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I’ve jerked off to that memory more times than I care to admit, but it’s never enough. Nothing else even comes close.

“You know what your problem is?” Trent leans forward, pointing his bottle at me. “You’re overthinking it. Not every girl wants to walk down the aisle after one night, and thank god for that.”

“Some of us just want to get our dicks wet,” Brody adds with a grin.

“Exactly,” I lie, even though the truth—that I want what Aiden has so bad it’s rotting me from the inside—is clawing to get out. “Girls that hang around hockey players are trouble. They’re looking for a paycheck or Instagram followers. Fake as hell.”

Even as I say it, I’m thinking about her again. The mystery woman who felt real in a way that scared the shit out of me. Who challenged me instead of just agreeing with everything I said. Who left without a word, taking a piece of me I didn’t know I could lose.

“Sounds like you’re talking yourself out of getting laid,” Brody observes.

“Sounds like I’m being smart.” I drain the rest of my beer. “I’ve got enough shit to deal with without adding relationship drama to the mix.”

The truth is, I don’t want just anyone anymore. I want her. The woman whose face I never saw but whose body I mapped with my hands and mouth until she was shaking underneath me. The one who got away before I could fuck it up like I always do.

Watching Aiden with her is like being benched during overtime—I’m close enough to see what I want, but not good enough to have it.

Aiden’s laugh carries across the bar, and I watch Aurora’s face light up in response. They’re in their own world, completely absorbed in each other, and for a second I imagine what it would feel like to have that. To be someone’s entire focus instead of their biggest regret.

My phone buzzes—another missed call from Coach Dawson. The old bastard’s been trying to reach me since practice ended, probably wanting to lecture me about my attitude or my performance or whatever stick he’s got up his ass today. I decline the call and shove the phone back in my pocket.

“You good, man?” Brody asks, noticing my mood shift.

“Perfect,” I say, signaling the bartender for another round. “Just thinking about how much I love my fucking life.”

The guys laugh, thinking I’m joking. If only they knew how close to the edge I am—how every day feels like I’m one bad play awayfrom losing everything I’ve worked for. How the only thing that made sense in months was a woman I can’t find and probably wouldn’t want me if I could.

I raise my fresh beer in a mock toast. “To distractions,” I say. “And all the ways they’ll fuck you over.”

The guys drink to that, but I’m already somewhere else. Somewhere dark and desperate, wondering if I’ll ever feel that alive again or if I’m destined to watch other people live the life I want from the sidelines.

Either way, I’m one hit away from cracking wide open—and I don’t know if anyone will notice when I do.

Chapter eleven

Katarina

Therecoverysessionwasn'tsupposed to include me.

But here I am, clipboard in hand, watching the team's post-practice cooldown routine while pretending this is about collecting data on hydration needs.

It's not.

Truth is, it's not just about Liam Steele stripped down to compression shorts and a tank top, the same Liam Steele Griffin warned me to stay away from—it's that I'm now imagining peeling those shorts off with my teeth. He's foam rolling his quads with the kind of focused intensity that makes my mouth go dry, and I'm pretty sure Griffin would rather see me datinga serial killer. "You're supposed to be taking notes," I mutter to myself, but my pen hasn't moved in five minutes.

The recovery room smells like Tiger Balm and male sweat. Players sprawled across mats, working knots out of muscles that have been abused for the past two hours. Some joke around. Others focus on their bodies with scientific precision. Liam falls into the second category.

He's isolated himself in the far corner, working methodically through stretches that showcase every line of muscle I've been trying not to think about. When he transitions from foam rolling to hip flexor stretches, I grip my pen hard enough to crack it.

The stretch forces him into a low lunge, one leg extended behind him, the other bent just enough to pull his compression shorts tight across his ass. His tank top rides up, exposing a strip of golden skin sliver of his lower abs—the kind that form that impossible V just above his waistband.

It’s barely a flash, but it fries a circuit in my brain.

My gaze snaps up—cheeks flaring—and I clamp my attention on the chart, desperate to keep my mind from sliding south of that V. I really shouldn't be watching this closely

What is wrong with you Kat?

Griffin would lose his mind if he knew I was even in the same room as Liam, let alone watching him stretch while I'm thinking about how those hip flexors would feel wrapped around my waist while he pounds into me.