The Light That Wraps You

I had never been a coward, but driving Lux back to my house, I was scared out of my mind.

I kept looking in the rearview mirror, hoping I might catch a glimpse of you if I tried hard enough. I could almost imagine you, slouched in the backseat, fingers tapping along to the beat of some song on the radio that you knew the chords to, but that I had never even heard of. You would look up briefly, smirk at me in the mirror, and then shake your head. If only you were there, to do all of that and maybe tell me something like “it’s never as bad it seems” so I wouldn’t have to hide my shaking fingers, but you didn’t appear.

We reached my driveway much too quickly. My mind had been a whirlwind the entire way, conjuring forth some of the worst scenarios. What if Lux had a child? No, that was stupid, she would not leave he/she back in Boston. Or would she? What if the father was there? Even worse, what if the father was a Bruin? No, she would have told me. Wouldn’t she? What if she was in love with someone else? She had mentioned a he, and oh god, what if she had a child with this he, or what if she had already agreed to marry him, or what if she was a divorcee, or a secret agent, or an escort, or a post-op transsexual? Okay, even Max would have to agree that was taking things a little too far. But I still couldn’t help wondering what it could possibly be that she was going to tell me.

“Ooh,” Lux said suddenly, startling me and making my hands twitch around the steering wheel. “I haven’t seen Simba in weeks! Has he grown at all?”

I managed to roll my eyes, quirking out a half-smile for her benefit. “That’s all he does. He eats, sleeps, or attacks my feet during naps. He is impossible.”

She smiled knowingly as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “But you love him.”

“I do.” Just like I love you.

Together, the two of us entered my house. I kicked off my shoes and went through the rooms, turning on most of the lights, as was my ritual. Normally, I did it so that it felt less lonely and empty. I always turned my TV on very loud or played music that I could hear throughout the rooms, so it felt as though there was someone else there. Simba being there was nice because he would come and greet me with loud meows, and I felt pleased, like I had someone to wait for me to come home. With Lux there, I didn’t feel the need to do any of that. She warmed the place and made it feel more comfortable just by being there.

Simba, of course, greeted us anyway. He didn’t eye Lux warily as he had with Sidney when he had dropped by the other day. Instead, he stepped nimbly right over to her and rubbed against her legs, meowing up at her.

“Oh, hello!” She exclaimed, dropping her purse on the couch. She bent and picked up Simba, holding him against her chest and stroking his head lovingly. “You are so big, my love! Such a handsome little boy you are, yes…” She laughed as he licked her arm with his rough, sandpaper tongue. “He seems so happy, Kris.”

“He is. I think.” I shrugged out of my coat, hanging it up. “If his manic consumption of kitty food is any indication, then yes, he must be.”

She laughed again, kissing Simba on top of his head and setting him back down on the floor. He came over to me and greeted me with a polite sniff, before strolling back to the couch to investigate her purse. I rolled my eyes.

“Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“Something to eat would be nice. I skipped dinner.”

I stared at her. “You haven’t eaten?” I checked my watch. “Lux, it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“I know. That’s why I’m hungry.”

Shucking her coat, scarf, and shoes, she walked right past me down the hall and into the kitchen. I shook my head before following her. She was already pawing through my refrigerator when I entered. I just smiled as she began pulling out cartons of leftover Chinese food. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest, but we burned a lot of calories during practices, and it was easier for me to order in than go through the trouble of cooking something.

“Wine?” I asked, pulling out a bottle. It was the same one we’d had on Christmas.

She nodded around a mouthful of noodles, and I couldn’t help laughing. Seeing her ravenous was illuminating. At the rink, she was often composed, polite, and professional. She could laugh with us guys and joke back and forth, but she was always sure to remember that she worked there. Here, in a moment of what seemed like vulnerability--hair falling from its neat bun, hungrily twirling a fork in some cold noodles, clothes rumpled from a long day--she was even more real to me, and even more beautiful.

I could picture this as our future: me coming home from a game (hopefully a win), tired but pleased. I would heat something up in the oven, pour us some wine, maybe throw on some music or the highlights of the game, and she would stroll through the door an hour or two later, humming tunelessly, calling out greetings to Simba and kicking off her muddy, snow-covered boots at the door. She would be tired, but she would be smiling. It would be warm, pleasant, home.

I looked at her, pouring the wine into two glasses. I wanted her to feel the same. I wanted her to want the same things.

She noticed me staring. “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was!”

“Don’t apologize.” You’re adorable. “If there’s any left, I’ll have some too.”

She grabbed another fork from the drawer and we stood beside each other, leaning against the counter, passing the takeout box back and forth until it was empty. Each mouthful of salty, cold vegetables and noodles was washed down with red wine and by rights, it probably should have tasted disgusting, but I loved it. The simple action of standing beside her in companionable silence gave me hope and steadied me, calming me before the storm.

