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Chapter fifteen

Liam

T he second I step into the locker room, the whole damn vibe shifts.

It’s not the usual post-practice funk or that thick sweat-and-adrenaline haze I’ve come to expect. No, this is heavier. Tighter. Like walking into a party right after someone says your name, and no one wants to admit it.

Conversations flatline. A few heads turn, then whip back like I’ve got a target on my back.

Awesome.

Another day, another spotlight I didn’t ask for.

I don’t bite. Don’t ask. Just head for my stall and start peeling off my gear like I don’t notice the air's thick enough to skate on. If someone’s got a problem, they can fucking say it to my face. Otherwise, I’m here to sweat and score goals—not play high school gossip games.

But the quiet? It’s surgical. Sharp around the edges.

Brody doesn’t say a word. He usually chirps nonstop about someone’s ex, the bar tab he’s not paying, or whatever influencer he’s trying to DM. Today? Silent. Not even a jab.

Wyatt, the loudest of the defense line, won’t meet my eyes.

Even Aiden—our brick wall of a captain—throws me a look. Not pissed. Just tight. Like he knows something I don’t, and he’s deciding whether it’s worth warning me.

So yeah. Clearly, I missed a memo.

Fine.

I keep my mouth shut and lace up. This isn’t the first locker room that’s iced me out. I’ve earned that reputation—hothead, uncoachable, locker room poison. I don’t care what they whisper. Let ’em talk. The ice is where I answer.

And today? I answer hard.

Practice is surgical. Brutal. I hit every shift like I’m trying to knock the boards loose. Every pass sharp. Every shot loud. By the time the final whistle blows, my legs burn, my lungs ache, and my gloves are soaked. But it feels good. Controlled violence always has.

Back in the locker room, the tension’s looser. Guys start talking again—louder now, forced. But not at me. Around me. Like I’m radioactive and they’re hoping I won’t notice.

I do.

But I let it slide. I’ve got bigger shit to worry about than locker room politics.

At least, I think I do—until the assistant coach calls my name.

“Steele.”

I turn mid-strip, towel around my neck, shirt stuck halfway up my chest. He’s standing by the door with his usual clipboard, but the set of his jaw? That’s not clipboard shit. That’s I’ve got a problem, and your name’s on it.

My gut tightens.

“Yeah?”

He nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”

No explanation. No bullshit.

Just that quiet finality that tells me I don’t want to know what’s waiting.

I follow.

The hallway stretches long and silent. Every step echoes too loud in my ears. I catch a few staffers darting looks over their shoulders— conversations paused when I pass. That same gut-deep buzz I felt in the locker room—it’s louder now.

Something’s brewing. And it’s got my name stamped across the headline.

Coach’s office door is cracked when we get there. I recognize the voice inside before I see her.

Sharp. Clean. Clipped like she’s carved from glass.

Riley Stevens.

PR.

Fuck.

Coach Barnes is behind the desk when I walk in. No smile. No nod. Just that same silent disapproval he wears like a second jersey.

Next to him stands Riley, all black suit and razor-sharp ponytail, like she’s ready to file a restraining order against me for breathing wrong.

“Liam.” Coach motions for me to sit. “This is Riley Stevens. She’s with PR.”

I drop into the chair across from them, my shoulders still tight with adrenaline from the ice.

“What’s going on?”

Riley wastes no time. “There’s footage of you entering a private club downtown. Name’s not public—yet. But people are talking.”

I freeze.

That party.

That fucking night.

The one I promised myself was a one-time thing. No faces. No consequences. Just sweat, skin, and the kind of release that makes you forget who the hell you are.

“I didn’t break any rules,” I say tightly. “Signed an NDA. It was invite-only.”

Riley nods, but her expression doesn’t shift. “No one’s saying you broke a rule. But rules and headlines don’t play the same game.”

Coach leans forward, elbows on the desk. “We don’t want this spinning out. If it gets picked up by the media, the optics alone could derail the season. Sponsors get twitchy. Fans start speculating.”

Riley picks up again. “We’re redirecting the narrative. Reframing your public image. That means we need something stronger than denial. We need a distraction.”

I scoff. “What kind of distraction?”

