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Chapter seventeen

Liam

I drop the barbell like it burned me.

Metal crashes against rubber, the thud echoing off gym walls, but it doesn’t make a dent in the frustration rattling my bones.

I’m sweating through my shirt, muscles screaming—but none of it’s enough. I could lift until something tears and it still wouldn’t shut up the noise in my head.

Fake fucking boyfriend.

That’s the headline. That’s the circus Riley roped me into. And not just to anyone.

To Katarina Novak.

The woman with a mouth built for war and legs that haunt my goddamn sleep. The sister of the guy who’d rather see me flattened on the ice than breathing.

And now I’m supposed to hold her hand and smile like none of it matters.

I yank off my gloves and slam them onto the bench beside me.

It’s not just the fake-dating bullshit. It’s her.

Katarina fucking Novak .

The way she stood there yesterday—tight shirt, tighter mouth, pretending like she didn’t want it. Clipboard dropped, breath caught, and those wide, wicked eyes daring me to make the first move.

So I did.

Backed her into the wall and got my hands on her—skin hot, neck pulsing like she was waiting for me to bite. She didn’t flinch when I grabbed her throat. Didn’t pull away when I pressed my body into hers and let her feel every inch of what she was doing to me.

Her fingers curled in my shirt like she was begging. That soft little gasp when I dragged my tongue over her throat and bit down just enough to leave a memory? Fuck me—I’m still hard just thinking about it.

We almost kissed. Would’ve taken her right there against the gear rack if that door hadn’t slammed.

And yeah—I’m still pissed we got interrupted. Because now, every time I close my goddamn eyes, it’s her mouth I see. Her legs around my waist. Her voice, breathy as hell, whispering my name like she wants it wrecked out of her.

But I can’t. I can’t fuck this up again.

Griffin’s already got his sights on me. One wrong move—one hint that I’ve touched his precious little sister—and he’ll make sure I’m done. Not just traded. Blacklisted. My career in the gutter before I can blink.

I need to keep my hands off her. Keep it professional. Play the fake boyfriend for the cameras and ignore the way my cock jumps every time she’s in the same room.

Problem is, I don’t know if I’m strong enough. Not when she looks at me like that.

I drop onto the bench, towel draped over my shoulders, chest still heaving from the last set. The gym’s finally empty, the clang of weights replaced by silence that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels exposed. Too still. Like my thoughts are waiting to corner me the second I let my guard down.

And sure as hell—they do.

Late at night, when I’m supposed to be recovering, resting, sleeping off the bruises like a good little athlete…

I’m not.

I’m in the dark, hand wrapped around my length, chasing relief I can’t fucking catch. Because no matter how I start...it’s always the same.

The mask...never her name. Just the sounds. The way her body moved. The way she gave in like no one had ever touched her right. Just a flicker—

A breathy sound.

A silhouette in motion.

And sometimes—hell, more often than I want to admit—Katarina’s face shows up where she shouldn’t.

Her eyes yesterday. Desperate, wanting, pupils blown wide when I had her pinned against that wall.

The masked girl from that party? I don’t know her name.

But now, it’s Kat’s lips I picture moaning mine.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that’s gonna get me fucked. Griffin’s watching. Waiting for me to slip up so he can bury me for good.

I can’t touch her again. Can’t let myself want what I can’t have.

Even if it kills me.

I pick back up slamming into another set of reps. Chest burning. Biceps trembling. Don’t care.

Pain’s better than pacing in my damn apartment, wondering what happens when Griffin finds out. Because he will find out.

And when he does...I’m gonna need a flak vest.

Footsteps hit the tile. A familiar voice follows.

“Dude. You’re lifting like you’re pissed at the iron.”

Aiden.

I drop the weights and shoot Aiden a look over my shoulder. Jax is right behind him, arms crossed, looking at me like he just walked into a crime scene instead of chest day.

“You good?” Jax asks, voice casual. “Or should I call the medic now and save us the drama?”

I swipe sweat off my forehead and grab my towel.

“I’m fine.”

Aiden crosses his arms. “So it’s true, then?”

I stiffen. “What?”

“The PR stunt.” He looks amused, like this is just some juicy locker room gossip. “Fake girlfriend. Cute nutritionist. Whole town buzzing. You playing the long game or just trying to get laid with a press pass?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not playing anything.”

“Sure you’re not, you’ve been skating around like someone pissed in your fuckin’ protein shake since the meeting—word is you volunteered Katarina.”

I snap my towel at the bench, voice sharp. “Didn’t exactly get a menu of options. They offered up some puck bunny intern from marketing—I picked someone I won’t want to strangle in public.”

Aiden whistles. “Griffin’s gonna fucking flip. ”

I wipe my face again, trying not to show how much that exact thought has been shredding me inside since yesterday.

“Let him.”

Jax drops onto the bench across from me. “So, let me get this straight. You’re now fake-dating Katarina, Griffin Novak’s baby sister, fucking golden. I mean, she’s hot as hell. I had a shot once, didn’t take it. But if I ever got the chance again? No hesitation.”

My eyes snap to him. Sharp. Cold.

“Yeah?” I say, voice low. “Too bad you won’t.”

His smile falters—just a flicker—but it’s enough.

Aiden barks a laugh, trying to cut the tension. “Pretty sure she almost ripped your side mirror off last week, Liam... she’s more likely to run you over than ride you.” I cut a look that could tear his head off.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, grabbing my towel and scrubbing the sweat from my face.

