Page 19

When I walk into the training facility the next morning, Riley’s office is empty. Not just empty—stripped. His diplomas are gone from the walls, his coffee mug missing from the desk, even the small succulent he kept by his computer has vanished.

Two women in identical navy suits are waiting for me. HR.

“Ms. Monroe? Can you sit down, please?” Mrs. Martinez says.

My legs feel unsteady as I lower myself into the chair across from Riley’s—no, not Riley’s anymore—desk. Mrs. Martinez pulls out a tablet, her expression carefully neutral.

“Mr. Smith submitted his resignation last night, effective immediately. We’re going to need you to step into his role temporarily until we can find a suitable replacement.”

I gasp. “He resigned?”

“Personal reasons,” the younger woman says, her tone suggesting no further questions will be entertained. “Can we count on you to handle this for today?”

I nod numbly, though inside I’m reeling. Riley didn’t resign. He ran. Slater’s threats worked exactly like he knew they would, and now I’m left to pick up the pieces.

After HR leaves with their paperwork and promises to “be in touch,” I sit alone in the office that’s mine for the day. My phone buzzes with a text from my roommate Emma.

The photo that fills my screen makes my stomach clench. Emma at some music festival, her chest barely covered by bright pink tape arranged in X’s over her nipples, her smile wide and carefree.

Why is she sending me this?

This is so weird.

“Is that the boyfriend?”

I nearly drop my phone. Slater is standing in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space, and I realize I didn’t hear him come in. My hands shake as I quickly lock the screen of my phone.

“My roommate,” I manage to say, hating how breathless I sound.

His presence is overwhelming. I saw his dick last night, and my pulse is out of control right now.

Heat floods my cheeks. “Can I help you?”

He cocks his head, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much. “You can.”

Shit.

My face burns as quickly my mind runs to being tied up, blindfolded, and—

He steps into the office and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

There’s a sheer panic that overtakes me. He can’t be doing this to me right now.

“Your turn,” he says wickedly.

The words hit me like ice water. My stomach drops, that familiar roller-coaster sensation of panic beginning to build. I almost choke on my own saliva. “What?”

The lock turns with a decisive snap. He crosses his arms, leaning against the door like he owns the space. “I said your turn.”

“No.” The word comes out strangled and then I straighten my spine. “Get out.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge my demand. I push past him, reaching for the door handle with trembling fingers. I’m claustrophobic right now, feeling helpless. Feeling fucking terrified of what he’s about to make me do.

He points out, “You’re panicking.”

“Get out!” The desperation in my voice echoes off the walls.

His hand appears above mine, holding the door closed as soon as I manage to crack it open. “Not until you tell me what the hell your problem is.”

I shake my head frantically, trying hard not to cry. “Leave!”

“You’re shaking.” His voice is softer now, confused rather than commanding. He reaches for my hands, and I can see genuine concern in his eyes. “What the fuck did I do?”

I push him away, but he’s immovable. A wall of muscle and heat that’s suddenly too close, too overwhelming. “Slater, leave.”

But the panic is building now, that familiar tightness in my chest that means I’m losing control. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and suddenly I’m not in Riley’s old office anymore. I’m back in that hotel room, the one that destroyed everything.

“I was making a stupid joke,” Slater says, his voice cutting through the haze of memory. “I thought it was only fair.”

The casualness of it, the expectation, makes something snap inside me. “That’s not how you start a relationship!”

My heart is racing a million miles per second, and the fact that he got rid of Riley so fast with his threat, and now I’m all alone with no protection––it sends me into a deep spiral.

He shakes his head, confused, stepping closer until I’m trapped against the wall. “Sage. Talk to me.”

“You arrogant fuck!” I push against his chest, but it’s like pushing against stone. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Was it your ex?” The question is quiet, deadly.

“What?” I gasp, hesitating. Does he know?

His eyes go cold, flat. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

I shout, “That doesn’t make any fucking sense! You don’t even know me! You don’t know anything!”

Before I can react, his hand is on my face, fingers gripping my jaw as he turns my head to the side. The feeling of being controlled, positioned, makes my vision blur with panic.

“Tonight,” he whispers against my skin.

“I can’t.” My voice cracks. “I have too much work because Riley’s gone.”

“You’re coming over tonight. You don’t have a choice.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the echo of his words.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, my professional facade finally cracking completely. The tears come first, hot and angry, followed by the familiar symptoms I know too well. Racing heart, shallow breathing, the feeling that my chest is being crushed by invisible hands.

That’s not how you start a relationship.

The irony of my own words hits me like a slap. Because that’s exactly how it started with Marcus. The basketball player I thought I loved, the one who made me feel special and wanted until the night everything changed.

I close my eyes and I’m back there, back in that hotel room after his championship game. I’d been so happy, so proud of him, so caught up in the celebration that I didn’t think twice about what he was asking of me. He said he wanted to continue the celebration, have the best night together.