I threw away the empty takeout boxes while she drained the last of her wine. By then, Simba had wandered into the kitchen and was hunched over the bowl of kitten crunchies that I had placed on the floor for him. The loud cracking that came from his teeth was suddenly the only sound in my entire house, and I almost shivered.

This was the moment, I realized. There were no more second thoughts; she was going to give me all of the validation that I needed. The food had just been a distraction, something to lead the tension up before us and now the waves were about to break over our head.

“Kris.”

I looked over at Lux to see she was unbuttoning her shirt. My eyes almost fell out of my head.

“What are you--?”

“Shhh,” she said, shaking her head. “This is what I have to tell you.” She pulled open her shirt, giving me a view of her mostly bare torso. She was wearing a soft, light blue bra and I tried not to stare as heat rose from my neck to my face, coloring my skin red.

She wasn’t talking about her bra, I realized, or even her breasts. She was talking about the scar. It stretched from her collarbone down her chest, to the middle of her sternum. It was long and straight, a soft pink that blended to white in some places. As someone who had several scars from hockey, I knew it was at least a year old, maybe more. As scars went, they usually progressed from darkness to light, from deep purple, to red, to pink, to a pearly white that shone when the light hit it.

“What happened?” I walked around the island counter, to stand directly in front of her.

“I was born with a heart condition,” she said softly, tears sparkling in her eyes, “called cardiomyopathy. It’s a disease where the actual muscle of the heart deteriorates. From the moment I was born, I was dying.”

“The pills,” I said suddenly. “The pills that Jordan saw you taking. That’s what they were for, weren’t they?”

She nodded. She told me everything. She explained about the heart condition that had plagued her, chasing her into adulthood. She told me how she was home-schooled because of the pain and the weakness, and how by age sixteen, she had graduated high school and been accepted to medical school in Massachusetts. Her parents always assumed she would crack under the pressure, but she never did.

“I was dying anyway,” she admitted. “So I was never stressed out about not having enough time.”

She told me about how, just after she turned twenty-one, her heart started to give up. “The muscle had grown too thin,” she said, her palm flat against her bare skin. “So I went home to Saint John, but things didn’t get better. They transferred me to a hospital in Halifax, where I had a minor surgery that would hold me over until I could a transplant. Eventually, I did.”

I was shocked, listening to her story. It didn’t feel real. It felt like she was talking about someone else, someone I didn’t know. Seeing her, no one would have known. She was so strong, I realized, a surge of pride filling me. She was more than a petite, sweet girl from New Brunswick. She was more than a doctor, more than a patient, more than a woman. She was a warrior, a true fighter who had known hardship and struggles like anything I had ever seen. People often likened us hockey players to soldiers, to heroes, but the truth was that the most unassuming people, the ones who didn’t try to be, were the real heroes. She had fought a battle and lived, reigning triumphant. She had walked through the fire and come out on the other side, unscathed.

Well, not entirely.

I lifted my hand. “Can I…” I let the question hang in the air, unspoken.

She nodded and stepped forward, into my outstretched fingers. The scar was so soft, the skin puckered, neatly sewn by the deft hands of her surgeon in Halifax. Her entire body responded to my touch; she inhaled sharply, her body gravitating closer to mine, like she needed more of my hand against her. I placed my palm flat against her chest, right above her left breast. I waited.

There. Bu-bum, bu-bum, bu-bum. Someone else had lent their life to her, and she was standing before me, vulnerable and trembling and perhaps ready to give her all to me, because of them. Thank you, I thought. Whoever you are, thank you.

The longer my hand remained on her skin, the faster her heart began to beat. With my eyes locked on her face, I let my hand wander, dipping lower to brush against the fabric of her bra, over the swell of her breast. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright when she met my gaze. My pulse slowed to something sultry, my heart matching hers for intensity. With my free hand, I pulled her against me. Lowering my head, I caught her lips in a kiss that exploded with the lush taste of wine and so much want that my head spun.

I would have waited. I didn’t even know if we stood on even ground, she and I, and I would have waited until the moment was just right. But now, with her baring her literal heart and soul to me, I felt that sureness inside of me, that this was the right moment and if I let it pass us by, I would be making a grave mistake. Her willingness only made it more right.

I pushed her shirt off her shoulders, letting it drop to the kitchen floor. I moved my hands all over her silky skin, committing the landscape to memory as I covered her shoulders, her back, her waist. She shoved my suit jacket off and I let go of her so she could push the fabric down my arms and off. I wanted to taste every inch of her, to make her mine in every possible way as she wrapped her arms around me and tangled her fingers in my hair. Without even realizing I had done it, my fingers were grasping her hips and I was growling against her.

