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17

Holland

T he bass reverberates through the floor, pulsing up my legs and settling in my chest like a second heartbeat. The lights shift, casting a soft, golden glow across the stage, and I feel the crowd’s attention sharpen, homing in on me. It’s a high I’ve learned to control, a blend of power and vulnerability that keeps me balanced as I move.

My heels click softly against the polished stage as I take one final turn around the pole, the silk ribbons of my costume fluttering with the motion. My body follows the rhythm, every movement choreographed to leave an impression without revealing too much. It’s all an illusion, a performance where confidence masks everything hiding beneath the surface.

I slide down to a graceful crouch, my fingertips brushing the stage as I arch my back in a deliberate tease. The applause swells, and the corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile. They love the act, the persona I’ve created, the woman who isn’t afraid to demand their attention.

The music fades as I push to my feet, my chest rising and falling with a controlled exhale. I step to the edge of the stage, letting the golden light spill over me one last time. My final glance into the crowd catches the faint gleam of expensive watches, tailored suits, and top-shelf liquor in crystal tumblers.

I turn away before slipping backstage as the roar of the applause dulls and the adrenaline that carried me through the set begins to fade. It always feels like stepping from one world into another.

A huff escapes me as I slip my arms into a robe and drop onto my chair. The mirror is surrounded by soft, warm lights that make everything feel more glamorous than it actually is. My reflection stares back at me, framed by brushed gold edges. I focus on the smudge of mascara under my eye instead of the girl in the mirror.

I grab a makeup wipe and swipe it across my cheek, erasing the last traces of Lavender Smoke. Adrenaline still hums through my veins, making my hand tremble as I clean my face. I’m not sure if it’s the aftermath of the performance or the fact that I spotted Bridger loitering near the bar, attention glued to me.

As much as I tried to ignore him in the crowd, that was impossible. After a handful of minutes, I stopped trying to pretend and kept my attention locked on him until it felt like I was dancing solely for him.

That’s not something I ever imagined myself wanting to do.

The thought sends a prickle down my spine, and my gaze flicks to the side, realizing I’m no longer alone. In the reflection, I catch a glimpse of him leaning against the doorframe, his sharp jawline and broad shoulders unmistakable. He doesn’t belong here. His presence clashes with the carefully curated elegance of the space.

I force my attention back to my reflection, and press the wipe harder against my skin, as if scrubbing away more than just makeup. My pulse quickens. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to see me like this—stripped of the armor I wear outside this place. But more than that, I don’t want to think about how his gaze feels like a physical caress, trailing over me even when I’m not looking.

Bridger doesn’t speak or move.

He’s just there, a steady presence I can’t ignore.

The weight of his stare presses against my skin, making my hand shake as I dab at the stubborn eyeliner clinging to the corner of my eye. The makeup wipe slips, leaving a dark smudge across my temple.

I release a shuddering breath.

The shuffle of his footsteps makes me glance up, and suddenly, he’s right behind me, close enough that his cologne, along with the scent of clean soap, fills my lungs. His eyes catch mine in the mirror, and for a moment, neither of us speak.

“You missed a spot,” he says softly, his voice low and rough.

“I’ve got it.” My hand trembles as I try to fix the smudge, but the wipe catches, smearing the black streak further.

“Clearly.”

Before I can protest, he reaches forward and takes the makeup remover from my hand. His fingers graze mine, sending a jolt through me.

“Hey—” I start, but he’s already tilting my chin upward, his touch surprisingly gentle as he wipes the smudge away.

My breath catches.

I should be annoyed, mortified even, but all I can do is stare at him. He’s too close, his features more defined in the fluorescent light of the dressing room. The strong line of his jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the way his lips quirk ever so slightly as he concentrates.

He’s ridiculously handsome.

The realization stirs emotions I’ve tried so hard to bury.

“There,” he says, his voice softer now. “All clean.”

Our eyes meet, and for a second, it feels like the room shrinks, leaving just the two of us. My heart pounds against my rib cage. I hate that he can affect me so easily. That he’s always had this power over me. I tug my chin from his hand, needing to shatter the moment.

“Why don’t you wait in the car,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

His mouth twitches, as if he’s about to argue. Instead, he nods and takes a step in retreat. “Don’t take too long.”

The door closes behind him, and a puff of air escapes me as I turn to the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, flushed and wide-eyed. I pull my robe tighter around myself and shake my head, trying to snap out of the daze.

“You okay, hon?” Megan asks, walking past with a towel slung over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” I mutter, fumbling for my clothes.

She glances toward the door Bridger disappeared through. “That guy yours? He’s hot.”

“No,” I say quickly. “He’s just someone I know from school.”

She raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Lucky you.”

I roll my eyes and pull on my jeans, trying not to think about how ridiculous it is to associate the word lucky with Bridger Sanderson.

Lucky would be not feeling this weird pull toward him.

Lucky would be not sharing a house or a bed with him.

As I stuff my phone into my bag, a notification pops up from ColdAsIce17. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment before I open it.

ColdAsIce17

Thanks for what you said earlier. You being there means a lot.

My heart constricts.

