Page 29

While I work on mobility exercises with Richardson and Davidson in the training room, my eyes keep drifting to the locker area where I know Slater is. I wonder if his hip is okay after that brutal game, but I can’t ask him in public.

Helping him with his hip is completely off the record, and as long as I’m able to help him, I’ll continue to monitor his pain privately. It’s the least I can do, especially when I can see how much he needs it even if he’ll never admit it.

During the game, I watched him dominate the ice like hockey was personal warfare. The way he plowed through Chicago players with violence, the multiple trips to the penalty box, the pure aggression radiating from every hit—it was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

I’m not sure if living with him is the best idea. I mean… watching him play so aggressively like that on the ice? Red flag. The list of horrible things Riley mentioned from his past? Red flag. Never allowing anyone in? Probably a red flag.

At least this weekend is a good buffer. We’ll be on this trip for two more days, and I’ll have time to apply to apartments, maybe find somewhere I can afford.

The team wins 5-2, and they’re celebrating by planning a night out. The bus ride back to the hotel is full of energy—guys are fired up, reliving the best hits and goals, talking trash about Chicago’s defense.

I keep my focus straight ahead, honestly just wanting to get into my hotel bed and finally get some real sleep. Today has been a marathon of emotions, and I’m running on fumes.

I can hear the guys planning to hang out downstairs in the hotel lobby behind me, while others are saying they’re beat and need rest for tomorrow’s game in Milwaukee.

When we arrive at the hotel, I get off the bus first, say goodnight to the coaches, and politely decline when Henderson invites me out for drinks. Then I head straight up to my room, my keycard already in hand.

The hot shower is exactly what I need. The water washes away the stress of the day, the anxiety about my living situation, the confusion about whatever’s happening with Slater. I let myself stand under the spray longer than necessary, just breathing and trying to center myself.

When I finally step out, I wrap a fluffy hotel towel around myself and walk into the main room to grab my pajamas from my bag.

A shadow in the corner makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, clutching my chest where my heart is hammering. “You shouldn’t be in here, Slater.”

“Just wanted to check in with my...” His eyes travel down my body in a way that makes my insides clench with something that definitely isn’t fear. “Friend.”

The way he says ‘friend’ makes it sound like a dirty word.

“You could’ve texted me,” I say.

He shrugs, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s invaded my privacy. “I could’ve.”

I try to focus on being professional, on treating this like any other client interaction. “How’s your hip?”

He breathes out a stream of hot air, and there’s something dangerous in his expression. “Always mean business.”

I shrug, trying to ignore the tension radiating off him. “I’m just checking in on you. The game was intense. Do you always play like that?”

He glares at me like I’ve asked him something offensive.

“Can you give me a second to get dressed?”

He turns his back to me but doesn’t leave. “I won’t peek.”

“Slater,” I scoff. “Come on.”

“I’m giving you privacy. Appreciate it.”

“This isn’t privacy. I’m taking my things into the bathroom.” I gather my clothes with shaking hands and head toward the bathroom.

I’m trembling, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared of him or scared to be around him.

Either way, my nerves are shot. He’s acting like he’s mad at me, and his attitude right now is unlike any other time we’ve interacted.

He’s being snarky, an arrogant smart ass with an edge that puts me on high alert.

My plan was to start applying to apartments tonight, but I can’t do that if he’s here in my space, watching my every move with those dark eyes.

I take a deep breath, pull on my pajamas—modest cotton shorts and a tank top—and open the bathroom door.

He’s still standing in the exact same spot, his back to me, like he hasn’t moved a muscle. When I step out, he slowly turns around, and the look in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.

“Better?” he asks. The way he’s looking at me suggests my pajamas aren’t much of a barrier to whatever’s going on in his head.

“Seriously, what are you doing here? The team’s downstairs celebrating. Shouldn’t you be with them?”

“Not much of a celebrator.”

“You played incredible tonight. Three assists, dominated the ice—”

“And got called for four penalties,” he cuts me off. “Not exactly textbook hockey.”

“But still fire,” I point out. “Chicago was terrified of you by the third period.”

Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction, maybe, or pride.

I walk over to the bed and pull back the covers, hoping he’ll take the hint that I’m ready to sleep. But he doesn’t move from his spot by the window.

“Are you planning to stay long?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“Depends.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture makes his biceps strain against his t-shirt in a way that’s completely distracting.

“I’m pretty boring, actually. Tonight, I am planning to get some sleep before tomorrow’s comes.”

“Sleep.” He says it like it’s a foreign concept. “Right.”

There’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more carefully. His jaw is tense, his shoulders rigid, and there’s a restless energy coming off him that wasn’t there during lunch. It’s like the violence from the ice followed him back here.

“Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly.

“Perfect.” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just thought I’d check on my friend. See how you’re settling in.”

There’s that word again—friend—but the way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he’s testing it, seeing how it tastes.

“I’m settling in fine, thanks.” I snuggle the blanket, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. “Really tired though.”

“From what? You didn’t play.”

My eyes dart to him. “From... the day? Moving my entire life, traveling, working—”

“Right. The moving.” He pushes off from the wall and starts walking slowly around the room, like he’s inspecting it. “Into my house. Temporarily.”