“Kris,” she gasped, breaking away from me. “Not here.”

Right. There would be plenty of time for exploration later. For now, I wanted her to be as comfortable as possible and that meant a journey to my bed. I almost smiled. She had never seen my bedroom before.

Without any warning, I scooped her up. She squeaked, throwing her arms around my neck. As if we had just been married, I carried her into the bedroom, and with a split-second to consider it, kicked the door shut behind me. Just in case Simba goes exploring.

She gasped when she saw my bed. “That is not a bed,” she remarked, her words warm against my neck. “That is an ocean.”

Truthfully, it felt that way when it was me all by myself. I could swim through those black sheets on most nights, stretching out beneath the slate-gray microsuede comforter without even touching either side of the mattress. Often, I felt like a castaway, lost in all that grandeur. Once, it had been a pride of mine. It was one of the things I had picked out particularly for myself when I had moved into the house, along with my Range Rover and my flat-screen TV, but as time had worn on, it just reminded me how lonely I was.

Until now.

Gently, I laid Lux out in the middle of the bed. She looked even more petite than she already was, framed by all that stormy gray fabric. I watched as she reached up and pulled her hair loose. It spread out from her face in waves of gold, the strands cascading across the comforter like a halo. I knelt at the end of the bed, reaching for her. I trailed my fingers over her hips, and she shivered. I unbuttoned her jeans and slowly pulled them off. She lifted herself off the bed and helped me get her out of them, exposing simple bikini panties that matched her bra.

My eyes drank her in. She was so beautiful. Looking down at her, the word I thought of to describe her wasn’t exposed, in the stark, empty-room feeling of the word. No, I thought she was unearthed. Like I had dug her out of a grave she had long since abandoned herself to, like I had stripped her of her pain and sadness, and now here she was before me, waiting for me to pour my love into her, onto her, and breathe new life into the spaces that had been drained of all feeling. Like I was offering her the freedom she craved.

She reached for me. I hung over her like the moon, planting kisses as soft as rain against her skin. The scent of her vanilla perfume surrounded me like a shroud, and I inhaled her into my lungs. I worked my way down her body, my lips moving to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. I lingered at the scar that marked her skin, my eyes lifted to see her face as she watched me. Had she ever thought it ugly? I wondered. Had she ever wished it would disappear? I hoped not. I wouldn’t change how she looked for anything in the world. The flaw was what made her more enticing, because she was real. It struck me then, that this wasn’t a wishful dream. Just like I had realized after your funeral; this was hopelessly real.

I sat back on my heels. Everything was hitting me at once, and I needed to breathe for just a moment. I closed my eyes. Luc, look at me now. I've done it. I've finally found it, what I was looking for. Elle est à moi.

“What?” She asked, raising herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”

I smiled, my eyes opening slowly. The moment of dizzying unclarity had passed, and I was me again. I shook my head. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I reached for my shirt, working the buttons undone as quickly as my fingers could. When I finished, I tossed it to the floor; my smile widened with satisfaction when she made a soft noise in the back of her throat.

“You are breathtaking,” She said quietly, her eyes hollowing me out.

I pressed her back against the mattress, resuming my journey. She arched her back for me, and I reached around to unhook her bra. It took me several tries, but I finally got it. She lifted her arms and I slid it off, the material whispering over her skin. I cupped her breasts in my hands and she let out a content sigh, whispering my name. When I moved my lips over one nipple, she gasped. My name fell from her lips like leaves in the fall, and I delighted in what I could do to her. My tongue paved a path down her chest, to her bellybutton and her hips. I nipped at her panties, at the lacy edges, and she twitched, but I pointedly ignored her and jumped down to her thighs. Every single inch of skin that was available to me was worshipped. Kisses became mile markers on the map of her body, at her knees and her ankles, at the instep of her delicate feet. Her toenails were painted a soft rose, the color of a blush.

“Kris,” She moaned, her voice urgent. She was no longer soft and malleable, but tense and vibrating, like a plucked guitar string. If I put the chords together the right way and played her correctly, we could make music together.

I traveled back up her body, my fingers dancing over her panties. She inhaled sharply, her fingers twisting in my comforter. I would relish those kinks in the fabric for the rest of my days. I stroked two fingers over the fabric, pressing gently to where I knew she was already wet for me. She whimpered. I relented and hooked my fingers into her waistband, pulling down the fabric and ridding her of her last inhibition.

I stepped back, standing so I could do the same. She kept her eyes on me the entire time as I stepped out of my slacks and my boxers, neither shy nor curious. She was simply ready. We were crossing a bridge together with no idea what waited on the other side and that knowledge thrilled me and terrified me all at once, making my head spin.

