Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Connor

T he LA skyline rolls by in a blur of palm trees and sun-drenched boulevards, but I don’t see any of it.

Because I’m too busy watching Lucy.

She’s perched across from me in the limo, sunglasses sliding down her nose as she stares out the window with a clenched jaw and that tight smile she pulls when she’s trying not to panic. Her fingers are twisted around the strap of her purse like she’s one second away from a full-blown panic attack.

And in her lap? The snack-size pack of chocolate-covered almonds. The same ones I slipped into her seat pocket on the plane back in Iron Ridge before we took off.

I’d picked them up after casually grilling Emma at Chapter & Grind about Lucy’s go-to reading snack.

Yes, that’s right. I can be fucking thoughtful without being obvious, too.

"Okay, but seriously, did anyone else know the hotel had a rooftop pool shaped like a hockey stick?" Ryder’s voice bounces around the limo as he looks over the itinerary Coach Brody handed out on the plane after takeoff.

Blake snorts. "Swear to God rookie, if you get us kicked out of another five-star resort, I’m not covering for you. Again."

“Relax,” Ryder says, chewing on a Twizzler like it’s a cigar. “I’m a changed man. I’m here for the exposure. The brand-building.”

Logan throws an empty can at him. “You’re here for the tan, dipshit."

Natalie, squeezed in beside Lucy, raises an eyebrow as she laughs at Ryder. " He’s right, you know. Except for the fact that you brought six tank tops and a gallon of sunscreen. You’ll be lucky if you leave with freckles."

Lucy doesn’t say anything amongst the grilling. In fact, she barely laughs.

I watch her for a moment and clock the way she’s breathing—shallow, deliberate. Like she’s trying to regulate something that’s slowly getting away from her.

She looks gorgeous, for what it’s worth. Hair in a loose braid that drapes over one shoulder, makeup soft and glowy in the California light. But she’s stiff. Guarded. Like she’s armoring up for battle.

And I think I get it now.

This isn’t new for her. Flying on the private plane, driving in a limo in fucking Los Angeles… This isn’t exciting or indulgent or bucket-list territory.

This is familiar .

The flashing lights, the luxury hotel creeping into view from the tinted windows, the curated perfection of everything surrounding her and the team.

This is the exact life she walked away from—and now here she is, neck-deep in it, with my arm around her waist and cameras tracking her every move.

"You okay over there, sweetheart?" I ask, low enough so only she hears.

She drags her gaze away from the window and levels it on me. "Totally. Loving the noise. The traffic. The smog. It’s everything I dreamed of and more."

I flash her a sympathetic grin. "And the company?"

She pops an almond in her mouth and chews like she’s too classy to roll her eyes, so she’s letting the almonds do it for her. "The jury’s out."

The limo slows, then eases into the curved entrance of the hotel.

And holy hell.

We’re talking white marble columns, valets in full uniform, floral arrangements taller than Blake, and a glass chandelier that looks like it cost more than my rookie year salary.

A red carpet stretches from the curb to the doors. And of course, literal paparazzi have gathered behind a rope line like this is a goddamn awards night for Hollywood itself.

“Is this normal for an offseason tour?” Sophia asks, eyes wide as she peers through the tinted windows.

“Define normal,” Logan mutters.

“Please tell me they have robes,” Ryder says, looking beyond the reporters and into the lobby. “Like, the stupid fluffy kind that make you look like a marshmallow.”

Lucy still doesn’t move.

I lean across just enough to nudge her knee with mine. "You sure you're good?"

She blinks. Nods. "I’ve stayed in places like this before."

Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.

The door swings open and the driver announces our arrival like we’re royalty returning from exile. I step out first, shielding my eyes from the sun—and the cameras—then turn to help Lucy out of the limo.

She hesitates, just a beat, then easily slides her hand into mine.

Her skin is warm. Soft.

And even though this is all fake, I don’t let go.

The moment we step into the lobby, it’s like someone pressed the upgrade button on reality.

Chandeliers hang like ice sculptures from the ceiling, soft light reflecting off marble floors that gleam so bright Natalie pulls her sunglasses back down to stop the glare.

Everything smells like citrus and money—polished, pristine, pretentious.

At my side, Lucy freezes in place, one step over the threshold.

Her lips part. Her eyes scan the gold accents, the orchid arrangements, the sweeping staircase that curves toward a mezzanine filled with glass-walled business suites that are hosting corporate functions.