Because the idea of Jax even thinking about touching her now?

Makes my jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth

She’s not mine.

But that doesn’t mean anyone else gets a turn.

They both laugh. I don’t.

Because it’s not funny.

Because I don’t know how to feel when I’m around her. Like I’m stuck in a loop of I want her and I want out . Like the part of me that knows she’s dangerous is losing to the part that remembers the way she moaned in my dreams.

And now I’ve got to pose for pictures like we’re in love and Smile like I’m not drowning in the fallout?

“I didn’t ask for this,” I mutter.

“No one’s saying you did,” Aiden replies. “But you’re in it now. So own it.”

“Just make sure you don’t actually catch feelings,” Jax adds. “Shit gets messy when fake starts feeling real.”

I shove my towel into my bag. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You gonna start calling her babe in the hallway?”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not playing games.”

“Sure,” Jax says. “But you picked her. Not exactly low profile, considering her brother wants to rip your damn face off.”

I don’t answer. Because if I open my mouth, I’ll admit the real reason. It’s not strategy. It’s not PR.

It’s that she’s already under my skin. In my head. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there— In the shower, in my bed, crawling into every damn fantasy I didn’t ask for.

And if this spirals?

I won’t just lose my place on this team.

I’ll lose the last shot I have at undoing the damage Griffin caused when he torpedoed my rep.

The gym empties out after that.

I stay behind, burning through a cooldown that does nothing to loosen the coil in my chest. By the time I hit the showers, I’m still wired. Hot water pounds against my shoulders, but it doesn’t rinse away the tension.

My body’s exhausted. My mind’s still sprinting.

And every damn road leads back to her .

The deal. The press. The fact that I’m supposed to play boyfriend to the one woman in this entire facility who could ruin me without trying.

Perfect.

I towel off and pull on a clean tee, barely registering the sting in my biceps. I should head home. But my feet don’t take me there.

They take me to her.

I don’t knock to be polite. I knock to let her brace herself.

Then I push the door open and step inside.

Katarina’s behind her desk, laser-focused on her laptop. Hair up. Sleeves rolled. She’s got that whole sleek, dangerous vibe going—and it hits me like a punch to the sternum.

I should be mad. I am mad. But none of it dulls the way she gets to me.

She looks up. That perfect, PR-ready smile flashes like she’s been waiting for me.

“Liam,” she says smoothly, standing. “I was hoping you’d come by. We need to plan our first public appearance. I mean, I barely know you. I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

I raise a brow. “Black. Obviously.”

She ignores that. “We can’t just show up somewhere and wing it. It’ll look awkward. People notice that.”

She’s not wrong.

If someone asked me her favorite anything, I’d freeze. I don’t even know if she prefers coffee or tea—though my gut says neither. She’s a green juice girl with a grudge.

Still, she didn’t have to say yes to this. She could’ve bailed. But she’s in it now, same as me.

“I came to walk you to your car,” I say.

She pauses. “You what?”

“If you were mine for real,” I say, tone casual, “I’d do that. Every night we worked the same shift.”

She cocks a brow. “Possessive?”

“Protective.” I shrug. “And if we are being watched, I want to make sure the shots are good.”

She stares. Then sighs. “Fine. I was just about to leave anyway.”

I watch her pack up, taking her time. We don’t speak as we leave the building, the quiet between us loaded but not tense.

I hold the front door open. She gives me a look like she’s not sure if it’s real.

Neither am I.

Outside, there’s no one obvious, but we both know the paparazzi don’t need obvious.

She leans against her car, eyes on me. The wind lifts her hair just enough to send my thoughts sideways.

For a second—just one—I forget we’re pretending.

And I know she feels it, too.

Her gaze softens, and before I can stop myself, I take her hand. Lift it. Press a kiss against her knuckles like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Her skin’s warm.

And suddenly, so is the tight space behind my ribs.

“See you tomorrow.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if this is still part of the script.

“Right. You too.” She turns to open her door—and that’s when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

A sharp vibration. One I almost ignore.

I pull it out without thinking, thumb dragging across the screen. I go to slip it back into my pocket—then I catch the preview.

One new message.

Unknown number:

Keep your fucking distance from my siste r.

My blood goes cold. No name. No context.

Just a digital snarl.

She’s right there—barely two feet from me, keys in hand, still looking over her shoulder like she’s waiting for something else.

I school my face. Lock the screen. Swallow the heat climbing up my throat.

“Everything okay?” she asks, brows pulling together slightly.

I nod once. Lie through my teeth.

“Yeah. All good.”

But it’s not.

Because now I’ve got two problems:

Acting like she doesn’t crawl under my skin is already a full-time job.

Now I’ve got to fake-date her in for the cameras—smile, touch, flirt—while her brother’s in my phone, threatening to break my face.

Perfect.

How the hell am I supposed to pull this off without blowing everything up?

The next morning, Coach Barnes corners me in the equipment room.

“Need a number for your jersey,” he says, dropping a form on the bench.

I glance at the blank line. “Thought I was still on trial.”

“You were. But you’ve been playing like you actually want to be here.” He crosses his arms. “Management wants it official before the charity thing.”

The charity thing. Right. My fake relationship debut.

“Seventeen,” I say.

He nods, makes a note. “Jersey’ll be ready by Saturday.”

That’s it. No speech about commitment or belonging. Just business.

But when he walks out, I’m holding a form that says I’m staying.

That says the Cyclones aren’t just another stop.