This time when I went to her, she met me in the middle. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me against her, down into the serenity of her body. It was a strange, surreal feeling knowing that she and I were about to take the plunge. I had been with women before, but never with them in the full sense of the word. That was all about to change.

I claimed her body, but more than that, I claimed her. I made her mine and simultaneously, she collected me like I was a shiny bit of shell she had found on the beach. I existed in her pocket as a mere good luck talisman, something for her to cling to when times were rough, and cling she did. One hand was full of my arm, her nails almost digging into me, and the other was swept up into my hair. Her breathless mewls rose in the air with the sound of my ragged lungs, as she moved her body in perfect time with mine, arching her hips and driving the two of us to the edge.

Having her surround me was almost too much. Every sensation, every bit of her enveloped me, her light wrapping me in shadow. The Devil and God were raging inside me, a veritable clash of truth and war begging to be released.

“Kris,” She breathed.

Her body bent like a bow, and I caught her, my hands splayed at the small of her back. I rose to my knees, pulling her up with me. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, holding onto me with her arms crooked around my neck. I pressed my face against the side of her hair, kissing her, whispering the same phrase over and over again.

“Je t’aime.”

She sobbed into my neck. "Oh Kris." I heard it there, though she hadn't said the words. I felt it.

I love you too.

Our breath spiraled to the ceiling in a haze of desire. My body begged to be thrown out to sea like a bottle brimming with a love letter, and finally, she let me go.



I woke the next morning with a smile on my face. Lux was asleep beside me, curled up impossibly small, her hand on my arm. I pressed a kiss to her cheek. She mumbled something in French and rolled over, away from me.

I slid out of bed and pulled on my boxers. Sleeping in had been amazing, but waking up beside Lux had been even better. There was a definite spring in my step as I padded out of my bedroom. I discovered Simba lying in one of the windowsills, soaking up the rays of sunlight that were streaming in. His eyes opened to slits when I walked by, but he didn’t move. I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice and running a hand through my bed head. I couldn’t help the constant smile; try as I might, it wouldn’t go away.

Last night had been absolutely everything I had hoped it would be. The secrets were gone and the air was clear. I had never felt so free, so relaxed. For one of the first times since you had died, I was starting to think that maybe there was something beautiful to life and that maybe there was hope after all. After losing you, it had been hard for me to be anything but cynical. But now? Anything was possible.

Already I could see it. The end of the month would bring the All-Star Game. I would convince Lux to come with us. The idea of the two of us spending time wandering the streets of Raleigh sent a spark shooting through me. It would be like a vacation for just the two of us, and I already felt the stirrings of plans. A romantic dinner, a trolley ride, a room for just the two of us. We could stay up late and talk, our arms wrapped around each other. She would give her two weeks that weekend, asking for a transfer to Pittsburgh, to me.

Yes. It would work. It had only been a month, nearly two, but it was real. I felt the word reverberate in every bone of my body, making me tremble. This was happening, ungoverned by either of us, and it was only right that we went wherever it would take us.

I drained the last of my juice, chuckling to myself. I couldn’t wait to tell the guys. Max would pout, Flower would cheer, Sid would laugh that ridiculous giggle of his. Dan would clap me on the back and then probably tell Shero, who would glower. The usual.

I sighed happily. This is my life. And it’s finally falling into place.

“Kris?”

My head snapped around. Lux was standing in the archway, one hand against the wall. She was wearing my shirt from the night before, but it was only buttoned halfway up her chest. The sleeves hung past her hands, and it fell to mid-thigh. Her hair was a mess, strands sticking up all over the place. There was always that assumption that guys loved seeing girls wear their clothes; I would have said that Einstein or Newton couldn't even disprove that, but my mind was suddenly narrowed to the sight of her in my shirt, and everything else faded.

She rubbed her eyes sleepily, almost like a child. “You were gone.” She said it almost accusingly, perhaps because I had woken her.

“I just got up to get a drink.” I set the glass in the sink and joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist. I leaned into her, pressing her against the wall. I kissed her lazily, my free hand drifting beneath my shirt, up her smooth thigh. She heated against me, suddenly red-hot, like coals left to burn.

"This shirt looks good on you."

"I can tell..." Her giggle turned to a gasp as my knee edged in between her legs. I nudged her head to the side, sucking gently just below her ear, a place I had discovered to be her weakness the night before.

Her hands gripped my shoulders tight. “Kris, I should probably go,” She said, her voice breathy and barely audible. To my delight, I discovered she wasn’t wearing any underwear. “I have to pack.”

“So do I. But our flight isn’t until tonight.”

“Oh. So--”

“--we have plenty of time.”

She met my gaze. We practically ran back to my bedroom. Mine, I thought, delirious with joy as the two of us receded from the shore, falling into that ocean again, into each other’s arms. All mine.