Charles flew up the steps, taking them two at a time until he skidded to a stop in front of Taylor's door. He banged his fist against it, making the metal shudder in the frame.

He paused, put his ear to the door and tried to listen for signs of movement inside. He couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his chest or the harsh rasp of each breath tearing from his lungs.

He pounded his fist against the door again. "Taylor. Open up. I know you're in there." She had to be. Her car was parked out front and he knew she wasn't working. She never worked Thursday nights because of practice.

Only she wouldn't be at practice ever again. Not anymore. Not after Murphy's stunt tonight.

How could he? Why the fuck would he do such a thing? What had he been thinking? Charles was still having trouble wrapping his head around it. Part of him wanted to believe it was some kind of sick joke, that Sammie had been playing a practical joke on him when she called earlier. But Sammie didn't joke, not like this. And there had been no mistaking the tears in her voice when she told him.

He had tried calling Murphy but the man wouldn't answer his phone. Then he tried calling Taylor but she refused to pick up, sending his calls straight to voicemail.

He banged on the door again, harder this time, desperation clear in his voice when he called out. "Taylor, please. Open the door."

Minutes went by before he finally heard the lock turn. The door opened, but only a few inches, stopped by the security chain. Taylor stared at him through one glazed eye rimmed in red. Hair hung in her face, covering most of the tear-streaked splotches along her cheek.

"Not now, Charles. Please." Her voice was thin and raspy, the words slightly slurred. But it was the use of his name, Charles, that sent his stomach plummeting.

She never called him Charles. Ever.

"Taylor, let me in. Please."

"I don't think—"

"Please."

She watched him through that single blurry eye for a long minute then closed the door. Charles held his breath, wondering if she'd unlock it and let him in—

Or if she had just sent him a message he wasn't willing to hear.

There was the faintest sound of metal sliding against metal, then the door opened again. He pushed through, not willing to give Taylor a chance to change her mind. The worry was misplaced because she was already heading for the loveseat, plopping down on it with a weary sigh. She reached for one of the throw pillows and pulled it to her chest, her head hanging low in dejection.

Charles stood just inside the door, his gaze taking everything in. Shadows filled the small apartment, the darkness broken only by the faint light coming from the bathroom at the end of the short hall. An open bottle of wine sat on the old trunk she used as a coffee table, a half-empty glass sitting next to it. A carton of melting ice cream, a spoon jutting out of the top, was shoved to the other side of the trunk.

Charles moved over to the loveseat and sat down next to her. It took all of his control not to pull her into his arms and hold her but her body language screamed leave me alone. He reached for her anyway then dropped his hand at the last second, letting it fall on the cushion between them.

"Sammie called me."

Taylor was quiet for so long, he wondered if she had heard him. Then she pulled in a quick breath and released it in a rush. "She shouldn't have."

"You're right. It should have been you who called me."

Taylor was quiet, too quiet. And she just sat there, not even bothering to look over at him. Charles clenched his jaw and bit back the disappointment flooding him.

"Why didn't you call me, Taylor?"

"I figured you already knew."

Her words sliced deep, sharper and more painful than any knife. He sat there, trying to breathe, refusing to believe her words. Refusing to think she actually believed them.

He shifted closer and reached for her hand, felt that invisible blade twist in his chest when she pulled away from him. "Taylor, look at me."

She still didn't move. He couldn't see her face, not with the way her hair was hanging down, shielding her. Charles waited, willing her to move. To look at him. To say or do something. Anything.

But she didn't.

He swore under his breath then moved off the loveseat and dropped to his knees in front of her. He reached out and cupped her face between his hands, his heart clenching at the cool dampness of her flesh. "Taylor, look at me."

She shook her head then averted her gaze when he tilted her head up.

"Taylor, please. You're killing me here. You have no idea what you're doing to me. Look at me. Please."

Long seconds stretched around them, filled with silence broken only by the pounding of his heart. Her body tensed and for one awful moment, he was afraid she'd pull away. That she'd reach out and push him or kick him or tell him to get out. To leave.

Then some of the tension seeped out of her and she raised her eyes, her gaze meeting his. His gut twisted at the pain and agony reflected in their depths. But that didn't hurt as much as the emptiness he glimpsed. Like she had given up. Like there was nothing left inside her.

He ran his tongue across his lower lip, trying to ignore the acid burning deep in his gut. "Tell me you don't believe that, Taylor. Tell me you don't really think I knew anything about this."

He held his breath, his eyes searching hers as he waited.

"I—" Taylor stopped and lowered her gaze, her teeth nibbling her bottom lip. A shudder went through her, her shoulders heaving with the force of her deep breath. She looked back up, moisture filling her eyes. "No, I don't."

Charles released the breath he'd been holding and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. She felt frail, fragile, like all her inner strength—her dreams—had been ripped from her, leaving her empty and hollow, nothing more than a shell of the woman she'd been.

Long minutes went by before her arms wrapped around his waist. He could feel her body trembling, could hear each harsh breath as it was ripped from her lungs. And he could feel her tears against the skin of his neck as she cried, silent tears that wracked her body.

He stayed that way for a long time, simply holding her, whispering words of comfort and reassurance as she cried in his arms, until her body was limp from exhaustion.

