Page 9

I shouldn’t be this smug.

Shouldn’t feel this damn victorious. But as I step out of the rink, into the crisp afternoon air, I can’t stop smiling. Because I got to him. And I fucking loved it.

The way his breath hitched—just barely—when I threw my last shot over my shoulder. The way his fingers flexed, tightening into fists, like he was seconds from losing control.

Grant Maddox is unraveling. And I’m the one pulling the thread.

The thought sends a thrill through my veins, a pulse of something sharp and addictive coiling low in my stomach. I won that round. But the best part?

I don’t think the game is over. I pull out my phone, grinning as I scroll for a distraction—something to keep this buzz going.

Before I can open my messages, a call comes in.

Allie.

I answer on the second ring. "Hey, mama-to-be. What’s up?"

"Are you free for lunch?" she asks. "I haven’t seen you in forever, and Jake said you were at the rink this morning."

I pause.

Because if Jake is involved, that means…

"Wait. Who’s coming to this lunch?" I ask, narrowing my eyes even though she can’t see me.

Allie laughs. "Relax. Just me, Jake, and some of the guys. Nothing intense."

Some of the guys. Which could mean anyone. Which definitely could mean Grant. Interesting.

"Where are we meeting?" I ask, already opening my car door.

Allie gives me the name of a café near downtown, and I smirk as I slide into the driver’s seat.

Because if Grant’s there? I’m not just walking into lunch—I’m walking into round two.

***

By the time I pull up to the café, I have my game face on.

Whatever happens, I’m ready for it.

If Grant Maddox is going to be sitting at that table, I need to prove that I’m still in control. Not just to him. To myself as well.

I step out of my car, smoothing my hands down my top, making sure everything is just right. Hair curled in loose waves? Check. Lip gloss freshly applied? Check.

A perfectly calm, composed, totally-not-affected-by-last-night’s-dinner expression? Working on it.

I push through the café doors, scanning the room for Jake. And that’s when I see him.

Grant.

Seated at the table, dressed in a casual button-down with the sleeves rolled up—of course—one arm resting on the back of the booth, looking entirely too relaxed for my liking.

Like he’s completely unfazed.

Like he isn’t sitting directly across from the same woman who just last night tried to push every one of his buttons.

Like he isn’t the reason my stomach is currently doing something deeply annoying.

His gaze flicks up the second I approach, slow and deliberate. And when our eyes meet… Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.

No smirk. No tension. No reaction at all.

Just… nothing.

The sudden lack of it nearly makes me stumble.

Because what the hell? Last night, he was watching me too closely. Reacting, even if he was subtle about it. But now? Now, he’s acting like I don’t exist. And I hate it. I hate how much I notice it.

Jake waves me over. "Took you long enough, Kenz."

I pull it together, flipping my hair over one shoulder as I slide into the seat next to Allie, across from Grant.

"Some of us don’t have our entire schedule revolve around hockey, Jacob," I tease, grabbing a menu.

Jake rolls his eyes. "You’re literally sitting at a table full of hockey players. You might want to rethink your life choices."

Allie snorts. "She’s not wrong, though."

I glance at her, catching the way her gaze lingers on me. Allie knows me too well. She sees things I don’t want her to see. So I ignore the look and pretend my pulse isn’t racing.

I pretend that I’m not hyper-aware of the man sitting just feet away. That my skin isn’t prickling from his proximity. That my body isn’t remembering every single way he touched me. Instead, I cross my legs, tilt my chin up, and force a casual smile.

"So," I say, dragging my gaze away from Grant and toward my brother. "What’s this little lunch meeting about?"

Jake leans forward, launching into something about team strategy, trades, and how some of the guys are adjusting to the coaching change.

I nod along, pretending to listen. But the whole time? I can feel him.

Watching.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I feel it. That careful, controlled awareness. Like Grant Maddox is too good at pretending not to care. Like he’s still trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want me.

And that?