“Yes, temporarily.” I watch him nervously as he stops at the desk, running his fingers along the surface. “Just until I find something else.”

“And how’s that going? The apartment hunting?”

My stomach drops. “I just started looking.”

“Hmm.” He picks up the hotel pen and turns it over in his hands. “Competitive market out there. Expensive too.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I don’t like the way he’s circling, the predatory calm in his movements. It reminds me too much of the ice, the way he stalked Chicago players before demolishing them.

“You should probably get some rest,” I say, even though this is my room, and he should be the one leaving.

He stops moving and tilts his head. “Or we can talk about earlier?”

“Earlier?” I question, hating this so much. He’s a fucking wild card. I have no idea what happens next.

“The stretches.” His eyes are dark, unreadable. “When you called me your friend.”

My cheeks burn.

He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. “Is that what we’re calling this? Friendship?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I can feel him watching me, cataloging every reaction, every breath.

“You know what I think?” he says finally.

“What?”

“I think you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

He takes a step closer to the bed. “Of admitting that this—” he gestures between us “—isn’t professional. Isn’t friendship. Isn’t temporary.”

My mouth goes dry. “Slater—”

“But that’s okay.” Another step closer. “I’m a patient man. I can wait for you to figure it out.”

The way he says it doesn’t sound patient at all. It sounds like a warning.

“I really am tired,” I whisper.

He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “Of course, you are. You had a big day.”

He heads toward the door, and I think he’s finally leaving. But he pauses with his hand on the handle.

“Sweet dreams, Sage.” He turns to look at me one more time. “Try not to think about your friend too much while you’re sleeping.”

The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left sitting on the bed, my heart racing and my skin flushed at his tone.

I stare at the ceiling.

I don’t think I’m going to be getting much sleep tonight.

But exhaustion wins, and I must drift off because I wake up thinking that he’s next to me again. The familiar weight of a body in bed, the warmth radiating from someone close. But when I reach across the sheets, they’re cold and empty.

He’s not beside me. He’s in the shadows.

“Slater,” I whisper into the darkness. “Stop messing with me.”

But out of the shadows steps someone else. My blood turns to ice as I recognize the face, I’ve tried so hard to forget.

“Hello, Sage,” Tyler says, his voice exactly the same. That smooth, confident tone that used to make me feel special. “Ready to fuck?”

I scream—

And wake up from the nightmare, shooting up in bed with my heart hammering against my ribs. My eyes frantically search the room as I reach for the bedside lamp, flooding the space with light.

I’m alone in this hotel room. Completely alone.

And there’s something about it that makes me shiver. Like somehow this life can’t be real. It’s impossible. Someone like me doesn’t deserve to be in a hotel right now.

After a moment of relief that Tyler isn’t hiding in my hotel room, I exhale.

I remind myself that I’m safe. Then the memory of how the dream started was because I was searching the bed for Slater.

All the pain and trauma I’ve tried so hard to bury is right in front of my face because of him.

There’s something about him that’s unnerving.

Am I a magnet for horrible men? Is that my pattern?

I cannot live with Slater, so I grab my phone to search for more apartments, but there are texts waiting for me.

Slater: I’m texting first this time

Slater: Can I come in?

Slater: I can’t sleep

My heart plummets when I see the timestamps. The last text was sent an hour ago. Maybe he’s not like Tyler? Maybe he wouldn’t blindfold me, strip me, tie me up naked, and make me think it was his mouth when it wasn’t, filming everything without my consent.

I shake my head frantically, trying to push away the memories. I don’t like being alone with these nightmares, with the demons that claw their way out when I’m vulnerable.

Sage: Okay

My hands are shaking when I hit send on that text, but the truth is that I need a friend. And maybe Slater isn’t as bad as I think? I can’t know for sure, but right now I need someone.

Mere seconds later, I hear the keycard beep and Slater slides into my room, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks gently.

There’s something about his voice, the concern in it, that breaks the dam I’ve been holding back. Suddenly tears are streaming down my face, and I’m scared. Scared of myself, scared of being homeless, scared of this new job, this new life I’m living with no one to catch me if I fall.

Then suddenly Slater’s arms are wrapped around me, and I feel like someone actually cares. He cradles the back of my head with one large hand, and I don’t want to find comfort in the arms of another man, but I can’t help it. I can’t help that Slater makes me feel safe.

“Don’t leave,” I cry into his chest, and he pulls me tighter until my breath catches. Gradually my sobs subside, and he’s completely calmed my panic attack.

His scent is still unfamiliar, but somehow comforting. When he pulls back slightly, I study his features—the crooked nose that must have been broken at least once, the square jawline, his hooded eyes that are full of genuine concern.

“My demons see yours, Sage,” he says quietly.

My eyes flutter closed. Did I hear him correctly? Because there’s no way he’s referencing something I said to him days ago. How could those four words mean so much to me?

I throw my arms around him and hug him tightly, and it takes everything in me not to climb into his lap and indulge in whatever connection this is. We could fuck the demons out of each other, couldn’t we? But instead, I keep myself in control and embrace this hug.

“You’re a good friend,” I whisper against his shoulder.

He doesn’t freeze this time, doesn’t appear upset when he pulls back, and I think he finally understands.

“Lay down,” he commands softly.

When I settle back against the pillow, he lies beside and tugs my body into his.