The Hockey Captain That Hates Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Stairs

Hanna hauls the captain up three flights and holds his shower door, and learns how much of him she can't stop looking at.

The hockey house on Grand Avenue had three floors, no elevator, and Henrik Broten's bedroom was on the top one.

I was on the porch at 5:58 on Tuesday morning with two coffees and a bad attitude.

A sleepy senior in boxers opened the door and said, "He's been up since four. He's in a mood."

Then he went back to bed.

Henrik was at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the third step with his crutches beside him.

He had put on a gray T-shirt and black shorts, and his splinted leg stuck out in front of him.

"You're late," he said.

"It's 5:59."

"I said six. That's late if I'm waiting."

I handed him a coffee.

He took the cup and drank half of it in one go. "It's bad."

"I made it in your kitchen."

"That's why."

I looked up the stairs.

Three flights, steep and narrow, with a worn runner and a handrail that had come loose from the wall.

"Why is your room on the third floor?"

"Captain gets the best room," he said.

"You can't climb that."

"I can't climb it alone."

He held out his hand.

I stood there for a second, feeling the whole absurd shape of it.

He wanted to go up.

He could have slept on the couch. Nobody on that team would have said a word.

He wanted me to take him up three flights of stairs, so I took his hand.

His palm was big and hot and rough from tape.

He pulled himself up on the rail and me, and the whole weight of him came across my shoulder.

"Left arm," he said. "Under mine. Hold my waistband."

I put my left arm under his right and grabbed the back of his shorts.

My face was against the side of his chest.

He smelled like soap and cold air, with a little sweat under it.

We went up one step at a time, crutch, hop, step.

He breathed through his teeth the whole way.

On the second landing he stopped, and his forehead dropped for a second against the top of my head.

"Sorry," he said.

It was the first time he'd ever said it to me.

"For what?"

"Leaning." His voice was rough. "It's a lot."

"It's fine," I said.

It wasn't fine. I could feel his heart beating through his ribs.

We made the third floor slowly, one step at a time.

His room was large and bare, with a bed, a desk with a laptop and a rack of sticks.

The window looked out at the river.

He dropped onto the bed and let his breath out.

"Shower," he said.

"What?"

"I need a shower. I've been in this shirt since the hospital."

He pointed at a plastic bag on the desk. "That goes over the splint. Tape's in the drawer."

I looked at the bag.

Then I looked at him, and he looked back with no expression at all.

"You're my assistant," Henrik said. "This is part of the job."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"I'm doing this because I can't stand on one foot in a wet tub."

He lifted his chin. "You want me to fall again?"

That one landed.

I got the bag and the tape and knelt on the floor in front of him.

I taped the bag flat above his knee.

His calf was thick with muscle under the plastic, and the hair on it was dark gold.

I felt him watching me do it.

When I looked up, his eyes dropped a fraction too late.

"Bathroom's down the hall," he said.

The bathroom had a tub with a sliding glass door and a plastic stool somebody had bought him that morning.

He leaned on the sink, pulled his shirt over his head, and tossed it at me.

I caught it.

But I had never stood four feet from his bare back, with the long muscles flexing down either side of his spine.

There was a white scar low on his ribs, and I had to look at the ceiling.

"Don't stare," he said.

"I'm not."

"You're staring at the ceiling. It's worse."

I laughed before I could stop it.

He looked over his shoulder and almost smiled, but it died fast.

"Stool," he said. "Door. Turn the water on and don't look."

I did all of it with my eyes on the tile.

He lowered himself onto the stool in his shorts, with the splint stuck out through the open door.

I held the door steady with my hip because the track was bent.

Water ran down his shoulders and the line of his back.

I held the door and stared at the grout.

"Hanna," he said.

It was the first time he had used my first name, and my whole body listened.

"What?"

"Soap's on the ledge. I can't reach my back."

I closed my eyes.

I drew a slow breath.

Then I picked up the soap, because the sentence was eight weeks long and this was day one.

My hand went flat against his back, and the muscle under it jumped.

He made a quiet sound that sounded like it hurt.

Not from the ankle.

I stood there with my palm on his wet skin, and every ugly thing I'd ever said about him went missing.

Then he reached up, took my wrist, and moved my hand away.

"That's enough."

His voice had gone very low.

"Get out, Hedlund," he said. "Now."

I got out.

He shut the door behind me, and I heard the lock turn.

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