I stop beside her. “Let me guess… reminds you of your childhood.”

She doesn’t look at me. “Only if we’re counting the time I got grounded for sneaking downstairs during a fundraiser and hiding shrimp cocktails in my pockets.”

An actual laugh pumps from my chest upwards. “Fuck. You totally would be the pocket shrimp girl.”

Her eyes flick to mine, but the usual fire’s missing. It’s subtle, but I feel it in my gut—she’s tensed up. Pulled inward.

This world? It's hers. At least, it used to be. But she walks through it like someone trying not to wake ghosts.

Behind us, the rest of the team spills through the entrance like a bunch of oversized frat boys. Ryder whistles low and wide.

“Dude, is that a chocolate fountain?”

Sophia snorts. “No, that’s Logan’s nightmare. He hates sticky fingers.”

Logan growls something unintelligible under his breath while Blake mutters about checking the bed for glitter bombs.

“Nice place,” Natalie says, looping her arm through Lucy’s as Coach Brody disappears from her side. “Maybe this won’t be such a drag after all.”

Lucy gives her a faint smile and nudges Natalie with her elbow, murmuring something that makes them both laugh softly as they drift toward the fountain in the center of the lobby.

I glance over at the front desk, where three valets and a very serious concierge are already deep in conversation with Coach Brody. The man is rubbing his temples like he just realized he has to spend ten days managing adult toddlers.

“We are NOT recreating the Vegas hot tub incident,” I hear him bark at Ryder.

“No promises!” Ryder yells back.

Coach groans. “I’m too old for this.”

Ryder slides up next to me as the rest of the team starts to scatter around us.

“Coach just said we’re doing beach training tomorrow,” Ryder whispers to us, like it’s top secret intel. “Bonding exercises, sunrise session, the whole shebang.”

I snort and shake my head. “Fuck. Of course we are.”

Ryder shrugs. “Said we need to ‘recenter’ after the charity auction chaos. Whatever the hell that means.”

Logan grunts as he passes. “It means burpees. In the sand. At dawn. I already hate tomorrow.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” I offer. “Team-building. Spiritual alignment. Sand in your teeth.”

We all groan in unison as Blake and Sophia drift toward the elevators with their key cards. Logan follows, muttering something about unpacking in peace, but not before I definitely clock Emma’s contact pulled up on his phone.

He notices me looking and glares at me before he slips it back in his pocket like he wasn’t about to call her at all.

He disappears with the rest of the team up the elevator, which leaves just me and Lucy when the concierge turns and hands over a key with a plastic smile.

“One deluxe king, corner suite. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Walsh.”

I blink down at the keycard. “Wait, one?”

“Correct.” The concierge slides the card across the counter. “As requested.”

I don’t even have time to correct him before Lucy’s hand snatches it off the marble surface like she’s just been challenged to a duel.

Her voice is calm but her eyes are pure fire. “Requested by who , exactly?”

The concierge blinks. “Um… the travel forms were submitted by Icehawks management. It says couple’s suite. Romantic getaway upgrade. That parts complimentary of the hotel.”

Lucy ignores the smile on the concierge’s face and turns to me slowly. Her eyebrow raises in that I will bury you under the pool cabanas kind of way that’s becoming alarming regular whenever she’s nearby.

I lift my hands in surrender. “Hey. I didn’t fill out the forms. I barely remember to RSVP to weddings.”

She narrows her eyes. “Convenient.”

“You are my girlfriend, remember?”

Her eye twitches and the groan that she releases could level a city.

Funny. A few days ago, she was melting in my hands—now she looks one coffee order away from stabbing me with one of the complimentary pens on the counter.

She spins around and stalks toward the elevators without waiting for me, muttering something about manipulative hockey boys and overly plush lobby chairs.

I trail after her, grinning the whole way.

When we reach our suite, Lucy taps the card against the door and it clicks open with a soft chime. Lucy stomps inside like she’s about to file a formal complaint with God, but then, she stops.

Freezes. Dead fucking still.

I follow a few steps behind and… okay, yeah…

I get it.

This place is fucking absurd.

Floor-to-ceiling windows curve across the suite, spilling golden light across wide marble floors and plush cream rugs. There’s a private balcony, a fireplace somehow already lit, and an actual grand piano in the corner like Elton John’s about to pop in for room service.

The bed is freaking massive. Draped in white linens and velvet throw pillows so fluffed they look like they’ve never been touched by human hands.