I trusted him.

The blindfold was his request. A trust between people two people in love. But I see now that he was never in love with me. Just wanted me for my face, used my body for his own sick fantasies, having his friend join in without my consent.

I literally picked up my entire life to run away from that night. Running from a sick fucking nightmare.

This has nothing to do with Slater. It’s about me.

About the part of myself I lost that night and have never been able to get back.

The part that used to enjoy sex, that used to feel comfortable in my own skin, that used to believe desire was something beautiful instead of something that could be used and broken.

I want to trust men. God, I want to feel safe enough to let someone in. But every time I think about being seen, being vulnerable again, all I can think about is how quickly love can turn to shit.

How quickly pleasure can become pain.

I sit on the office floor for a long time, letting the panic run its course, knowing that tonight I’ll have to face him again. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to explain why the thought of his eyes on my body feels less like invitation and more like violation.

Even when part of me desperately wants to say yes.

I force myself to stand, wiping my face with the back of my hand and smoothing down my hair. Professional. I need to be professional. I have a job to do, and falling apart in Riley’s old office isn’t going to help anything.

The training room is busy when I emerge, players scattered across various stations working on their bodies like the finely tuned machines they are. I grab my supplies and approach the nearest player—Davidson, the one Slater slammed into the boards the other day.

“How’s the shoulder today?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound steady.

“Better,” he says, settling onto the table. “Whatever you did helped.”

I begin working on his shoulder, focusing on the familiar rhythm of assessment and treatment. It grounds me, gives my hands something to do and my mind something to focus on other than the memory of Slater jerking off as soon as I left the room last night.

I can feel eyes on me.

I glance up and find Slater in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His chest is rising and falling heavily, and there’s something dangerous in his expression as he watches my hands move across Davidson’s skin. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet.

I can read him like a damn book. The possessiveness, the barely controlled anger, the way his jaw clenches every time I adjust my grip or move to a different muscle group.

He doesn’t like my hands on other players.

The realization should probably scare me, but instead it sends an unwanted thrill through my stomach.

He doesn’t stop staring.

I inhale, wondering when the hell he took to liking me? Because it was so sudden and out of nowhere, and I’m not sure I fully understand it.

“Jesus,” Davidson mutters under his breath. “What did you do to anger the bull?”

I try to keep my expression neutral. “Is that what you guys call him?”

Davidson lets out a quiet laugh. “Nah. We usually say don’t poke Satan.” He shifts on the table, glancing toward Slater’s corner. “Seriously though, be careful around him. Guy’s got a reputation for a reason.”

I wish I could find that funny, but there’s nothing humorous about the file that Riley read to me.

His brother died on the ice? He tried killing himself by overdosing?

It’s no wonder why he’s so damn brooding.

There’s also nothing funny about the way Slater’s watching me right now.

Nothing funny about the threat he made earlier or the way he’d trapped me against the wall.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, finishing up Davidson’s session.

Twenty minutes later, one of the coach’s calls me into his office.

The space is exactly what you’d expect from a hockey coach—organized chaos.

Plays are scribbled on whiteboards, trophies crowd every available surface, and stacks of game footage DVDs teeter precariously on his desk.

The smell of old coffee and determination hangs in the air.

“Sit down, Monroe,” he says, not looking up from a clipboard covered in illegible handwriting.

I settle into the chair across from his desk, noting the way his office feels lived-in compared to Riley’s sterile space.

“We’re traveling this weekend,” he says, finally looking up. “Chicago, then Milwaukee. Two games, three days. Since Riley decided to bail on us”—his tone makes it clear he’s not buying the resignation story—“we need you there.”

My stomach tightens. “Really?”

“Riley didn’t mention it?” he questions.

I shake my head. “Neither did Mrs. Martinez, but I will be there, sir. Coach . I understand what the job entails, and I will be there.”

He slides a packet of information across the desk. “Flight details, hotel info, meal allowances. Pretty standard stuff, but since this is your first trip with us, figured you should know what to expect.”

I flip through the papers, noting tomorrow’s flight time, mid-morning, and the hotel arrangements. “Looks like we’re staying overnight.”

“Both nights, actually. Flying back Sunday morning.” He leans back in his chair, studying me with the same intensity he probably uses to analyze game footage. “You okay with travel? Hope you can find someone to watch your cat.”

I grin. “No cat, coach. I will be there. Thank you.”

“Good. Because we need someone who can keep these guys in line, physically speaking. Riley might not have been perfect, but he knew how to manage egos and injuries.” His expression softens slightly. “You’re young for this kind of responsibility, but from what I’ve seen, you know what you’re doing.”

Great. No pressure at all.

I stand to leave, clutching the travel packet against my chest like armor. Two days on the road with the team. Two days of close quarters and nowhere to hide.

Two days of trying to avoid Slater Castellano while being professionally required to treat him if he needs it.

This is my inescapable new hell.