Page 9

Chapter eight

Liam

T hat blonde's got claws.

I slam my car door hard enough to crack a window.

Should've known better than to engage with Little Miss Road Rage twice in two days, but something about her standing next to my car like she owned the fucking place had me seeing red.

Katarina. Finally got a name to go with that smart mouth and those gray eyes that cut through my bullshit like a blade.

I slam my car door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

Sun’s a goddamn furnace, sweat clinging to my neck before I even make it halfway up the driveway. The heat’s got nothing on the fire chewing through my chest though. I can still hear her voice. Feel the sting of every word. I don’t even know her name — just that she pisses me off like no one else.

Second time we’ve crossed paths, and already we’re yelling in a parking lot like exes on Judge Judy.

I shouldn’t have said anything. Should’ve let her walk. But she was there — right there — and something in me cracked.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t slept right in days. Maybe I’m just a fucking idiot.

I didn’t even get her fucking insurance info. I walked away — I wasn’t in the mood to apologize. Not after the locker room shitstorm with Aiden. That shit stung more than it should’ve. Probably ‘cause I know he’s not wrong.

My phone rings. I already know who it is.

Coach Dawson.

Perfect.

I stare at the screen a second too long, jaw grinding like gears. Then I answer. Not because I want to — because it’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s half my life lately: doing the shit I don’t want to, pretending I’m not burning up inside.

“Liam. How’s the new team treating you?”

His voice is rough, slow, like gravel scraping asphalt. No small talk. No warm-up. Just straight to the point.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, heading up the steps. “Still learning the system.”

“The system.” Dawson laughs, cold and low. “That your big update? I hope you’ve got more than that in your back pocket, son. Grit wins games, not excuses.”

I clench my jaw. “We’ve had two practices. No one’s settled. I’m giving what I’ve got.”

“That all you’ve got?” he snaps. “Because I’m hearing otherwise. Word is the captain already had to check your attitude. That true?”

I don’t answer.

Doesn’t matter. He already knows.

“You’ve got one hell of a temper, Liam. And it’s gonna cost you. I’ve seen it before. Guys with a chip on their shoulder and a stick up their ass don’t last long. Not in this league.”

I step inside. Slam the door behind me. The silence swallows me whole. Same as always. Quiet. Empty.

I drop my keys on the counter like I’m not picturing myself throwing them through a fucking wall.

“I’m working on it,” I bite out.

“Try harder. You think anyone’s gonna keep making room for you if you can’t keep your head on straight?”

I run a hand down my face. “What do you want me to say, Coach?”

“I want you to grow the hell up. You’re not some rookie underdog anymore. You’ve got a shot. A real one. Don’t throw it away acting like a ticking time bomb.”

I grip the phone tight enough it creaks. “I show up. I train. I keep my head down—”

“You don’t keep your head down,” he cuts in. “You throw helmets. You fuck with your teammates. You blow up over bullshit and walk around like the whole damn world owes you something. Get your head right, or you’ll be just like the rest. Out and forgotten.” I want to scream.

Want to tell him he doesn’t know shit. Throw it back in his face.

But I don’t.

They only ever see the fire. Never what lit the match

I just breathe. Grit my teeth. Let the words cut.

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” he repeats, voice low now. “This league doesn’t wait for guys like you to figure it out. It eats them alive. You’ve got a small window, Liam. Don’t let your ego slam it shut.”

He hangs up.

“Fuck this,” I growl, ripping my shirt over my head and tossing it across the room.

I don’t have any answers, and I’m not in the mood to sit around pretending they’ll magically show up.

I need a release. Something—anything—to take the edge off.

A shower and a good release might not solve shit, but it’s better than pacing like a caged animal.

I storm into the bathroom and crank the water as hot as it’ll go. Steam rolls up the mirror as I stare at my reflection. Same dark-haired prick looking back at me, same goddamn scowl. No clarity, no breakthrough—just me and my bullshit.

Coach Dawson’s a miserable bastard, but he had one thing right—I need to get my head straight.

