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But I don’t have a choice.

Not when Liam’s already looking at me like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.

Not when every time he walks into my office, I feel that ghost of a night pressing up behind my eyes.

Not when I swear I’ve caught him watching my mouth like it knows something he’s forgotten. Like some part of him remembers—but hasn’t put the pieces together yet.

That heat. That moan I swore I’d never let escape my throat again.

And not when part of me—some traitorous, aching, reckless part—wants him to figure it out.

Wants him to remember exactly how I came apart under him.

Because as much as I hate him now?

I haven’t stopped wanting him since.

Chapter fifteen

Liam

ThesecondIstepinto the locker room, the whole damn vibe shifts.

It’s not the usual post-practice funk or that thick sweat-and-adrenaline haze I’ve come to expect. No, this is heavier. Tighter. Like walking into a party right after someone says your name, and no one wants to admit it.

Conversations flatline. A few heads turn, then whip back like I’ve got a target on my back.

Awesome.

Another day, another spotlight I didn’t ask for.

I don’t bite. Don’t ask. Just head for my stall and start peeling off my gear like I don’t notice the air's thick enough to skate on. If someone’s got a problem, they can fucking say it to my face. Otherwise, I’m here to sweat and score goals—not play high school gossip games.

But the quiet? It’s surgical. Sharp around the edges.

Brody doesn’t say a word. He usually chirps nonstop about someone’s ex, the bar tab he’s not paying, or whatever influencer he’s trying to DM. Today? Silent. Not even a jab.

Wyatt, the loudest of the defense line, won’t meet my eyes.

Even Aiden—our brick wall of a captain—throws me a look. Not pissed. Just tight. Like he knows something I don’t, and he’s deciding whether it’s worth warning me.

So yeah. Clearly, I missed a memo.

Fine.

I keep my mouth shut and lace up. This isn’t the first locker room that’s iced me out. I’ve earned that reputation—hothead, uncoachable, locker room poison. I don’t care what they whisper. Let ’em talk. The ice is where I answer.

And today? I answer hard.

Practice is surgical. Brutal. I hit every shift like I’m trying to knock the boards loose. Every pass sharp. Every shot loud. By the time the final whistle blows, my legs burn, my lungs ache,and my gloves are soaked. But it feels good. Controlled violence always has.

Back in the locker room, the tension’s looser. Guys start talking again—louder now, forced. But not at me. Around me. Like I’m radioactive and they’re hoping I won’t notice.

I do.

But I let it slide. I’ve got bigger shit to worry about than locker room politics.

At least, I think I do—until the assistant coach calls my name.