Page 19

THIRTEEN

COURTNEY

The morning starts the same way it always does now—Auguste waiting outside my apartment like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

No Samson today. Just him, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a warm muffin in the other.

He doesn’t say anything when I step outside. Just holds the coffee out like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t stare at me like I was oxygen the night before. Like I didn’t remind him— us —that we’re friends. That we can’t be more.

Problem is… the air between us doesn’t get the memo.

When my fingers brush his to take the cup, the warmth zings up my arm like a live wire. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching me.

I brush past him, sucking in a lungful of air until my chest burns. “You know this is starting to feel a little serial killer-y, right?”

He chuffs a low breath, one corner of his mouth tugging up slightly. “You’re welcome.”

“For what? My last breakfast before you push me off a cliff?”

He steps in closer, voice dropping low. “For knowing what you need before you even ask.”

My breath catches. My heartbeat stutters.

Okay, I see where we are this morning. Game on, Bruce.

I spin toward the car before he can see the flush creeping up my neck. “You could at least pretend this is about coffee and not some silent power play.”

He holds the passenger door open like the perfect gentleman, but the heat in his stare is anything but chivalrous .

“I’m not playing, Princess,” he murmurs.

My knees nearly buckle when his hand hovers over the small of my back.

Every pore of my skin is itching for him to touch me. Every thought is revolving around the moment he will, imagining it and all the ways it’ll wreck me in the best way.

Except, it never happens. Auguste’s hand never makes contact.

I climb into the passenger seat, jaw tight, pulse wild. The door clicks shut behind me with a finality that feels like a line drawn in ink.

By the time I settle in, the engine purrs to life, and then the music kicks in.

I recognize it instantly.

15 Minutes by Madison Beer drips through the speakers like honeyed venom.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.

Without air all my muscles stiffen. I’m a pent up ball of all the things I shouldn’t be when it comes to August Broussard.

The fucker absolutely put this on.

He says nothing. Just drives like he didn’t just choose a song that might as well be the soundtrack to my entire internal spiral.

The tension winds tighter with each second that plays. I ignore it. Pretend I don’t notice the song. Pretend I’m not clenching my thighs together while he drives like his hands aren’t capable of ruining me.

Instead, I stuff my mouth with the muffin.

The one he baked for me.

Wash it down with the coffee.

The one he brought me.

In the reusable Snow White cup he bought for me after the first time he waited outside my apartment.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to because the shift between us is beyond palpable—it’s living and breathing with a pulse of its own. A thrum that’s echoing through me with every beat of my heart in my chest. Throbbing through my veins.

All I can do not to reach to the side and touch him is stare out the window. Pretending like none of this is getting under my skin.

Pretending like the scent of him and the heat between us aren’t tying knots in my stomach.

Because even if I try to convince myself we’re just friends—coffee and muffins and rides to work—I know the truth.

This tension ?

This pull?

It doesn’t stay caged for long. Eventually, something will give. And when it does, I’m scared it won’t just break the rules we’re pretending to follow.

It’s going to break one of us.

And I’m terrified it’s going to be me.

The facility is buzzing—PR meetings, player stretches and drills echoing down corridors. Everyone’s moving in controlled chaos, and I’m trying not to trip over my own feet with all the gear I’m carrying. The video crew asked me to help them set up for their one-on-one shorts with the players.

“Hey, whoa—let me help with that,” Jordan says, suddenly appearing beside me from one of the therapy rooms.

I blink up at him through my disheveled hair, my arms full of camera equipment and a lighting tripod that’s threatening to jab someone in the eye. “You sure? I’m pretty used to looking like a walking yard sale.”

Jordan grins. “I can’t in good conscience let Coach Nilsson’s daughter drop a three-thousand-dollar lens. I like my job too much.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “Fine. You get one heroic moment.”

He chuckles and grabs the tripod from under my arm, tucking it against his side like it weighs nothing. “Where to?”

“I’m setting up in the space next to the locker room. Making it easier for myself to dash and grab the equipment as it’s needed in the locker room later.”

We fall into step, and I notice—like I always do—how easy Jordan is to talk to. He’s casual. Warm. Comfortable.

“How’s the third week treating you?” he asks.

“About the same as the first week.”

“Sans puck to the head, thankfully. Right?”

I’ve been keeping myself busy so I don’t think about Auguste. Spent my whole morning up in the PR and Marketing office going through photos and footage so the team can put in their requests for this week.

“Right,” I murmur in reply. “It’s actually healed now, I sort of forgot about it to be honest.”

Lie.

I’m a liar. There’s no way I’ve forgotten about it because I can’t get Auguste-goddamn-Broussard off my mind, and every time I look in the mirror, the pink scar is the first thing I look for. Like it’s a token of our meet cute.

The sicko that he’s making me, I trace the raw line with my finger as though touching the scar he gave me is like touching him—Auguste-freaking-Broussard is ruining me, my sanity, my logic…

“You’re right, it has healed quickly.” Jordan peers closer at my hairline when I pause to hitch the equipment bags on my shoulders up again. His fingers are inches from my face, from that one lock of hair next to my scar that refuses to cooperate when he tells me, “Lucky for Broussard.”