This season’s my shot to prove I belong here.

One chance. One fucking shot to make noise before I get buried in the lineup, or worse—forgotten.

I didn’t come here to fade into the background.

It’s a clean slate, and I need to stop dragging my feet and take it.

The second the water hits, I let out a guttural groan.

My back’s tight, shoulders stiff, muscles fried from the last few days.

The grind is real, but this? This helps.

I lean into the spray, hand sliding down my abs until it wraps around my cock.

Not even fully hard yet, but it’s getting there fast. Been a few days since I’ve taken the edge off—and every damn time, it’s the same thing lighting me up.

Her.

That fucking party. That night. The one good goddamn thing since I got here.

I should probably forget it—chalk it up to a one-off, a fantasy—but I can’t.

That night’s been on a loop in my head since it happened.

And even if I went back, there’s no guarantee she’d be there.

I’m not chasing a maybe, and I sure as hell don’t want to tarnish the memory with a half-assed repeat.

She raised the fucking bar—and now nothing else even comes close.

Her tits alone are enough to have my dick kicking in my hand, remembering how good it felt to bury my face in them.

I tighten my hand in a poor attempt to emulate how her pussy felt wrapped around me, chasing the ghost of that heat, that slick slide I can’t recreate.

I’ve got a hard rule—no dating during the season.

No random hookups either. Not because I’m trying to be a goddamn saint, but because I’ve seen too many guys get wrecked by puck bunnies.

Some of those stories end in love, sure, but most of them end in courtrooms and ruined reputations.

So until I find someone who can keep her mouth shut or turn into my future wife, my hand will have to do.

I mean, a fucker can fantasize.

Steam coils around me, thick and suffocating, but not nearly enough to burn her out of my head.

The water beats down on my back, I should be tired. Practice wiped me out, the heat’s suffocating, and Coach’s words are still rattling in my skull.

But all I can think about is her.

The woman from the club.

The party.

The mask.

Gray eyes. That’s all I saw. Gray eyes like a storm just before it breaks—and the way she looked at me under that mask... like she already owned my fucking soul.

She didn’t speak much. Just nodded. Bent. Opened her mouth like she was starving and I was the only thing that could satisfy her.

Sweat and breathless, filthy words whispered between strangers who pretended the night wasn’t going to ruin them.

God, she let me fuck her like a goddamn animal.

I spit in my palm and wrap my hand around my cock, tight and unforgiving. I picture her on her knees, mouth slick and stretched, that mask hiding everything except those eyes.

jerking harder now, precum slicking my palm. My head tips back, water pelting my neck as I let the filth take over. I want her on her knees, spit dripping from her lips, begging me to ruin her.

Her hair twisted in my hands, her smile soft like she thought I was something good. The thought alone wrecks me. Faster. My body jolts. A reminder of how good it felt pushes me over the edge and-

Flash.

Katarina’s face.

Not masked. Just there. That same mouth, just as swollen. Those eyes, stormy and pissed. Her voice in my head: “That all you got, pretty boy?”

No. No. I blink hard, push her out, bring the mask back. Lace. Big, delicious tits bouncing as I fuck her from behind, her ass red from where I spanked her for back-talking. But Katarina’s laugh cuts through the fantasy like a whip.

That bratty little smirk. That defiant tilt of her chin.

What the fuck?

I squeeze harder. Stroke deeper. Focus on the way the masked girl begged me to come inside her. No strings. No names. Just pure, raw need.

But the face flickers again—Katarina, lips parted, breathy, like she’s about to say my name.

Say it, I think. Say my name like you said it in the parking lot. All spit and fire.

Goddammit.

My orgasm hits like a sledgehammer, violent and unrelenting. I groan through clenched teeth, as my dick spurts cum on the shower wall with the image of Katarina Novak—burning behind my eyelids.

I sag forward, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my back. I open my eyes, watching my spend slide down before pushing myself up. “Thank fuck for the removal shower head,” I mutter as I pull it off and spray down the wall before showering like normal.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why can’t I get her out of my fucking head?