That’s a mistake. Because I see the way his hand flexes against the table. The way his jaw tightens—just slightly—when I cross my legs. The way his eyes linger on my bare shoulders in my sleeveless top a fraction of a second too long, before he looks away.

He’s not as unaffected as he wants me to believe. And I’m about to prove it.

So I set my glass down, lean in slightly, and tilt my head toward him.

"You look tense, Silver Fox," I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe you should pick up a hobby. Something relaxing."

I expect him to react. For his jaw to tighten. For something.

But instead?

He lifts his coffee to his lips, takes a slow sip, and barely spares me a glance.

"Thanks for your concern, Flight," he says, voice smooth as hell. "But I manage just fine."

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I blink. What the hell is happening? I threw a shot, and he didn’t even flinch.

Jake chuckles, glancing between us. "Kenzie, don’t mess with Maddox. He’s got the patience of a saint. Probably deals with worse chirping from Gator on a daily basis."

Grant hums in agreement, setting his coffee down. "That’s true."

What. The actual. Hell.

Jake just unknowingly handed him an out, and he took it.

No tension. No smirk. No reaction at all.

And now?

Now I’m fuming.

Because this isn’t how this was supposed to go. I was supposed to be winning. I was supposed to make him break first. But he’s not breaking. He’s just sitting there, looking unfairly good, like he isn’t affected at all.

Like I’m not even worth a second thought.

And for some stupid reason?

That makes me want to push harder. So I reach for my drink, swirling the straw before I glance at him again, tilting my head.

"Are you always this stiff, Maddox?" I muse, voice light and teasing. "Or is this your way of compensating for something?"

Jake barks out a laugh. "Jesus, Kenz."

Allie smirks, shaking her head.

But Grant?

Grant finally reacts. Not in the way I expect. Not with a sharp comment or an easy smirk or some cocky quip that lets me know I’ve gotten to him.

No.

Instead, he leans forward, just slightly. So slightly that no one else at this table would notice. But I do.

Now he’s closer.

So close that his familiar, woodsy, dark spice thing he has going on—that I really don’t need to be inhaling right now—wraps around me, threading through my thoughts, making my pulse jump.

I freeze.

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else can see.

But he knows. Because his lips curve. Slow. Subtle. Lethal.

"You really think you’re winning this, Flight?" he murmurs, voice so low that it’s just for me.

That tone? That voice? It’s dangerous. And I don’t have a comeback.

I don’t have a single damn word in my brain, because Grant Maddox just flipped the entire game on me without lifting a finger.

And he knows it. His mouth tilts into something barely a smirk. Then, as if to completely destroy me, he leans in even closer—his breath warm against my ear.

"Don’t start a game you can’t win," he murmurs.

My stomach drops. Not from nerves. Not from embarrassment. From the horrifying realization that I might be the one who just lost.

Suddenly, I’m not sure this is a game anymore. Or if he even believes it is either.

Then, just as smoothly as he invaded my space, he pulls back. Picks up his coffee. And goes right back to listening to Jake talk like nothing even happened.

Like he didn’t just completely obliterate my entire sense of control.

Like he didn’t just flip this whole damn thing on its head.

And now? I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

***

It’s been a week since that disastrous lunch and I’m fine.

If fine means working myself into exhaustion. If fine means smiling too hard, laughing too loud, pretending like every breath doesn’t feel too tight in my chest.

I’ve picked up every extra flight I can. Stayed later, worked harder. Smiled at passengers as if I’m made of sunshine and rainbows. Handed out drinks. Cracked jokes with the crew. Anything to keep my mind moving.

Because if I stop, I’ll think about him. And if I keep moving, I don’t have time to think about him.

I grip my cup of coffee a little too tightly, staring blankly at the airport terminal in front of me.

But I’m wired. Because no matter how many distractions I throw in front of myself—he’s still in my head. I exhale slowly.

This isn’t a problem. This is fixable. I’ll just… keep pretending like it never happened. Like he never happened.

