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Chapter nineteen

Liam

M y jersey’s drenched, my stick hand’s shaking, and my legs are one shift away from quitting on me—but my brain’s still circling the same damn thing.

Katarina.

Fake girlfriend. Real problem.

I slam my helmet down on the bench and try to catch my breath, but the air in here tastes stale—like recycled sweat and frustration. I should be focused on drills, positioning, the goddamn puck. But instead, I’m watching the clock tick down until I see her again.

Pathetic.

Truth is, I’ve been off since that goddamn equipment room.

Not just because I had her pressed against the wall, soft and breathless, looking at me like she wanted to be fucked six ways from Sunday—but because something shifted the second she saw my tattoo.

She flinched.

Only for a second, but I caught it. Like my ink said something she wasn’t ready to hear. Like it meant more to her than it should’ve.

I can’t stop replaying it. The way her throat moved when she swallowed hard. The way her eyes lingered on the edge of my shirt like she was trying to keep it together—and failing.

And before that?

In the recovery room, she was watching me stretch like she forgot she was supposed to be assessing my mobility. Her eyes were all over me, and yeah—I felt it. So I leaned in. Crowded her space. Let her feel the heat, the weight, what I’d do to her if she said the word.

She didn’t step back.

Didn’t stop me.

Her breath hitched. Her body tensed in all the right ways. She wanted it.

She wanted me.

I should’ve kissed her. Should’ve taken her right there with her clipboard clattering to the floor, her legs wrapped around my waist while I reminded her what it feels like to be fucked by a man who knows how to ruin.

But I pulled back.

Let her go like a goddamn amateur.

And now Griffin’s in my ear—again.

Texting threats like I don’t know exactly what he’d do if he found out I’m this close to bending his baby sister over the nearest flat surface. Telling me to back off. Keep my distance. Thing is, Griffin doesn’t have a clue how far this has already gone.

How many times I’ve had to walk away when all I wanted to do was drag her into the nearest dark corner and hear her beg.

She’s already under my skin. In my head.

And the worst part?

She’s not even trying to stop me.

So yeah—Griffin can keep barking. Doesn’t change the fact that his sister’s looking at me like she wants me to forget every rule that’s ever mattered.

And I’m this close to giving her exactly that.

Because I cant keep on like this. Flashes—fragments of memories that don’t make sense. A woman’s laugh. The taste of wine and rebellion. Hands that knew exactly where to touch me. But every time I try to piece it together, it slips away like smoke.

“Hey, Steele,” Aiden calls from the next stall, peeling off his pads. “You skating like you’ve got a death wish today.”

“Something like that.”

More like I’ve been skating like a man possessed. Taking hits I should have avoided. Making plays that were all aggression and no brain. Coach pulled me aside twice to ask what the fuck was wrong with me.

He chuckles, and Jax chimes in. “You break the nutritionist already?”

I shoot him a glare that could melt ice.

He grins, unfazed. “Figured. You’ve had that ‘I fucked up and liked it’ look since Monday.”

He’s not wrong. But I’m not about to unpack that shit with Jax fucking Taylor. The guy’s got a mouth bigger than the penalty box and zero filter.

“Shut the fuck up, Jax,” I mutter, yanking my gear off with way more force than necessary. My shoulder pads hit the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Ooh, touchy.” Jax doesn’t know when to quit. “Must be some serious sexual tension if you’re this wound up.”

I’m on my feet before I realize it, ready to show him exactly how wound up I am. Aiden steps between us, hands raised.

“Easy, boys. Save it for the ice.”

I force myself to sit back down, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Jax just laughs and goes back to his gear like he didn’t almost get his face rearranged.

Once I’m dressed, I head over to Aiden, towel slung over my neck. “You got a minute?”

He reads the look on my face and nods toward a quieter corner. “What’s up?”

I hesitate. Don’t know why it feels weird asking this, but it does. “I need a date spot.”

Aiden blinks. “You… what?”

Jax hoots from across the locker room. “Holy shit. Hell just got season tickets.”

“Somewhere good. Private. Classy.” I ignore Jax completely, focusing on Aiden. “Not some dive bar where the puck bunnies hang out.”

Aiden whistles, suddenly intrigued. “You’re actually gonna do this right.”

I shrug, jaw tight. “I’m not half-assing it. If we’re gonna sell the story, I’m going all in.”

And that’s the truth. Whatever this thing is with Katarina—fake relationship, PR stunt, whatever the hell they want to call it—I’m not going to fuck it up by being lazy. She deserves better than that. Even if it’s all pretend.

“Look,” I continue, running a hand through my damp hair, “I’ve never had to plan actual dates before. Usually it’s just ‘want to come back to my place’ and that’s it. But this is different.”

Aiden nods, “Different how?”

I struggle to find the words. How do I explain that Katarina gets under my skin in ways I don’t understand?

That every conversation with her feels like a chess match where I’m always three moves behind?

That she’s Griffin fucking Novak’s sister and I should run the other way, but instead I want to know everything about her?

“She’s not like the others,” I mutter. “She’s sharp. Doesn’t let shit slide. Looks me dead in the eye and calls me on it.”

Aiden raises a brow. “And you like that?”

