Page 31

I’ve never seen anything like Slater on the ice today.

The violence was something else—raw, primal, like he was channeling something much darker than hockey strategy.

He dominated every shift, throwing players into the boards with hits that echoed through the entire arena.

What struck me most was how the rest of the team fed off his energy.

Even when he wasn’t running the correct plays, they followed his lead, matching his intensity shift after shift.

The coach was screaming at them from the bench for the first period, trying to get them back on strategy, but eventually even he seemed to realize that whatever Slater was doing was working. The team looked unstoppable, like they could take on anyone.

But I was mostly in the back of the training area, helping guys who’d been slammed into the boards and taking notes on their minor injuries.

Bruised ribs, tweaked shoulders, the usual aftermath of a game that physical.

My job was to assess and plan their recovery, not to watch Slater demolish Milwaukee’s entire roster.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice the way he moved like he was fighting demons instead of hockey players.

Now, back at the hotel, everything’s different.

Slater didn’t ask for a keycard to my room this time.

He’s kept his head down, stayed with the team, hasn’t looked at me once since we got off the bus.

I tell myself it doesn’t bother me—he owes me nothing, after all.

We’re friends, right? That’s what I told him.

But it does bother me, more than I want to admit.

Maybe he feels secure in whatever this temporary relationship is because all my belongings are at his place. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to chase me anymore because he knows I have nowhere else to go. The thought makes my stomach churn with something that feels dangerously close to dependence.

I want his attention, and I hate that I want it.

So, I decide to disappear.

Instead of going to my room, I leave the hotel and walk down the street. I turn around once to see if he took the bait, if he’s following me. He’s not. The sidewalk behind me is empty, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

I find a bar a few blocks away and slide onto a barstool, ordering a vodka tonic that I probably shouldn’t afford. The bartender is friendly enough, and the place is quiet for a weekend.

I use the time to pull up apartment listings on my phone, filling out application after application with increasingly little hope. The process is vigorous—credit checks, employment verification, references, security deposits.

I look at my credit score and take a long drink, knowing nowhere decent is going to accept my application. The Tyler situation tanked my credit when I had to break my lease and flee across the country with nothing but what fit in my car.

Maybe I need to find a roommate situation on Facebook, like how I found Emma. But that idea makes me nauseous. What if I end up in another awkward situation? The whole thing with Emma feels predatory and disgusting.

I take another sip, wondering if I left anything important at that apartment. Whatever I forgot is Emma’s now because I’m not going back.

“Thirsty?” a guy asks, sliding onto the stool next to me.

I shake my head without looking up from my phone. “Actually, I was just leaving.”

“I just got here,” he tries to charm me with what’s probably his best smile. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“No offense, but I’m not interested.” I flag down the bartender. “Closing my tab.”

“Order her a Long Island,” the guy calls out to the bartender.

I glare at him. He doesn’t seem drunk, and he seems harmless enough, but I’m definitely not interested in whatever this is.

The bartender looks between us. “I’ll get this tab closed for you. You still want a Long Island?”

I’m about to say no when a shadow emerges from behind me.

“She said she wasn’t interested.”

My heart nearly explodes in my chest. I know that voice, can hear the dangerous edge in it that reminds me of how he played today.

The guy takes one look at Slater and walks off without another word.

Slater gets right in my face and whispers, “You trying to pick someone up?”

“No.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?”

The honesty spills out before I can stop it. “To get your attention.”

The bartender hands me back my card, and I thank him. Then Slater turns on his heel and walks out without another word.

“Slater,” I call out, but he keeps walking. I run up to his side. “What’s going on with you?”

He halts suddenly, towering over me. “You already have my attention... all of it and—”

“No, I don’t. You’ve been somewhere else ever since we got to Milwaukee.”

His jaw clenches, and then he storms off again. I catch up, grabbing his arm.

“Talk to me,” I whisper. God, I hate how I sound like I’m begging.

He rubs a frustrated hand down his face. “I don’t talk, Sage. I sure as fuck am not friends with anyone.”

