Page 17

I refuse to think about him.

Refuse to let my brain replay every damn second of him at my apartment.

But apparently, my body didn’t get the memo.

Because Grant Maddox has taken up residence in my head, and no matter how much I try to shove him out, he lingers.

It’s infuriating.

All day, I go through the motions, pretending like I’m fine. I grab coffee, run errands, clean my apartment—anything to keep myself busy.

But nothing works.

Because no matter what I do, I keep getting distracted by flashbacks of him.

The way his fingers brushed my wrist. The way his voice dropped low, like a promise and a warning all at once. The way he looked at me—possessive, amused, like he already knew exactly how this ends.

I groan and throw my phone onto my couch, flopping down beside it.

It dings.

Allie.

I glare at the screen. Then I ignore it. Because I am not doing this today.

I pick up the remote and flip through channels, desperate for something to pull me out of this spiral.

Five minutes in, I realize I’ve been staring at the screen without absorbing a single word. Because Grant is still in my damn head.

I groan again, rubbing my hands down my face. This isn’t normal. I hate to admit he’s right: it’s not just sex anymore.

And the worst part? I have no idea what to do about that. Before I can figure it out, my phone dings again.

Not Allie this time.

I stare at the text.

Because for the first time in my life, I don’t know if I actually want to go to the rink. But the thought of sitting here alone with my thoughts for one more second?

Even worse.

With a sigh, I grab my keys and head for the door. The second I step into the rink, I know this was a mistake. It’s not even the cold air that hits me first—it’s him.

Grant is on the ice, commanding the entire damn team, and looking way too good doing it.

I tell myself I won’t look. That I’ll keep my focus on Jake, that I’ll stay far, far away from whatever gravitational pull Grant Maddox has on me.

But the second my gaze drifts to him, I can’t look away.

He’s completely in control, barking orders at the team, his voice cutting through the crisp air like a blade.

It’s unfair.

The way his coaching gear fits just right. The way his sharp jaw flexes when he’s focused. The way he moves with this effortless confidence, like he owns every inch of that ice.

Every time I’ve seen him he’s always had that presence, that quiet authority. But here? In his element?

It’s something else entirely.

And that should make me turn around and leave to collect myself, my thoughts.

But I don’t.

Instead, I take a seat in the stands, pretending like I’m watching my brother, not the man who’s been haunting my peace for weeks.

I cross my arms. I force myself to relax. I do not focus on the way his voice sounds when he’s in full coach mode. I do not watch how effortlessly he moves across the ice, how strong and steady he looks.

I definitely do not let myself remember what those hands felt like on me.

But my body?

My body betrays me every damn time.

Because all I can think about is how it felt to have him this close, to feel his breath on my skin, to have his hands—

I snap my legs closed and inhale sharply.

Nope. Not happening.

I am not having a meltdown in the middle of a hockey rink over a man who initially made it clear this is just sex… only to flow with our growing connection and break down every wall I had built around my heart.

I’m fine.

Completely, totally fine.

Until Grant finally sees me. His gaze locks onto mine across the ice. And my whole damn body ignites.

He doesn’t react right away. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t call me out. He just watches me. Like he’s known I was here this whole time. Like he’s been waiting for me to crack.

I tell myself I’m here for Jake.

That I came to watch my brother run drills, that I’m just being supportive, that this has nothing to do with the man currently commanding the entire damn rink.

But the second I spot Grant—all broad shoulders, controlled power, and absolute authority as he moves across the ice—I know I’ve been lying to myself.

Seeing Grant Maddox, sexy silver fox, in his element? It’s just unfair. It’s unreasonable. And, worst of all, it’s doing things to me that I have no business feeling.

His presence isn’t loud, but it’s undeniable. He’s not barking orders like some ego-driven coach who needs to prove he’s in charge. He doesn’t have to.

His players hang onto every word. Because when Grant speaks, people listen.

And apparently, I’m no exception.

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of my seat like it’ll somehow ground me. I need to stop staring.

But my gaze tracks him anyway.

The way he moves, sharp and deliberate. The subtle clench of his jaw when a player messes up a drill. The way he runs a hand over the back of his neck, faintly frustrated but still composed.

It’s hypnotic.

It’s distracting.

And I hate that I notice everything.

Jake skates past, calling something to a teammate, but I barely hear it.

Because in that exact moment, Grant turns.

And locks eyes with me again. A slow prickle of awareness rolls down my spine.

I expect him to smirk. To acknowledge me in some way. To let me know he knows I’m watching him.

But he doesn’t.

He just holds my gaze for a fraction of a second too long—long enough for something to spark low in my stomach, long enough for my breath to feel too shallow—then he looks away.

Like he wasn’t just looking at me the exact same way a few nights ago, with his hands tangled in my hair and his mouth against my throat.

A hot wave of something flares beneath my skin.

Oh, hell no.

This man.

This smug, controlled, infuriating man.

I shift in my seat, crossing one leg over the other, glaring at him like it’ll somehow affect him the way he’s affecting me.

It doesn’t.

He goes back to coaching, ignoring me completely.

Like he’s not even aware I’m here.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything he could’ve said or done.

I don’t know whether I want to throw something at him or drag him into an empty locker room and tear that composure to shreds.

And the worst part? I think he already knows that. I force myself to sit through the rest of practice, but every second feels like a test of how much I can take before I snap.

Grant never looks at me again.

Not once. And that feels awful. Because he knows I’m here, exactly where I’m sitting.

And now?

He’s making me feel his absence like a damn punishment. I should leave before practice ends. Before I have to face him.

Before I have to pretend my entire body hasn’t been on high alert for the last hour, hyper-aware of every damn thing he does.

I quietly stomp my way down to ground level, by the tunnel the players use to get from the ice to the locker room. The cold air from the ice nearby makes me shiver.

But I hesitate there for a second too long. And then the whistle blows. The players start skating off the ice. And before I can make my escape, he’s there.

Grant moves toward me with the same deliberate pace he always has—calm, controlled, unreadable.

I tell myself I’m not going to react. That I’ll stand my ground and act like this isn’t affecting me.

But when he stops in front of me—towering over me, sweat-damp hair pushed back, looking entirely too smug for someone who just spent an hour pretending I didn’t exist—

I feel it everywhere.

"You always this interested in hockey, Flight?" Low, smooth, laced with amusement.

I raise a brow. "You always this interested in ignoring people?"

His mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smirk. "I was busy working."

I cross my arms. "Seemed more like avoiding."

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering that. Then he leans in, just enough that I catch the faintest hint of his cologne beneath the lingering chill of the rink.

"You watching me, or just hoping I’ll chase you again?"

My breath catches. Damn, he sees right through me. Because that’s exactly what this feels like.

Like he’s making me wait. Like he’s testing to see how long I can hold out before I crack first.

Our faces inches apart, I open my mouth, ready to fire back, ready to get some of my power back—

But then I hear someone behind me and my entire body tenses.

“No. Tell me this isn’t happening.”

Oh. Shit.

I turn just as Jake steps into view, his expression hard, his gaze flicking between Grant and me. I don’t have time to prepare a nonchalant remark.

Because the moment my brother’s jaw clenches, I already know we’re about to have a problem.