I close the door behind us, and for a second—just one—the only sound is Lucy’s quiet inhale as she takes it all in.

She moves further inside, brushing her fingers along the back of the couch like she’s checking for crumbs.

“This is…” she trails off, turning in a slow circle. “Insane.”

I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “You sound surprised.”

“I shouldn’t be,” she murmurs. “It’s just—it’s been a long time since I stayed somewhere like this.”

I watch her face shift. Not quite a frown. Not quite nostalgia either.

“I lived like this, you know,” she says quietly. “Marble everything. Caviar snacks. Staff who pretended not to listen but heard everything .” Her fingers drift over the rim of a crystal glass in the mini-kitchen. “You think it’s glamorous until you realize nothing in your home is really yours .”

I don’t say anything.

Not yet.

I just listen as she moves to the window, gazing out over the city as the sun dips below the skyline. Her silhouette glows like poured honey, all soft curves and quiet temptation.

And fuck me if I’m not picturing those curves under my hands, under my mouth again, under me—right there against that glass.

“I left because I couldn’t breathe in that world anymore,” she says, drawing me back in with her delicate softness. “But now… it’s like I’m right back in it. The cameras. The image. The money. The people who smile at you while calculating your worth.”

She exhales, arms tightening around herself.

“And everything with Ethan. Him being back and watching him struggle through… whatever he’s struggling with. It just makes it worse. Like I’m being dragged into a life I already escaped from, only now I don’t know how to help him or protect myself.”

And shit—she’s right.

Ethan did try to say something back at my place in that late night drunker tirade. He hinted at trouble with his company, investors, the pressure of holding everything together.

But I was too wrapped up in his threats, too distracted by the way he spit Lucy’s name like it burned him, to hear the rest.

I didn’t ask what was really going on.

Didn’t even try.

Lucy’s voice cracks, just a little. “And I don’t know if all of that makes me a hypocrite… or just exhausted.”

Still leaning on the wall, I let the silence sit a moment before I push off and cross the room.

“I don’t think it makes you either,” I say, heading for the mini bar. “I think it makes you someone who knows what fake looks like—and wants something real instead.”

I open the fridge, dig around for something halfway drinkable.

And bingo.

Espresso martinis in chilled glass bottles, fancy-ass labels and everything.

I hold one up. “Can I tempt you with a taste of overcompensation and light caffeine addiction?”

She turns as I manage to turn that frown in the tiniest hint of a smile. “I mean… if I’m already living a lie, might as well drink like it too.”

I grab two glasses and pour, passing hers over.

She curls her fingers around the stem, clinks her glass to mine. “To overcompensating.”

“To honesty in the most dishonest room service suite in LA.”

We drink and finally… take a breath.

It’s strong. Sweet. Smooth.

Lucy makes a face and pulls the glass from those amazingly plump pink lips of hers. “Okay. I hate how good that is.”

“Right?” I nod, tipping my glass toward her. “It’s dessert, alcohol, and denial all in one cup.”

Her laugh is quiet, but real. She sets the glass down and glances toward the bed.

“So… You gonna make a joke about us sharing that?”

I shake my head. “Nah.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I figure you’ll stab me if I try. You’ve threatened to kill me at least three times since we left Iron Ridge.”

“True.”

“But also…” I trail off, watching her. “You looked like you needed a minute. I wanted to give you one.”

Something shifts in her expression. Something soft and unguarded and then she lowers her eyes as she steps closer.

One, two, three careful, slow steps across the rug. I take a deep breath, feeling my heart in my chest when she’s standing right in front of me. Her arms lift, then slide slowly around my neck pulling me into her.

I blink.

“Uh, hi?” I say softly.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she rises onto her toes and kisses me.

It’s not rushed. Not frantic.

It’s slow. Sure. Intentional.

Her lips part like she’s giving me a second chance to get this right. Like maybe, for once, she’s not trying to fight it.

When she pulls back, my hands are still hovering near her waist, unsure if I’m allowed to touch her now that everything feels… different.

“What’s wrong, Walsh?” she whispers beneath a smirk. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stare down at her, pulse doing dangerous things.

“What was that for?”

She taps my chest and grins. “For not making a joke about the bed.”

Then she turns, grabs her espresso martini, and strolls toward the balcony.

And me?

I’m left standing there, grinning like a fucking idiot.

Because that kiss?

That was not part of the game.