Page 3

TWO

Damon

I suspected.

Fuck. I suspected.

But I didn’t know.

I didn’t fucking know .

In fact, I’d pressed her, demanded to her tell me everything, and she…

She fucking lied.

I turn to the right, shove into an empty conference room, and slam the door shut.

The vulnerability, the pain, the fear that had clouded her emerald eyes mere moments before all tell me that she fucking lied .

“Tell me, Red,” I growl, stepping close, hating that when her eyes flash with anger, her chin lifts, and her shoulders straighten a bolt of desire shoots through my middle.

Sick.

I’m a sick fuck.

“We don’t have time for you to have a shit fit,” she snaps. “I have a game to win, and I need to focus.”

She’s not wrong.

I shouldn’t have even told her about Hiller, not until later.

I don’t even really know why my feet carried me out of my tower —as she’d quipped. Fucking funny, that’s Joey. And beautiful. And strong. And smart. And…

A survivor.

Something that snaps me right back to razor focus.

“Tell me,” I demand again.

She sighs and it’s aggrieved. I don’t blame her. I can’t blame her.

This whole interaction is out of line, but I can’t stop it.

The big rig’s speeding downhill, its brakes not working, the runaway truck ramp shut down.

I can’t stop the collision.

So…I stop trying.

“Damon,” she clips. “Fuck off and let me do my?—”

I move.

One second, she’s an arm’s length away from me.

The next, I’ve spun us, pinning that lush body of hers between mine and the door, putting my face in hers, holding her gaze with my own. “Stop delaying, Red, and. Just. Fucking. Tell. Me.”

Wide green eyes.

Pink, pink cheeks.

The tip of a slick tongue darting out to taste plump lips.

Christ, I want to kiss her.

That, if anything, is the giant ass stop sign I need smacking me across my face.

I step back from her like I’ve been burned.

Unfortunately, I do it at the same time as she speaks.

And says what I knew the moment I saw her reaction outside the locker room, what she lied about for fucking months, what she hid when it should have been exposed.

“He fucked me,” she snaps.

I’m reeling from the ever more difficult job of containing the desires within me.

And. I. Jerk. Back.

Just as she says?—

Fuck .

But before I can explain my reaction or come up with an excuse as to why my wanting this woman is even more of a disaster than the workplace conflict might make it seem, she lifts her chin higher, somehow staring down her nose at me even though she’s a good six inches shorter.

She does all that…but I don’t miss the flash of hurt in her eyes.

“And no, I didn’t want him,” she says. “No, it wasn’t welcome. No, it wasn’t my fault.”

It wasn’t welcome.

She didn’t want it.

My rage boils up and I spin, punching my fist out. It sinks into the sheetrock, sending up a puff of dust, pain radiating through my fingers.

Too long since I’ve punched something.

I haven’t allowed myself that luxury, that risk.

Not since?—

I slam the door on that thought and spin back around to face her.

“He didn’t fuck you.”

Her eyes flash again, anger overtaking pain, and she opens her mouth?—

“He didn’t,” I say. “He raped you, baby. And like you said, it wasn’t your fault.”

Her teeth click together, that fight leaving her—shoulders sagging, chin sinking down onto her chest, lungs inflating on a sharp breath. “Damon,” she whispers, and I hate that her emerald eyes are glimmering with tears.

“It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.” I shove down my anger further, ignore the urge inside me to keep punching, keep pummeling, keep going until I beat everything around me to a bloody pulpy mess, and slowly move back to her, hating that she’s trembling, hating that she flinches ever so slightly at my movements, as I draw near, as I lift my hand and cup her jaw.

There’s sheetrock dust on my knuckles. And blood.

Christ.

I pull away.

“Joey—”

Her phone buzzes, and we both freeze.

Then she slips out from between me and the door.

“Baby—”

When she spins to face me, I’m shocked to see that the fight is back, that it’s swelled up like a tsunami—drawn a huge distance offshore before rushing back and obliterating everything in its path. “This doesn’t change anything,” she hisses. “I don’t need you to jump in and rescue me, superhero cape flapping behind you?—”

“I’m hardly a superhero.”

I’m a criminal.

I’ve done jail time.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Fuck yes. Do I give a fuck that it ended my career and fucked up my life for longer than I care to admit? No.

Because that fucker who hurt my sister doesn’t live a day without the pain I left in him.

Same as the pain doesn’t leave Kylie.

“I need to go,” Joey murmurs.

She does need to go.

The team’s waiting on her.

Puck drop is imminent.

But I can’t just step to the side and allow her to pass.

“Joey—”

“No, Damon. Just fucking stop, okay?” She starts to shove a hand through her hair—a telltale sign that her patience has gone beyond fraying and is now at risk of snapping. “You know now. Great. That’s over. It’s over. He’s going to trial, and he’ll be put away. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“He would go away for longer and it would be easier if you stopped hiding this shit and told somebody.”

Her mouth snaps closed so quickly that her teeth click together.

Then she’s moving, arm swinging, palm colliding with my cheek.

Smack!

It’s louder more than it actually hurts, but I’m too stunned to react.

“How dare you?” she whispers, eyes full of tears. “How fucking dare you?” She lifts on tiptoe and leans in, her face close to mine. “Did the police believe your sister? Did the district attorney? Would a jury have sided with her when the prosecution was hard up to lean into he-said, she-said?” She drops back down onto her heels. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, but they fucking didn’t. Hence the reason you went full vigilante and blew up your life.”

She’s right.

Of course she is.

Kylie’s rapist didn’t even end up facing charges, and the police—and the public after I’d fucked him up—had looked at her with derision.

God, the comments on social media alone…

She was the victim of one man’s fucked-up actions…and somehow it was still her fault.

Why would anything be different today? With Joey?

And why—no matter the circumstances—would Joey want to deal with that when her plate is already overflowing with misogyny and haters just because she’s coaching a bunch of hockey players?

“You have no right to tell me how to deal with ” —she slaps a hand against her chest—“ my trauma.”

I open my mouth to agree with her.

But she’s still talking.

“ No fucking right.”

She yanks open the door.

“Now leave me alone and let me do my fucking job.”