Page 16

OLIVIA

I watched the game tonight. Every brutal second.

Watched Sebastian get benched midway through the second period.

Even through the screen, the frustration rolled off him in waves—his shoulders tight, jaw clenched, head down like he’d just taken a hit that never made contact.

It hurt.

More than it should.

Watching him come apart like that—alone and unravelling on national television—it did something to me. Twisted something sharp in my chest I haven’t figured out how to pull free.

It's supposed to be my job to help him. Fix him. But that kiss. It changed everything. Blurred lines that can't be unblurred.Tilted the ground beneath me just enough to make everything feel unstable.

Dangerous.

I haven’t been back to the arena in days. Couldn’t bring myself to walk those halls. Couldn’t sit across from the players and offer them something I no longer have. Stability. Sanity. Answers. And I definitely couldn’t sit in a room and pretend not to feel the way I feel about him.

Half a bottle of wine sits on the coffee table next to a box I haven’t touched in months. Photos and letters—some creased and faded. I pour another glass of merlot and pull the box toward me.

I sift through the pile and find a photo—Ethan and me on our wedding day. He’s in uniform, laughing as I lean in to fix his crooked boutonnière. My eyes are brighter. Younger. Hopeful.

It should break me.

But it doesn’t.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it just feels like a memory. A soft ache instead of a sharp wound.

I sip my wine and lean back against the cushions.

The truth is—I know kissing Sebastian wasn’t a betrayal. Not to Ethan. Ethan would’ve wanted me to live. To feel.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.

Because Sebastian Wilde is a man wrapped in iron and silence. And I can’t fall for someone like that. I can’t let my want bulldoze every boundary I’ve spent my career upholding.

My phone buzzes on the table with a text from Harper.

I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.

I groan, toss my head back, and take another sip of wine before walking to the buzzer. “Come up,” I say into the intercom, then unlock the door.

Seconds later, Harper strides in like a one-woman hurricane, wearing a leather jacket over a red top, her thick black hair spilling over her shoulders. She holds up a bottle of wine.

“This is only for pre-drinks,” she says, plopping it on the counter. “You’re getting dressed. We’re going out.”

“I really don’t feel like?—”

“Not taking no for an answer.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re already halfway there. Just do something with your face and put on real pants.”

I laugh despite myself. “You’re relentless.”

“Damn right.”

Thirty minutes later, I’ve curled my hair, applied makeup, and pulled on my favorite black jeans and a low-cut sweater.

Harper nods in approval as I grab my coat.“I knew you had something slutty enough for a bar.”

We take an Uber across town. The city’s buzzing with weekend energy—music and headlights and people spilling out of patios with flushed cheeks and open laughter. Everything feels too loud, too alive. Like the world’s daring me to stop pretending I’ve got it all under control.

When we step into Ironclad, it’s packed. Dim lighting, thumping bass, the unmistakable scent of sweat and whiskey and something fried.

Harper doesn’t wait—she weaves into the crowd like she’s done this a hundred times.

I follow. Sort of.

A roar of deep, masculine laughter cuts through the noise, pulling my attention left.

I see Tyler Slade first—goofing off, head tipped back, eyes crinkled. Then Kane. Blake.

And then—tucked in the corner, half in shadow—I see him.

Sebastian.

A half-finished beer in his hand, hoodie pushed up to his elbows. He leans back in his seat, taking up space like he owns the air around him, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that gives him away.

Those stormy grey eyes shift—like he senses me in the noise and chaos. Then they land on mine, slow and sure, pinning me in place.

And he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just sits there, watching—jaw tight, shadowed with stubble.His mouth is set, hard and unsmiling.

But his eyes...

That look. Low, locked in, unapologetically focused—like I’m the only thing in the room he can see. It’s the same look he gave me right before he kissed me.

It hits me hard. Deep. Hot.

My pulse thuds behind my ribs, fast and reckless.

I can't be here.

Not with this wildfire crackling to life inside me.

I turn quickly, trying to disappear into the crowd, into the music, into anything that isn’t him.

But it’s too late.

He saw me. I saw him. And the part of me that’s still humming from the memory of that kiss can’t seem to shut the hell up.

Harper reappears like she’s been tracking me by radar. A shot glass clinks in front of me. “Tequila. No salt. No excuses.”

“I don’t know if I should stay,” I mutter, voice low enough that she has to lean in.

She eyes me. “What are you talking about? We just got here.”

I shift on my feet. “The team’s here. Slade. Kane. Blake. Probably more." I don't say his name. Afraid it might betray me. "It’s not a good look.”

Harper squints. “A good look for who?”

“For me,” I say. “I work with them. I’m supposed to be—neutral. Professional.”