He smiles and my insides skitter at the mention of Auguste’s name.

“So, I heard the guys from marketing rave about the shots you got of Ansel and Micah at Disneyland yesterday. Have to say your stuff looks great all over socials.”

“Thanks. That’s good to hear.” I feel a flicker of pride and try not to show too much of it.

“Maybe the gods upstairs will offer you a permanent position.”

“Oh, well… actually I already have a job lined up in New Orleans.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s still weird working with my dad.”

“Eh, you’re doing better than I would in your shoes. I’d probably have already gotten myself fired just to avoid the awkward run-ins.”

I chuckle at his remark because as weird as it is working with Dad, it’s been great so far.

We reach the set up room, and Jordan sets the gear down on the long table by the far wall. He steps back with a satisfied grin. “Boom. Flawless delivery.”

I’m about to thank him again when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

In the hallway, just beyond the open doorway?—

Auguste.

Standing near the water machine, one hand braced against the wall like he’s mid-conversation with someone.

But he’s not talking.

Not even moving.

He’s just… watching .

Not glaring or frowning. But the tension in his shoulders is a dead giveaway. So is the way his jaw ticks when Jordan glances back at me with a lingering smile.

My breath hitches. Because I know that look .

I’ve seen it before—when someone’s trying too hard not to care. And suddenly, this hallway feels a whole lot smaller.

Later, I’m in the supply room, sorting through lens filters and scheduling shoot slots.

This is my least favorite part of the job, except for today because hiding in here means I’m safe from ogling Auguste out on the ice—even if it is the part of my job I love the most. I can interact while keeping to myself because that’s the safest way to not be alone.

I’m almost done going through player schedules and assigning them a slot with the video guys when I feel the energy shift.

The air closes. Particles vibrating with an audible buzz.

Then I hear it—the soft shut of the door behind me.

My pulse stutters with a sudden thrill before my heart booms to life.

I glance up.

Holy freaking cow. The sight of Auguste Broussard never gets old. Never dulls. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips set in a line.

I’m in trouble, and I’m not sure why. I don’t ask either. Instead, I focus on the lenses. Taking them out of their compartments in the bag and then slotting them back. Until…

“Jordan seems to be everywhere you are lately,” Auguste says, coming up behind me.

Of course, my chest wrenches at the sound of his voice. Low and gravelly.

When he shuts the lid to the lenses bag, I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just an observation.”

“What observation?”

“Jordan. Always simpering around you.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” I mutter, picking up my clipboard and hugging it to my chest like it might shield me from the pull between us. Every second we spend together makes it stronger. Still… “Jordan was just being helpful. You know, like coworkers sometimes are.”

“Hmm…” Auguste nods, mouth twisting like he’s actually considering a possibility. “He brings you water. Offers you snacks. Hangs around like he’s on your leash.”

I look up. Arch a brow. “Are you jealous?”

Auguste’s eyes narrow to slits .

“Auguste Broussard… enigmatic heartthrob… jealous of a PT with a medical-grade fanny pack?”

“I’m serious,” he says, voice lower now. “That guy’s attention isn’t…”

I know where this is going and I shouldn’t keep the conversation going. Auguste and I keep wandering into dangerous territory, and I’m too hooked on the high to pull back. To stay safe. To keep him in the friend zone I reminded us of last night.

“Jordan’s attention isn’t…?”

My brow cocks.

His lips purse.

The silence is so damn loaded, my heartbeat is hammering in my throat when his head tilts to the side and grumbles, “Platonic.”

An ugly snort pushes past my lips. “Wow. Sounds oddly familiar.”

Oh shit.

Auguste’s jaw twitches, and my insides squeal at his reaction. Teasing him is oddly satisfying… fun…

“Pot, meet kettle,” I say, picking up my camera and sliding a fresh battery into it before I snap a photo of him. “Besides, didn’t we say we’re just friends?”

Auguste steps closer. Not touching. But close enough that I forget what breathing is.

“You said that,” he says. “But I don’t think you meant it.”

“I didn’t…?”

“Not one bit.”

“Really?”

He licks over his full bottom lip. “Yes, Princess.”

Princess. I shouldn’t like the way the word sounds coming from him. Or that he uses it as an endearment for me.

“What makes you think so?”

Now his brow cocks. Green eyes gleam with confidence as he leans in. And my heart is threatening to pound out of my chest.

With a long inhale, he hums. “The way you look at me.”

Shit.

I swallow incapable of asking, How so? How do I look at you?

Regardless, he whispers into my ear, “Like you want more.”

I freeze.

Because I do.

But it doesn’t change what’s at stake.

“I have a job to do,” I say softly. “And you’re… ”

“I’m…?”

“My dad’s player… and I… I don’t do this. Relationships. Especially not with hockey players… never .”

“You sure?” His voice is quiet. Dangerous.

“Positive,” I lie.

Then I shoulder past him.

But as I reach the door, his voice follows me. “For the record, I don’t want to be just friends .”

I don’t turn around.

Because I already know that if I look back, I won’t be able to pretend I don’t feel the same anymore.