“Is that what this is about? You don’t want to be my friend?”

“No,” he says, leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. “I’ve been holding myself back, but the truth is I want…”

“Want what?” My eyebrows shoot up as I try to imagine what he’s about to admit. This man who can’t admit to anything is ready to tell me something sacred. And I want to hear it.

I want to hear what he wants.

“You want my attention? Well, you fucking got it, Sage. I’m shooting my puck. Are you blocking it, or letting me in?”

Heat spreads through my body at the hockey metaphor, at the raw honesty in his voice. I want to let him in. I do.

But then the memories crash over me of what happens when you let someone in.

Tyler… the blindfold, hearing his voice in the distance while someone else’s hands and lips were on me.

A dick inside of me that didn’t belong to my boyfriend.

Begging for the blindfold to be removed, only to see him filming everything while jerking off in the corner.

The way he tried to force himself into my mouth afterward, how I bit him hard enough to draw blood and the slap that followed. It turned darker after that.

The thoughts become too jumbled, too overwhelming. All the threats. Tyler’s best friend’s laugh. It all becomes too much.

I look at Slater, trying to focus on him. Focus on the now. But he’s being impatient, wanting an answer. I can see it in his shoulders.

I can’t give him a fucking answer because I both do and don’t want to.

I see how unfair that is, but what else am I supposed to do? I shake my head. I can’t fucking do this.

What if he turns out to be like Tyler?

I shake my head again, backing away.

I can’t give Slater what he wants, but I can’t explain why either.

Instead of trying to explain anything, I storm off with tears burning my eyes.

I make it to the hotel elevator with him following quietly behind me.

As soon as the doors close, he says, “What was that?”

I don’t answer, wiggling my toes impatiently as I wait for the doors to open again.

When the elevator opens, I race down the hall to my room.

I fumble with the keycard, my hands shaking.

He catches the door before it can close all the way.

“Sage,” he says when I don’t answer, moving fully into the room and letting the door click shut behind him.

“Drop it,” I mumble, tossing my purse onto the desk with shaking hands. The simple action feels monumental, like I’m trying to hold myself together through the most basic of movements.

But Slater isn’t dropping anything. He grabs my arm, his grip firm but not painful, turning my body toward his. The contact sends electricity through my skin, even as my mind rebels against it.

“No,” he says.

I glare up at him, noting how his eyes are blazing with something dark and unrelenting. There are still remnants of whatever consumed him during the game—that energy that made him untouchable on the ice.

“You don’t trust me, is that it?” he asks, like trust is something I should just hand over without question.

The fucked-up part is that it’s not even about trust. Not really. I shake my head, unable to find words for the mess in my head.

“Then what the fuck is it?” he demands.

He moves closer, and I find myself backing up until the backs of my knees hit the bed. But I don’t sit down, don’t give him that advantage. I stand my ground even as my heart hammers against my ribs.

He continues, “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re fucking terrified and pretending you don’t feel what’s really going on here.”

“It’s better this way,” I whisper, the words barely audible.

He gets even closer, close enough that I can smell his soap, see the depth in his dark eyes. “Why?”

My mind races at a million miles per second while my body screams conflicting messages. Part of me wants to close the distance between us, to stop rejecting him because of my past and let this man be my future. To indulge in whatever this magnetic pull is and see where it leads.

But my rational side knows better. Being wrapped up in someone like Slater—someone with that much intensity, that much darkness—would shred me to pieces.

He doesn’t have the capacity for the kind of love I think I need.

I don’t need to be someone’s possession, don’t need to be controlled or pressured into anything.

I need someone simple and kind. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But even as I think it, I question the notion.

Someone simple and kind wouldn’t be able to handle me and all my demons.

They wouldn’t understand the nightmares, the way I flinch at unexpected touches, the walls I’ve built so high I’m not sure I remember how to tear them down.

I don’t have a family back home who would pay for a wedding or even attend one.

I can’t marry the captain of the hockey team.

But I sure as hell could fall for the most damaged one.