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I’mfucked.

Not in the good way. Not in the way that ends with her bent over something solid and me finally getting the taste I’ve been dying for.

Nah. I’m fucked in the way that leaves you pacing locker rooms, replaying a night over and over until it’s not even memory—it’s obsession.

The room stinks like sweat, blood, and old tape. Wyatt’s sporting a black eye from yesterday’s scrimmage—courtesy of Callahan and his weak-ass elbows.

“Looks like hell,” Brody mutters, lacing his skates with the same dead-eyed focus he brings to every drill. “You get him back?”

Wyatt grins, winces. “Dropped him with one. Broke his nose.”

“Good,” Aiden says without looking up. “He needed it.”

Their voices don’t even register. I’m stuck watching Katarina in my head again—throwing that final strike like she owns the world. Hips cocked. Smirk on her lips. That look she gave me when she knew I was watching.

Like she’d drop the act if I gave her a reason.

“Yo, Steele.” Jax’s voice cuts through the fog like a fucking siren. “You gonna sit there mentally undressing your gear, or we skating today? Coach is itching for someone to chew out.”

I blink. Realize I’ve been staring at my shin guards like they’re gonna tell me how to unfuck my head.

“Yeah. I’m moving,” I mutter.

But I’m not. Not where it matters.

I’m still back there—watching her bend for her purse, that top clinging to her like it wanted to slide off. Her scent wrapping around me—citrus and trouble. And that look. The one that saidpush me just a little harder.

“Jesus, man.” Aiden drops onto the bench beside me. “You look like someone told you your mom’s fucking the ref.”

It hits wrong. Way wrong.

My mom was never fucking anything but her next high. A ghost with a pulse. And jokes like that? They dig under skin I never asked to grow.

I don’t show it. But Aiden sees something anyway, because he shuts up fast.

“Just thinking about the corner drill,” I lie, tugging on my base layer.

“You serious? Callahan was the one throwing elbows.”

Yeah. But he’s not the one I want to beat the shit out of right now.

Last night, I should’ve gone home. Crashed. Instead, I ended up at a bowling alley letting Griffin Novak’s sister sink claws into places I didn’t even know were still raw. She beat the shit out of me with a smile on her face, and all I could think about was dragging her into the back and finding out how many pins I could knock down with her legs wrapped around me.

And now? I’ve gotta pretend she’s just a PR move.

“Thinking about what? Your fake girlfriend?” Marcus calls out. Smirking like the coward he is. “Bowling, right? That’s adorable. You two gonna hit up a Build-A-Bear next?”

My fists curl. My jaw locks.

They talk about her like she’s just another locker room joke, and I see red.

“Mind your own fucking business, Foster,” I snap, standing so fast my gear spills across the floor.

The whole room pauses. Like they know what’s coming next.

Marcus lifts his hands. “Easy, killer. Just saying—nutritionist seems like a fun choice. She put out, or are you still working the long game?”

I don’t think.