My phone buzzes. A new message. I suck in a sharp breath.

Grant.

Could it be?

I brace myself. Open my texts.

And—

I choke on my coffee.

Oh, shit.

I glance around the terminal like Allie is somehow here, watching me. But no, she’s just psychic. I exhale slowly, dropping my head back against the airport seat.

I should lie. I should say there’s no guy. But Allie? She’ll see right through it. Because I’ve been running, and she knows it.

I should have ignored the text. Or faked some excuse:

Sorry, bad WIFI!

Mid-flight, talk later!

In a coma, try again next week!

But instead?

I let my best friend’s psychic energy wear me down.

***

I’m sitting across from Allie at our favorite café, stirring my coffee like a wind turbine.

She takes one look at me and smirks. "Who is he?"

I nearly choke on my drink at her directness. "Excuse me?"

"You’re fidgeting. You never fidget."

I freeze.

Allie just cocks her head, tapping her fingers against her mug. "So… you going to tell me about him, or do I have to start guessing?"

I school my face into the most neutral expression I can muster.

"There is no him."

Her smirk deepens. "Kenzie."

I sip my coffee.

She leans in. "Kenzie."

I take another sip.

She grins. "Kenz—"

"Fine!" I hiss, slamming my mug down. "There was a him. Briefly. But it’s over."

Allie sits back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Uh-huh. And why, exactly, was it so brief?"

I sigh, glaring into my coffee.

Because it was only supposed to be one night. Because now he’s my brother’s coach.

But obviously, I’m not saying that. So I go with the safest answer.

"It was a mistake."

Allie snorts. "Yeah, okay. So you’re just—what? Picking up extra flights and avoiding my calls for funsies? That tracks."

I groan. "I’m not avoiding you."

She raises a brow.

I scowl. "I’m not!"

She grins like she just won a round of mind chess. "So who is he?"

"No one."

"Kenzie."

I hesitate. Because this is dangerous territory. One wrong move, one too-specific detail, and Allie will hunt the truth down like a bloodhound. So I keep it vague.

"He’s older."

She hums. "How much older?"

"Not the point."

"Super the point."

I glare. "He’s… late thirties."

"Oooh, Kenzie." She wiggles her brows. "You finally found yourself a Silver Fox?"

My stomach flips. Because hearing her say it? Hearing someone else put words to what’s been in my head since the moment I saw him in that bar?

It makes this feel way too real.

I scoff, trying to play it off. "It wasn’t like that."

"Uh-huh."

"It was just—" I wave a hand. "A mistake."

Allie snorts. "Sure. And I’m a virgin."

I glare. "I’m serious."

She leans in, eyes sharp. "And I know you, Kenz. If it was really ‘just a mistake,’ you wouldn’t be avoiding me like I’m the IRS."

I sigh, dropping my head back against the chair. Because she’s not wrong.

She watches me for a long moment, studying me with that annoying, all-knowing best friend expression. Then she tilts her head.

"So, when are you seeing him again?"

I jolt. "What—never. It’s done."

"Uh-huh."

"It is!"

She sips her coffee, completely unimpressed.

I grit my teeth. "Allie, I swear to—"

"Was it good?" she interrupts.

I blink. "What?"

"The sex," she says, deadpan. "Was it good?"

I glare. "I hate you."

"That’s not an answer."

I pick up my coffee. "It was fine."

She cackles.

I roll my eyes. "It was fine."

"Oh my God, you’re lying."

"I’m not!"

She leans in. "Kenzie."

I huff. "It was… very good. Okay? Whatever. Moving on."

Allie smirks. "Moving on, huh?" She lifts a brow. "Then why do you look like someone who just got run over by a truck full of bad decisions and unresolved sexual tension?"

I groan, dragging both hands down my face. "Because I hate you."

"That’s not an answer."

I grab my coffee, take a long, slow sip, and glare at her over the rim. "Fine. Maybe I hate me, too."

Allie smirks. "Yeah, Kenz. That sounds about right."