Charles moved to his feet, adjusting his hold on her as he sat down and pulled her across his lap. She shifted, wrapped her arms around his neck, and dropped her head against his shoulder.

"I didn't know what he was planning, Taylor."

"I know." Her voice was quiet, ragged and hoarse, her breath nothing more than a whisper against his skin.

"I'll talk to him in the morning, find out—"

"No."

"Yes. This isn't right. He can't just—"

"It doesn't matter, Chuckie."

He leaned back, his gaze capturing hers. Did she see the anger and determination in his gaze? She must have. How could she not, when he was burning with it?

"The hell it doesn't. How can you even say that?"

"Because it doesn't."

"Bullshit. Hockey is your life, Taylor. You can't just give up."

"There's nowhere else to go."

"Yeah, there is. The Blades. I'll talk to him—"

"Chuckie, I don't want to play for them. Even if you do talk to him. After what he did? The way he treated everyone tonight, demanding that drug test? Then suspending me indefinitely? No. I'm done. It's over."

"The hell it is. Hockey is too important to you. I'm not going to just stand by and let you give it up."

Taylor reached up and ran her hand across his jaw, a look of such pure sadness in her eyes that he had to look away. "You don't have a say in the matter."

He took a deep breath, wondered if he was making the right decision, wondering what the chances were of his words backfiring on him. He turned back to her. He didn't try to hide his anger or disappointment. "So that's it? You're just going to give up? Quit?"

"I'm not quitting."

"That's what it looks like to me."

"I was suspended. That's not the same—"

"You just said you were. That you wouldn't go back to playing. What's that, if not quitting?"

Anger flashed in her eyes, but only for a second. "You're putting words in my mouth."

"No, I'm not. I'm just repeating what you said. You said you didn't want to play. That you were done. That it was over."

"That's not—"

"So you're quitting."

Anger flashed in her eyes again. She stiffened and pushed against him, trying to break his hold on her. Charles tightened his arms around her, refusing to let go.

"Chuckie, let me up."

"No. Not until you admit you're quitting."

"That's not what I said."

"Same thing."

"No. It's not." She pushed against him again then curled her hand into a fist and shoved it against his shoulder. "Let me up."

"Admit you're a quitter."

"No."

"Why? It's the truth."

"No, it's not. Let me go."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Admit it, Taylor."

She sagged against him, the fight leaving her body but still shining in her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I want to hear you say it. I want you to prove me wrong."

Her gaze rested on his, her eyes filled with agony. Her voice was small, filled with uncertainty when she spoke. "Why?"

"Because the girl I had a on a crush on all those years ago would never quit." He eased one arm from behind her back and reached up, tucking the hair behind her ear. "And because the woman I fell in love with would fight for what she wanted."

Taylor stared at him for so long, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Yes, he had. He should have never said anything. It was too soon. She wasn't ready. He shouldn't have thrown that at her, not tonight, not after everything else that had happened. Hell, maybe not ever. Maybe she didn't want to hear it. Maybe she didn't—

"You love me? But—why?"

"Why?" The word came out on a burst of choked laughter. "Because I'm a glutton for punishment."

"But—"

"Do me a favor: don't say anything, okay? Just pretend you didn't hear—"

Taylor's mouth crashed against his, her kiss hard and soft and almost desperate. He tightened his arms around her and took control of the kiss, deepening it, slowing her down when all he wanted to do was roll her body under his and claim her.

He finally pulled away, his ragged breathing matching hers. She watched him with wide eyes filled with wonder then leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.

"You love me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah. I do."

"I—"

He reached up and pressed his fingers against her lips, silencing her. "I don't need to hear the words, Taylor. Not until you're ready. Not until you're sure. I know it's probably too soon for you. I don't expect—ouch." He pulled his fingers away from her mouth and looked down at them, surprised he didn't see bite marks in the flesh. "Shit. What the hell was that for?"

"For not letting me finish. And for assuming I don't know what I'm feeling or what I'm ready for." She pressed a quick kiss against his lips then leaned back, the corners of her mouth turned up in the sweetest smile he'd ever seen. "I love you, Chuckie. I thought I did but I wasn't sure until last week, right before we went out on the ice at the Banners' game."

Something tightened in his chest—not in pain, but in delight. He was helpless to stop the grin on his face, helpless to stop his hand from cupping her cheek. "Why then?"

"Because you remembered. And because of what you said."

"I meant it."

"I know you did." She leaned forward, her lips grazing his in a featherlight kiss. Then she sat back, her hand reaching for his, their fingers threading together. "But I don't know what to do about tonight. You're right, hockey's everything to me. What am I going to do if I can't play?"

"What did you do when we were kids and somebody said you couldn't do something?"

"Get angry and throw a fit?"

Charles laughed. "Yeah, okay. That too. But what else?"

"I don't—" Taylor hesitated, her head tilting to the side as she studied him. Amusement danced in her eyes, chasing away some of the shadows. "You mean, beat them up?"

"Yeah."

"You think I should go beat up Mr. Murphy?"

"Sure. Why not? And I'm going to tell you how to do it."

And he did, later that night as they lay curled in each other's arms.