Riley’s eyes narrow. “A relationship. A high-profile, believable, clean-cut one. Something that says ‘committed boyfriend’ louder than ‘kinky party guest.’”

A laugh breaks from my throat, dry and humorless. “So what—you want me to fake date someone?”

“Yes.”

“This is a joke.”

“It’s damage control,” Coach says flatly.

Riley opens a folder, sliding it toward me. “We’ve already lined up a candidate. Molly. Marketing assistant. She’s clean, single, discreet. Attractive enough to sell it, but not too flashy. Press-friendly.”

I stare at the folder like it might bite.

“Molly?”

Coach raises an eyebrow. “You’ve met her.”

“Barely,” I mutter. “And no offense, but I’d rather shove a skate blade through my thigh than play house with someone who can’t look me in the eye.”

Riley doesn’t flinch. “This isn’t about comfort.”

“No, it’s about bullshit.”

Coach gives me a look. “Careful.”

I lean back, jaw tight. Think.

If I’m going to do this—if I’m going to let them spin this lie—I’m at least going to have a say in who I get handcuffed to in front of cameras.

There’s only one name that comes to mind.

The only person who already makes my blood run hot for reasons I still don’t want to unpack.

“Katarina Novak.”

Riley blinks. “The team nutritionist?”

Coach straightens. “You serious?”

I nod once. “She’s already around the team. It won’t look staged. People like her. She’s not connected to any drama.”

Riley tilts her head. “No prior personal history?”

I lie without blinking. “None.”

Riley scribbles something in her notepad, already shifting gears. “I’ll reach out. If she’s willing, we move fast. Press release, soft-launch posts, first joint appearance by the end of the week.”

Coach stands. “You good with this?”

I nod again, but my pulse is hammering.

Not because of the lie. I’ve told worse.

Because now I’ve dragged Katarina into this.

And no matter how clean this plan looks on paper, it’s already a disaster waiting to blow.

Because if she says yes, we’re screwed.

And if she says no?

I’m on my own—with a whole town ready to set me on fire.

I head back to the locker room like I didn’t just nuke my entire fucking week.

Door swings open.

Conversation dies again.

This time, it’s worse. Tighter—like the room’s holding its breath.

Aiden clocks me first. His eyes track me across the floor like he’s trying to read the play three steps ahead.

I don’t give him shit. Just drop my gear, grab my shaker, and sit like I didn’t just volunteer to fake-fuck the most off-limits girl in the building.

“You good?” Brody finally asks, voice too casual. Too careful.

I glance up. He’s sitting backward on the bench, watching me with that same grin he uses when he’s two drinks in and trying to pick a fight he can laugh off.

“Peachy.”

He nods slowly. “Cool. ‘Cause... word is, someone’s got PR crawling up their ass.”

That gets some chuckles from the guys around him. Not mean—but not kind either. Teammates circling, waiting for the scent of blood.

“Didn’t know you were such a party guy,” Wyatt adds from across the room. “Thought you were the broody type. You know. Sleep. Gym. Brood.”

I don’t respond. Just screw the cap back on my shaker.

They want a show. I’m not giving it to them.

But Aiden?

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. He just leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low.

“Whatever you’re mixed up in, man... clean it up fast.”

I meet his eyes. “You got something you want to say, say it.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But I will.”

The room goes still again.

Not hostile.

Not friendly either.

And somewhere, in the far corner of my mind, I hear Griffin Novak’s voice. The warning. The tension. The inevitable fallout if this explodes.

I told PR Katarina would make it believable.

What I didn’t say?

Was that I’m the last guy who should be trusted with her.

Especially not now.

Especially not when her brother already wants my head on a spike.

I scrub my hand over my jaw, like that’ll keep all this shit from crashing down around me.

Fake dating Griffin Novak’s baby sister?

Yeah.

This won’t end well.

An hour later, I’m in the equipment room getting fitted like a damn mannequin. And who shows up with a clipboard and way too much authority?

Katarina fucking Novak.

Sitting ten feet away like sin in a lab coat.

Clipboard in hand. Ponytail tight. That mouth set in a line she probably thinks reads professional—but I know better. Her lips part every time she looks at my chest like she’s holding back something dangerous.

This was supposed to be a gear assessment.

