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CHAPTER 105 - FROZEN IN TIME
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2026-05-04 03:36:53
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PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY-FIVE - THE CONDITION
I sit with this for two days. I sit with it while holding my mom’s hand and watching chemo drip and eating cafeteria sandwiches and texting Miles and calling Rhys and saying fine. The calculation is running underneath every interaction in away that is consuming the parts of me that I need to function.The calculation asks: what would I sacrifice to keep my mother alive?The calculation already knows the answer because the answer was decided six years ago in a different hospital room when I learned that the gap between alive and not-alive is measured in days, not months, and the days run out regardless of what you sacrifice – but the not sacrificing, the standing still while the clock runs, is the thing that follows you into every subsequent room for the rest of your life.My father died fast. He had a countdown shorter than anyone expected because his body had already decided before the doctors finished the paperwork.If I had known. If someone had come to me during those weeks and sa
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY-FOUR - HIGH PRICE
I reach for her hand immediately and hold it like I’m trying to prove something to myself. Her fingers are thinner than they were when we last saw, and it immediately makes me recall the specific pressure of a hand in mine that is losing weight and the way thinning fingers feel when they close around yours with less force than they used to.I’ve kept those memories locked away for about six years because it contains a hospital bed carrying a man whose hand went from squeezing to still over the course of an hour.“Mom.” My voice is carefully level because I know my falling apart would make her feel worse. “Tell me everything. The truth.”My mom looks at me with a sad expression. “The leukaemia is acute myeloid. AML. But the doctors are starting treatment this week.” She recites the words like she’s been repeating them to herself in private. “The oncologist says the response rates are reasonable for my age and the specific mutation, and Richard has already called four specialists and bu
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY-THREE - QUIET APARTMENT
RHYS' POVShe cried after with her face against my chest. The tears arrived silently, and I felt them before I hear them.I held her. Didn’t speak. Naomi’s tears have a schedule and the schedule doesn’t accept interruptions.But the crying was wrong.This crying didn’t resolve. It just stopped. And stopping wasn’t the same thing. Her body went still against my chest with a weight that wasn’t rest. She was rationing it. Like she was saving whatever the crying didn’t consume for something she hadn’t told me about yet.Her hand on my chest, like it always has been – palm flat on my sternum, her body’s nightly check that mine is still running. But the hand was heavy.She pretended to sleep. I watched her do it – eyes closed, breathing regulated, jaw tight, fingers rigid. Every sign of unconsciousness performed while the woman underneath stayed wide awake. A replica of my wife. Identical in every dimension I can see. Wrong in the one I can’t.Something is off beyond the cancer.I can feel i
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY-TWO - THE TERMINAL
At the terminal he pulls the suitcase from the back seat and sets it on the curb, then he stands in front of me with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath making small clouds in the air.I look at his concerned face, and I want to tell him everything. Caleb at the door. The money. The condition. The hospital in Seoul. The treatment. The kiss from two years ago that I’ve been carrying in my pocket like a stone that gets heavier with every month I don’t put it down.I want to tell him so bad that my mouth opens, the first syllable of Caleb’s name forming against my teeth, but then I remember that the telling would require explaining why Caleb knows about the cancer before Rhys does, and explaining that would require admitting that I sat on the kitchen floor for five hours processing alone instead of calling my husband, and admitting that would mean looking at the pattern and seeing it clearly for the first time.“Call me when you land,” he says.“I will.”“Call me when you see
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY-ONE - WET SURFACES
I open my eyes. Grey irises. The scar. His face is three inches from mine, moving, his hips setting a rhythm that’s fast enough to keep my brain offline but controlled enough that I can feel him paying attention – reading my body the way he reads the ice, adjusting angle when my breath catches, slowing when the pleasure tips toward too much.My hands find his back and my nails dig in because the digging is communication – harder, more, don’t stop, keep me here in this bed in this body in this apartment where the worst thing that can happen is an orgasm instead of a diagnosis – and he responds by pinning my wrists above my head with one hand and driving deeper with the other braced against the mattress.The pinning is the thing that finally cracks it open, because the restraint tells my body that someone else is in control and the control means I can stop holding the walls up for thirty seconds and let someone else bear the weight.I cum with a sound that breaks in the middle – startin
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTY - MOVE IT
His bag hits the floor with a heavy, equipment-filled thud.He’s across the apartment in four strides and his arms are around me before I can finish the sentence, pulling me against his chest with the grip that means the doors are open and the man at the controls heard the word sick and the word mother and his body responded before his brain could construct a plan.I press my face into the space between his neck and shoulder – the space that smells like cedar and the rink and the body wash from the blue bottle, the smell that is the opposite of hospitals and waiting rooms and the antiseptic corridors where parents go to become diagnoses. My hands grip the back of his practice jersey the way I used to grip the back of his jersey in college when the world was too much and his body was the only architecture that felt solid enough to stand inside.“Okay.” His voice against the top of my head. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”“You have morning skate.”“I’ll drive you to the airport Naomi.”
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