I exhale hard, jaw tight. “I fucking hate that I like it… but yeah. I do.”

Aiden thinks for a second. “Vino e Cucina. Quiet, local, no phones allowed. Romantic without trying too hard.”

“Solid,” I nod, filing it away.

“And Skyline Lounge after. Rooftop bar. Great view. Not too loud, not too flashy. Makes you look like you planned ahead.”

“Perfect.”

Aiden slaps my shoulder. “Just don’t look like you’re trying to get laid. You’ll ruin the mystique.”

Jax snorts from where he’s still eavesdropping. “He’s got zero mystique. Just pent-up testosterone and great hair.”

I flip him off and head for the showers before they can keep going. But as the hot water pounds against my back, I can’t shake the feeling that this is more than just about selling a story to the media.

This is about proving something to myself. That I can be the kind of man who deserves a woman like Katarina, even if it’s only pretend.

Later That Afternoon

The PR office smells like money and nerves.

Katarina walks beside me, cool and collected in her fitted scrubs, like she didn’t wreck me in my head last night for the third time this week. Like I haven’t been seeing her in flashes I can’t shake—arched back, soft moans, the way she tasted in my dreams.

Focus.

Riley ushers us into the glass conference room. “You’re on time. Good. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

We sit across from each other at the polished conference table. She doesn’t meet my eye. I don’t blame her. We’re both too aware of what’s riding on this now.

There’s a folder in front of me. I flip it open and find the PR plan like it’s a damn playbook—venues, timeline, staged interactions. It’s all curated down to how we should stand next to each other.

No thanks.

I’ve spent my entire career having other people tell me what to do, where to go, how to behave. Coaches, agents, PR flacks—everyone’s got an opinion about how Liam Steele should live his life. But this? This is different.

This is about Katarina. And I’ll be damned if I let some suit in an overpriced office dictate how I treat her.

I clear my throat and lean forward.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

Riley lifts an eyebrow. “You do?”

The surprise in her voice pisses me off. Like she expected me to just sit here and nod along with whatever bullshit plan they’d cooked up.

I nod. “Vino e Cucina first. Then Skyline. After that, we space it out. Keep it organic. Regular spots, no big stunts.”

“Organic?” Riley exchanges a look with her assistant.

“Yeah. Real places. Real conversations. Not some staged photo op at the charity gala of the week.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You want people to believe this is real? Then it has to feel real.”

Katarina shifts slightly beside me. I catch her glancing at me from the corner of my eye, but when I look over, she’s focused on Riley.

“That actually sounds reasonable,” Riley says slowly, like she’s surprised I can string coherent thoughts together.

Katarina finally speaks up. “That works for me too.”

Her voice is neutral, but her leg is bouncing under the table. I file it away—a tell I’m starting to recognize. She does it when she’s nervous or thinking too hard about something.

“Good.” I close the folder without looking at the rest of their plan. “We’ll handle the details.”

Riley looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression stops her. Smart woman.

We wrap things up fast. Everyone’s pleased with the plan. I should be, too.

But something’s chewing at my gut as we walk out of the building. Maybe it’s the way Katarina’s been quiet since we left the conference room. Or maybe it’s the nagging feeling that I’m getting in deeper than I planned.

I walk her to her car, matching her slower pace. She’s quiet, arms crossed as we step outside. The sun’s low, casting her in amber light. She looks untouchable. Like the kind of woman you fuck up your life over.

“You did good in there,” she says quietly, breaking the silence. “Taking charge like that. I wasn’t expecting it.”

My chest tightens. “You thought I’d just sit there and let them tell us what to do?”

“I thought you’d care more about what looks good for your image.” She stops walking and turns to face me. “But you seemed more concerned about making it real.”

Real. The word hangs between us like a challenge.

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

She studies my face for a long moment, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Okay then.”

I say it before I can stop myself. “Be ready at six tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”

She raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Okay.”

She’s halfway in the car when she glances at me over her shoulder. “You did good today.”

I nod once. “You too.”

She gets in, and I stand there like an idiot, watching her drive away. Watching the way her hair catches the light through the rear window. Wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I swipe half-expecting another useless practice reminder. Instead, a stranger’s number lights up the screen—and the words hit me like a puck to the face :

Keep your fucking distance from my sister, or I'll crack your damn jaw.

Then, a second later:

This isn’t a warning. It’s a promise.

Ice rips through my chest like a slapshot to the sternum. Griffin fucking Novak. Even when he’s not on the same team, the bastard finds a way to ruin my fucking day.

Let’s see who lasts longer before snapping—me... or the big brother with a God complex.

I stare at the screen, re-reading the messages. Part of me wants to text back, tell him exactly where to shove it. But the smarter part—the part that’s learned to pick my battles—tells me to play the long game.

Griffin’s watching. Tracking my moves. Probably has been since the moment he found out his sister was working for my team.

Good fucking luck, Novak.

I don’t play soft. Never have, never will.

And I don’t back off from what I want.

Not for anyone.

I pocket the phone and stare at the road she just drove off on, already planning tomorrow night.

Especially not for fucking him.

Because whatever game Griffin thinks he’s playing, he’s already lost.

He just doesn’t know it yet.