But let’s not kid ourselves—she’s here to watch me undress. And I’m letting her. Gladly.

“Arms up,” she says, already moving toward me with that measuring tape.

I lift them, muscles flexing, shirt stretched tight. She circles behind me, measuring ribcage expansion like she’s not shaking from it.

Her fingers skim under the hem of my compression top—bare skin to bare skin. My abs tighten like they’re bracing for a punch, and I swallow a curse when her palm grazes low. Too low.

“Breathing patterns during high-intensity exertion impact caloric thresholds,” she mutters, like we’re in a damn lecture hall.

She needs to stop talking. Her voice is doing things to me.

She moves to the front again. I watch her eyes as they land on my chest. My heart’s hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it, but she keeps up the act.

Until her hands slide across my shoulders. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Mobility looks good,” she says, smoothing over the pads with a touch that isn’t clinical anymore. “These don’t restrict you.”

“They’re not the problem,” I say, and she pauses.

That gets her attention.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I drop my arms. “This gear isn’t what’s making me lose focus.”

She lifts her chin, eyes sharp. “So what is?”

“You really want to know?”

A long silence.

“Try me.”

I take one step closer. Then another.

Now she’s in my space. Or I’m in hers. Either way, her breathing changes, and I don’t miss that flush climbing her throat.

“You want to talk about performance metrics?” I murmur. “Fine. Let’s measure mine around you.”

“Liam—”

“Shhh.”

I reach up, trace the curve of her jaw with my knuckles. Her skin’s warm, soft. Her eyes flicker to my mouth.

“You missed something,” I say.

“Oh?” she breathes.

“Heart rate.” I press two fingers to the base of her throat. Her pulse jumps under my touch. “Yours is flying.”

“That’s not… that’s not accurate data.”

“It is when I’m the one taking it.”

Her hand lands on my chest. Probably meant to push me away. She doesn’t.

Damn, she smells incredible.

I dip down and brush my mouth just beneath her jaw—right where her pulse thuds wild. She gasps, grabbing a fistful of my shirt, pulling me closer instead of shoving me off.

I can't tell how much she knows about this charade, but she's sure as hell not stopping me.

Fuck Griffin and his warnings. If I'm gonna be stuck pretending with her, might as well see how far she'll let this go.

I back her toward the wall. She bumps into the metal rack with a soft gasp. Her clipboard falls, papers fluttering to the floor like they’re abandoning this whole assesment.

“Tell me to stop,” I say, but I’m already sliding my hand to her waist, dragging her against me.

She doesn’t tell me to stop.

I dip my head lower, lips brushing her neck, her collarbone, breathing her in like I need her scent just to stay upright.

Her hand is in my hair now. Tugging. Controlling. I let her. Fuck, I want her to.

“I thought this was an assessment,” she whispers, breath hot against my ear.

“It is. You’re testing all my limits.”

She laughs, but the sound breaks halfway through. I feel it in her chest against mine.

We don’t kiss.

But it’s close.

So fucking close I can taste the yes on her lips.

My mouth finds the soft skin just below her ear and I suck—slow, deep—until she gasps my name.

My cock is hard enough to hurt, but I don’t make a move. Not yet. Just let her feel what she’s doing to me. Let her grind her hips once, desperate for friction, before I pull back an inch.

One. Damn. Inch.

“Liam…” Her voice is shaky now. “We can’t—”

I cut her off with a growl. “You think I don’t know that?”

A door slams somewhere in the arena. Reality slams harder.

We jolt apart like kids caught making out at a funeral. She’s panting. Her lips are red and bitten. Her shirt’s wrinkled. My dick’s still throbbing in my compression shorts and my hands are shaking like I just dropped gloves and took a hit I didn’t see coming.

She bends to collect her clipboard, the movement jerky. I step back, breathing through clenched teeth, trying not to go back in for more.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it did.

And I’ll be damned if I can pretend I regret it.

She won’t look at me.

“Tomorrow,” I say, voice rough. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She nods, still catching her breath. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

She walks out like she’s got her shit together. I know better. Her pulse was screaming under my mouth. Her hands were shaking against my skin. And mine weren’t much better.

I lean back against the locker, run a hand over my face.

What the hell am I doing?

And why does she feel so goddamn good?