasn't the first girl that had been raped, and she certainly wouldn't be the last, sadly.

Blind Pa.s.s To pa.s.s the puck without looking.

Ami was just a week shy of getting released, but they said she needed to have supervision. I wasn't sure how it happened, but my mom found out, came to the hospital, and talked Ami into staying with her for a few weeks. Ami was so carefree and loveable she agreed right away.

"What were you thinking?" I asked my mom when I saw her outside Ami's room the afternoon she convinced her of this.

My mom smiled. Though my words were accusing, maybe appearing as if I was upset, I wasn't. My mom did s.h.i.+t like this all the time. When I was playing in the Major Juniors, she was constantly letting guys who were recently traded to my team stay with us. She liked helping people. I was a lot like my mother in that regard.

"Evan, that girl needs you and she needs someone to watch over her. You can't do that all the time, and I wanted her to feel like if she needed a mother around, I would be there."

Naturally, I couldn't argue with her. Ami had been through something traumatic, and not just losing her family but her attack, too. My mom got that.

I didn't think Ami would go for it, but it was like my mom brainwashed her or something because ordinarily someone wouldn't want to go home with someone they didn't know.

What Ami didn't agree with was when she found out I took care of her medical bills. That part I had to explain. Ami had enough to worry about. The last thing she needed to do was worry about paying nearly a hundred thousand dollars in medical bills.

Eventually, she saw my point. I could be very persuasive.

Ami seemed to trust me, and I wasn't sure why. I had done nothing to prove I was a good guy, but from the very moment we officially met, she opened up to me. I thought maybe she was just like that normally, until I watched her around a few other people, like doctors and nurses. She acted different: a little shy, but mostly guarded.

That led us to the night she was trying to take a bath, and she didn't want the nurse in there with her. "She's just weird, Evan. I don't want her in the bathroom with me eyeing my goods. Will you just wash my back? That's all."

She sensed my hesitation right away.

"Listen, it's not like I'm asking you to give me a rub down. I just need help around the bandages on my back."

I didn't know where the h.e.l.l her nurse was, but f.u.c.k if I didn't want to be the guy that gave her a bath. It seemed inappropriate to do so, but when she dropped the robe, I gave in. Her arms covered her front as she hunched over the tub.

Friends do this, right?

So far since I brought her in, I had practically seen her naked. It was easier seeing her this time, not as difficult as it was seeing her that night with all the blood and bruises covering her body. Now she'd healed and looked considerably different.

Her skin, still milky white, was smooth and innocent. She looked healthy.

I was officially a pervert. Look at me eyeing this girl.

I should have stopped there and got the nurse before actually putting my hands on her, but I didn't and I knew it would f.u.c.k me later.

"Don't be afraid," she said, sighing. "I trust you."

The problem was I wasn't so sure I trusted myself right then.

There was a sponge sitting on the edge of the small tub, so I reached for that. I couldn't see everything, but my male hormones were filling in the blanks nicely.

It was hard. Speaking of hard. f.u.c.k.

Taking a deep breath, I stuck the sponge under the running water, checking the temperature. I soaked it and then brought it to her back. I was stiff at first, taken by surprise that she would want, let alone trust me, to do this for her.

After a moment, I saw her inhale and take a deep, relaxing breath. All my motions felt tight and shaky. I could barely hold the f.u.c.king sponge steady. The further I went, the stiffer I became, and I was frustrated that I couldn't get my s.h.i.+t together.

All she asked me to do was wash her back around the gauze, and once I was finished, I stood quickly, wanting to get the h.e.l.l out of that bathroom before I did something stupid.

"Thank you," she said over her shoulder, keeping her arms wrapped around her chest, the robe pooling around her waist.

I gave a response, probably a nod-I wasn't really sure-and left the room to wait outside.

Ami was in there another ten minutes as she finished was.h.i.+ng the areas she could reach on her own, and I sat in her room thinking.

Not good thoughts either. Dirty thoughts I had no business thinking.

When she finally came out, her hair was wet, skin pink and relaxed. "I feel better," she said as she pa.s.sed by me to get back into her bed. I helped her adjust the blankets and then kissed her forehead. Yeah, not cool, but I did.

"I gotta go. I'm leaving for Dallas in the morning."

Her cheeks, warmer now, spoke for her. She either liked the kiss or she was about to knock some sense into me. "Thanks...for your help."

With a tight nod, I left.

Ami was young, and she was innocent. She didn't know herself and had been through something horrible. She didn't need an overly aggressive hockey player wanting her in ways overly aggressive hockey players wanted women.

But sadly, I was left there wondering what she would think of me and if she wanted something more than a friends.h.i.+p eventually.

I wanted to know her, too. That was what got me. I wanted to really know her. I wanted to know everything about her, like what her favorite food was so I could order her dinner without blinking an eye or shopping for her without having to think long and hard about what she would like. I just wanted to know her.

Game 58 Dallas Stars.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010.

I couldn't get Ami out of my head.

I would lay there in bed, think of her, get mad that I was thinking of her in ways I shouldn't, and then have to get up and work out just to focus on something else. A few things happened. I got in better shape, sure, but I also never slept. That right there wasn't good for me considering the focus I needed on the ice.

The worst part was I knew I shouldn't have helped her take that bath at the hospital the other night, and now I had all these naked images of her in my brain. The perverted part wanted to see more. A lot more. My first mistake and lack of judgment, that I blamed on the sleep deprived state I was in, was what I did after the game with the Stars.

Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline, but I always found myself amped after a game and well...h.o.r.n.y. Not sure why, but it'd always been that way for me ever since my junior hockey days when hormones started.

When I got to the hospital that night and Ami was moving around with a bright smile and those starry eyes, I reacted when she hugged me. I kissed her.

It was our first kiss and that was how I did it. Pathetic. I was a charmer that night for sure. Bulls.h.i.+t. I was f.u.c.king lucky she didn't lay my a.s.s out.

But...she surprised me when she smiled again, resting her forehead against mine, her eyes fluttering closed the instant my mouth found hers again.

This kiss wasn't as rushed, and I was able to feel her soft skin and mouth melting with mine, consuming me. Slowly, we let the kiss develop, never rushed as it deepened. I didn't push or use my hands; I just increased the pressure letting her know I wanted it.

My tongue traced along her bottom lip, asking, and she gladly let me. I'd like to say I remembered the kiss, but I was more caught up in the fact that I was kissing her than how it felt.

Eventually I pulled back, wondering if she was going to slap the s.h.i.+t out of me, but then she smiled instead of knocking me out. That was cool. I could work with that.

"That's an interesting way of saying h.e.l.lo." Her smile, G.o.d, that f.u.c.king smile, made me want to kiss her again.

"Sorry," I said, taking a seat next to the bed, afraid I actually would kiss her.

"It's okay." She seemed to fidget for a moment and then took to her bed again. "I didn't say it was bad. It was cool, just interesting."

Game 60 Atlanta Thrashers.

Sat.u.r.day, February 13, 2010.

(Home Game).

Times like this were my favorite to practice. I didn't mind the practices when fans watched, but empty ice was my favorite. It cleared my head.

I'd set the music to whatever I wanted, mostly Filter on mornings like this, but it varied.