Me

Anytime.

I hit send and close the app before I get sucked into a conversation with him. Once we get started, it’s difficult to stop. With a wave to a few of the girls, I grab my bag and head for the parking lot where Bridger is waiting. As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, the atmosphere turns suffocating. The silence between us is heavy, thick with things that remain unsaid. I rack my brain for something that will lighten the mood but there’s nothing.

My mind is blank.

At this point, I’d take snarking back and forth like we usually do, over the explosive tension brewing between us like an impending storm. Any moment, it’s going to break. I’m afraid of what will happen when it does.

It’s a relief when we finally pull up to the hockey house. The windows are glowing with light, and the faint bass of music thumps through the walls. Inside, the living room is packed with his teammates and their girlfriends. Red Solo cups are scattered across every available surface. I recognize a few of the guys. Ryder McAdams and Wolf Westerville. They eye me with curiosity. Kind of like I’m a puzzle they’re both trying to figure out.

“You want a drink?” Bridger asks, staring into the living room.

“Nah, it’s not really my thing.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“Probably because we’re not actually friends,” I say with a pointed look.

“Yeah, that must be it.”

I know he’s teasing, but the words sting anyway. It’s not like I don’t have my reasons. I’ve watched my mom drink away her problems for years, stringing herself along from one bad decision after another. I love Vivienne, but I don’t want to end up like her, hopping from man to man in hopes of finding my happily ever after.

I want to be the one in charge of my own destiny.

And that’s difficult to do when you’re intoxicated and your judgment is impaired.

“Should we head upstairs?” Bridger asks, interrupting the whirl of my thoughts. “It’s quieter.”

With a nod, I follow him up the staircase, grateful to leave the noise and watchful stares behind.

His footsteps are steady on the hardwood, the sound mixing in my ears with the echo of my pulse that seems a beat too fast. By the time we step into his room, I’m hyperaware of the silence that has fallen over us. He shuts the door, and for a moment, we stand there, awkwardly rooted in place.

He glances at me. “Should I step out while you change?”

The question takes me by surprise. It’s thoughtful. Unexpectedly so. But probably unnecessary. The memory of his eyes on me during my performance flashes through my mind, and I push it aside, shaking my head.

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing my tone to be casual. “We can both just turn around.”

He nods, and we move in unspoken agreement, our backs to each other as I drop down and sort through my bag. I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top, my fingers fumbling slightly as I peel off my jeans. I remind myself that this is no different than getting ready for bed any other night.

Except for the fact that Bridger is only a couple feet away, changing in the same room.

I slip the tank on and glance over my shoulder, intending to grab my discarded clothes, but my eyes land on him instead. His back is turned toward me. He’s stripped off both his hoodie and jeans, giving me an unobstructed view of his body. His broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, and his navy boxer briefs cling to him like a second skin. Heat rushes to my face, and I quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice.

“See something you like?” A teasing quality fills his voice.

I whip my head around to find him facing me, his brows raised and a smirk pulling at his lips.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

After a few silent seconds, I manage a hasty, “No! I mean, I wasn’t?—”

“Relax, Tate,” he says, clearly enjoying my flustered state. “I’m just messing with you.”

I mutter something under my breath and busy myself with folding my jeans. It’s only when he clears his throat that I force my attention back to him. His expression has softened, the smirk replaced by something that can only be described as uncertainty. It’s an odd look on him. He usually seems so self-assured. And here I am, so discombobulated that I can’t even enjoy it.

He clears his throat. “So, we’ve got a game tomorrow,” he says, his tone deceptively casual as his eyes search mine.

I blink, unsure where he’s going with this. “Okay?”

He scratches the back of his neck before shifting. “I, uh… got you something.”

When I remain silent, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a jersey before thrusting it in my direction.

I stare at it, the orange and black colors bright against his hands. “What’s that for?”

“It’s for you,” he mumbles. “I picked it up at the school store today. You’ll need it for the game. You know, since you’re my girlfriend now.”

The word girlfriend hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of everything it doesn’t mean. I force myself to close the distance between us and take the jersey, running my fingers over the thick material.

“Fake girlfriend,” I murmur, unable to help myself.

“Well, yeah,” he says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

Something tightens in my chest at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. I fold the jersey carefully and set it on his dresser before slipping beneath the covers of the bed. After turning off the light, he crawls in on the other side. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he settles in beside me.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turns his head to look at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light that filters in through the window. “You’re welcome.”

The space between us feels charged, like it’s holding something neither of us is ready to name.

“Why don’t you drink?”

I glance at him, startled by the question. For a second, I consider brushing off the inquiry and lying, but I’m too tired to come up with something convincing. “My mom,” I admit. “She’s… not great with alcohol.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah.” I pause, then ask, “How’d the meeting with your dad go?”

His jaw tightens as he stares at the ceiling. “The way it always does.”

I shift onto my side, watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His gaze slices to mine. And for a moment or two, it looks like he might say something else. “Nah. But thanks for the offer.”

Then he rolls onto his back, and the silence stretches between us. Even though I close my eyes, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Not with Bridger so close.