Mohabbot Blurb | Superstitions (rated M)
The first time Samira had met Jack Abbot was in trauma one when he was brought in with a fractured clavicle, three cracked ribs, and enough bruising to make him look like he’d lost a fight with a Mack truck. Technically, he had lost a fight. The Mack truck had just been a six-foot-four defenseman with a mean streak and a questionable understanding of boarding penalties. He’d spent the entire exam flirting through the pain. A week later, Victoria showed her a clip of his post-game interview, where he called her “the most brilliant doctor.”
Years later, she still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up here. Here being sprawled across their Lovesac sectional while playoff hockey consumed every aspect of their lives.
Samira lifted her gaze to find Jack standing in the doorway wearing low-hung sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, fresh from practice. Or at least she assumed he was fresh from practice. It was getting harder to tell. His playoff beard had gone from scruff to fully grown in. Two weeks ago, it had been neat and barely there. Now it was thick and unruly, shot through with silver and the occasional strand of auburn. His curls weren’t much better. They’d started creeping over his ears, curling at the nape of his neck.
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re not shaving it?”
"We've been through this, sweetheart. I’m not shaving until we're eliminated or raising the Cup."
Samira rolled her eyes as he crossed the room and flopped onto the couch. A second later his head landed in her lap. "What are you reading?" Jack asked, gesturing to the JAMA article in her hand.
"A study on ECMO outcomes in refractory respiratory failure."
Jack nodded, as if he understood. "Interesting."
Samira scoffed. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"
"Not a single clue, but I’d love to hear about it."
Her thumb brushed along his cheek, idly working through the silver-threaded scruff she'd spent the past week complaining about. Jack's eyes fluttered shut and his shoulders relaxed. The professional athlete who routinely threw himself in front of hundred-mile-an-hour slapshots practically purred under her touch.
“It’s not even about ECMO outcomes,” she muttered, slipping slightly into Tamil cadence. “It’s about how we reduce post-arrest care to checklists and then wonder why patients don’t respond.” She cut herself off when Jack made a pleased sound in the back of his throat. "You like the beard," he murmured without opening his eyes.
“Honey, you’ve been petting me for five minutes,” he told her, his mouth twitching.
Before she could argue, he rolled and pressed a kiss to the top of her knee. The gesture felt almost absentminded, but it still sent a shiver through her.
"There’s that pretty smile."
"Maybe I can get used to it,” she reluctantly admitted.
She was able to confirm for sure later that night when his head was in between her legs, lapping her clit. His beard dragged deliciously against her thighs, sending a rush through her. It also helped that his curls were now the perfect length to pull on as he worked her through her third orgasm.
Jack whined when their lips parted. “That wasn’t enough,” he informed her.
Samira shook her head as she adjusted the hem of his jersey she was wearing, the fabric hanging loose on her frame. “It was a kiss, Abbot.”
“It was one kiss.” Jack glanced around the hallway outside the locker room before leaning closer. “I think we both know I need more than one. Come on, we’ve got a chance to advance tonight.”
Samira stared at him for a moment, taking in the earnest look on his face. It was hard to tell whether he truly believed what he was saying or simply enjoyed making her indulge him. “How many would satisfy you?”
“My number is forty-six.” The look on his face suggested he wasn’t joking.
“Jack, I am not giving you forty-six kisses,” she laughed.
“Fine. Then at least give me six,” he replied, acting as if he were taking one for the team.
Samira sighed but reached for him anyway. She gave him the six kisses in slow succession while he counted each one under his breath. When she pulled back, he looked entirely too pleased with himself. The smug grin alone told her he considered the ritual complete. “Yeah,” he said with a satisfied nod. “I’m definitely scoring.”
Samira rolled her eyes, already backing away towards the hallway. “Just go play hockey.”
She didn’t think much of it after that until later, when Jack buried his second goal of the night to send them through to the conference finals. As hats and rally towels flew through the air and 18,000 fans lost their minds around her, Samira couldn’t help laughing. The idiot was going to be unbearable about this.
Tonight's damage included a bruise forming along his jaw, another disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt, and a cut near his eyebrow she'd spotted during his postgame interview. The game had ended nearly two hours ago, but she could tell he was still running on adrenaline as he watched her unpack her go-bag.
"You should see the other guy," he told her as he lowered the toilet lid and plopped down.
Samira sighed, reaching for gloves and alcohol wipes. "You've said that after every game this postseason."
"Because it's usually true. I can cause some damage."
She ignored him in favor of examining the cut above his eyebrow. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to need cleaning. Somewhere between the first round and the conference finals, patching him up had become part of her evening routine. Every time he came home, he’d inevitably end up sitting in their bathroom while she inspected the latest collection of bruises.
“I am,” he replied, then proceeded to shift when she pressed the alcohol wipe against the cut. Jack hissed but stayed put while she cleaned the wound. Up close she could see the beginnings of discoloration spreading along his jaw.
"That hit was nasty," she told him.
"It was nothing. You make it sound worse than it felt."
She pressed gently along the bruise, assessing the tenderness. “That’s because I worry.”
She reached for the antibiotic ointment and dabbed a small amount over the cut. Jack's shoulders had gradually relaxed throughout the process. "You know, I think this might be lucky."
"This." He gestured vaguely between them.
"You think me putting antibiotic ointment on your face is a superstition?"
"We haven't lost a series since you started doing it,” he noted.
"That's because you're good at hockey."
Jack shrugged. "Maybe. But every time I come home beat up, you fix me, and then we win. I'm just saying the evidence is compelling."
Samira fought a smirk and shook her head. Playoff hockey had apparently rotted his brain. "There," she told him, pressing a bandage over the cleaned cut. "Good as new."
Jack glanced at his reflection in the mirror before looking back at her. "Same time next game?" he asked.
Samira leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, careful to avoid the fresh bandage. "Same time next game."
The arena was complete and utter chaos by the time Samira found him. She barely had time to step onto the ice before he was there, pulling her into his arms. Jack held her so tightly she could feel him shaking. Behind them, the Stanley Cup was making its rounds.
“We did it,” he murmured into her shoulder.
Samira wrapped her arms around his neck. “You did it.”
“No.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands still fixed at her waist. “I couldn't have done it without you.”
She had never seen his hazel eyes light up the way they did right now. Maybe except for when he told her he loved her for the first time.
“Kisses worked,” he added.
Samira rolled her eyes even as she grinned. “I think it’s just a coincidence.”
“And you fixing me after games worked,” he finished.
He kissed her before she could come up with a response, and when he pulled back, Samira realized something. Maybe he was right about his superstitions.
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