She wanted to turn away but was afraid to move in case she drew attention to herself, so she stood, forced to relive it. His name flashed up on the screen: Tyler O’Neil, USA. She saw him preparing to launch himself out of the start gate, and her heart started to pound. She wanted to tell him not to do it. To skip this race.
Growing up, she’d often thought that what Tyler did on the slopes was closer to flying than skiing, and he seemed to be flying now as he sailed out of the gate and straight into a tuck as he took the jump that claimed so many skiers. Not Tyler. If it hadn’t been for the fact she knew what was coming, Brenna would have thought he was on his way to a faultless run.
He’d always claimed his aim was to get from the top to the bottom in the fastest time possible, and he made good on that claim, hurtling down the slope as if his skis were jet propelled.
Halfway down the course, Brenna held her breath because she knew this was the moment. She wanted to look away. She wanted to close her eyes because she knew what was coming, but she kept watching and for the first time saw the accident through the eyes of the camera. Saw the moment his body lifted into the air and tumbled, spinning, crashing until it seemed impossible anyone could survive it.
She didn’t think she’d made a sound but she must have done because Tyler turned his head.
For a few moments he said nothing, and then he stirred.
“I didn’t know you were there.” His voice was rough at the edges, and she felt as if she was trespassing. Not on his territory, but on something far more personal. His private thoughts and feelings. He hadn’t intended to share this part of him with another person. If he had, he wouldn’t have waited until the dead of night to watch it alone in the dark.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? And why the hell are you crying?”
Was she crying? She hadn’t even known. Embarrassed, Brenna lifted her hand and scrubbed at her cheek with her palm, feeling the wetness of tears against her hand.
“I haven’t watched it before.” Her voice sounded clogged. “I couldn’t. It was the worst moment of my life. I thought you were dead.”
“It didn’t feel too great from where I was, either.” His flippant tone sent her over the edge.
“Why do you always dismiss it? I know you’re hurting. You don’t have to pretend and keep it all locked inside. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”
“Nothing helps. I watch that damn footage over and over again trying to work out what happened that day. One moment I was on my way to winning, the next I was being lifted into a helicopter.”
“You’ve watched it before?”
“Hundreds of times. In slow motion. It doesn’t get any easier.”
She sank down onto the sofa next to him. “I—I didn’t know. I thought you never watched yourself.”
“I watch this run.” His tone was bleak, and she reached out and put her hand on his thigh. She felt solid muscle under her palm, felt that muscle flex and tense under her fingers. The atmosphere in the room shifted, and she started to move her hand away, but he covered it with his own, his fingers warm and strong as he held her hand there and took the comfort she offered.
This was new territory.
It was a topic neither of them had touched upon before, but their relationship no longer felt familiar. Everything had changed, and they both knew it. His confession. Her reaction.
The intimacy.
“Is it very hard for you?”
There was a brief pause, and his fingers tightened. “It’s agony.”
Although he never mentioned it, she knew from Sean that the cold made the pain worse. “Can I fetch you painkillers?”
“I wasn’t talking about my leg. I’ve learned to live with that. The other, not so much.” Still holding her hand, he stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the sofa with his eyes closed. “Pathetic, that’s me.”
She studied the strong lines of his face. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone less deserving of that accusation than you. I’m sorry you’re hurting.” She knew words were inadequate, but she said them anyway. “I’m sorry this time of year is so hard for you. I wish I could do something. I wish I could fix it.”
“It can’t be fixed.” And then he started to talk, telling her things he’d never told her, about how he struggled with calls from his teammates, how it felt to know they were still living that life, how they wanted him to fly over and join them in drinking sessions and how he couldn’t face being on the fringe of something when he used to be in the center. He talked about regret, disappointment, frustration and she sat in the dark without interrupting, holding his hand tightly as he bared his feelings.
Finally, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I can’t believe I told you all that.”
“I’m glad you did.” Wondering if he realized he was still holding her hand, she eyed the whiskey bottle. “Does that help?”
“I’ll let you know in an hour or two. Join me? I can fetch another glass.”