She rolls her eyes, hard. “You’re not dancing on tables in a feather boa. You’re having a drink. Loosening your death grip on control. You’re allowed to exist outside of your job, Liv.”

“I don't know.”

Harper studies me for a second, then tilts her head. “You think they don’t already know you’re human? You’re literally the only one pretending you’re not.”

I stare down at the shot glass, my reflection fractured in the surface.

“You work your ass off,” she says, softer now. “You carry everyone else’s damage like it’s your job—because it is—but you don’t get to disappear just to make them more comfortable. You deserve to have a damn drink.”

Before I can reply, Tyler Slade materializes out of nowhere with a grin that could disarm a bomb.“Look who’s off the clock and actually drinking like the rest of us degenerates.”

I groan, already regretting every life choice that led me here. “Hi, Tyler.”

"Didn’t peg you for a tequila girl.”

“I’m not.”

“She is tonight,” Harper says.

“Damn right she is,” Tyler agrees. Then he turns and hollers toward the bar. “Shots for Olivia and Harper!”

A few guys cheer. Branson lifts his glass. Blake tips his head in my direction. Another shot lands in my hand before I even drink the first one.

“Cheers,” Harper says.

I knock it back, then the second one, because it’s easier than dealing with the panic rising in my throat.

We settle at a high table near the edge of the crowd, but I can still feel him.

Sebastian.

His presence presses at the edge of my awareness, even without looking. But when I do look—because of course I do—he’s watching. Still slouched in the corner like he’s carved out a kingdom of shadow, one hand wrapped loosely around his beer, his jaw tense, his eyes unreadable.

Every time someone laughs too loud near me, his gaze sharpens. Every time I smile, something flickers across his face—something hot and dark and dangerous.

I try to focus on Harper. On Slade, who keeps cracking jokes. On the dull throb of the bass and the sting of tequila still lingering in my throat. But it’s all background noise.

Because every nerve ending in my body is attuned to him.

Because I feel like I’m standing on a fault line—and if I move the wrong way, everything I’ve built could crumble.

Harper orders another round before I can object.

And maybe I don’t try that hard to stop her.

The third shot burns less than the first. The fourth slides down like a dare I’m ready to lose.

Warmth spreads through my chest. My limbs go loose, fingers relaxed around the sweating glass. The buzz beneath my skin grows louder, drowning out the static of logic, duty, guilt.

Tyler’s mid-story—something about a teammate locking himself out of a hotel room naked—when Branson slaps his thigh and nearly spills his drink.

“Swear to God,” Tyler grins, dragging the attention back to himself, “dude’s standing there with a room service tray like it’s a damn loincloth.”

Harper’s laughing so hard she’s wheezing.

Another shot appears in front of me. I don’t remember who ordered it. I don’t ask.

I knock it back, and the burn barely registers.

Harper tucks her shoulder into mine, still giggling. “You having fun yet?”

I smile, slow and lazy, the edges of everything softened by tequila and noise. “I think I might actually be,” I say, words stretching just a little too long, just blurred enough that I can hear the slur and don’t even care. “Like...real fun. Not the fake, nod-and-smile kind.”

Harper grins, victorious. “Told you. All you needed was alcohol and a little inappropriate peer pressure.”

I laugh, tipping my glass toward her. “Honestly? You’re a menace."

"But a hot one.”She tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Damn right."

And just like that, I’m laughing again. Loose and warm and alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

But I can still feel him .

Even in the chaos—even with half the team flanking our table like we’re the goddamn Stanley Cup—I feel him. That low thrum of attention from across the room. The weight of it against my spine.

He hasn’t moved.

Still slouched in his corner, forearms on the table, one hand wrapped around his drink like he might crush the glass if he squeezes too hard.

I'm too aware of him.

And every time I catch his eyes, my stomach flips. My chest tightens. That wildfire under my skin roars louder.

The guys are joking again—something about team bonding and body shots—and Harper plays along, sharp-tongued and fearless, tossing her head back and goading Tyler like it’s her full-time job.

And I’m laughing too.

I think I am.

But it’s too loud now. The music. The laughter. The heat in my cheeks. The pull in my gut.

I blink down at my glass. My hand is unsteady when I reach for it.

I’m drunk.

Not tipsy. Not pleasantly buzzed.

Drunk.

And the terrifying part?

I don’t care.

Not tonight. Not with him across the room, burning through me with every glance. Not with every shot melting down the lines I swore I wouldn’t cross. Not with this much noise, and this much heat, and this much want crawling under my skin.

I laugh again—too loud, too easy—and feel it, that slow crack of something breaking loose inside me.

And when I look over, Sebastian’s still there.

Watching.

Like he’s daring me to do something about it.