Chapter 11

Elsie POV

I don’t even remember agreeing to it. One minute I’m staring at myself in a push-up bra, still reeling from whatever that moment was in the lingerie store, and the next, I’m in a salon chair, a cape snapped around my shoulders, and someone is running their fingers through my hair like they’re about to reinvent it.

The place smells like expensive shampoo, lavender oil, and nerves.

Mine. Definitely mine.

Across the room, Alex is lounging in one of the armchairs like this is completely normal. Like dragging someone into a high-end salon for a full makeover is something he does everyday.

I glance at him through the mirror. “This is too far.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “No, it’s not.”

“Alex.” I lower my voice as the stylist begins sectioning my hair like she’s prepping a crime scene. “Hair, nails… seriously?”

He finally looks up from his phone, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “You want people to see you, right?”

“I didn’t think I needed to be dipped in polish and perfume for that to happen.”

“Wrong again.” He stands and walks toward me, folding his arms as he leans against the edge of the mirror. “You’re about to show up at a place where everyone knows everyone. Where every new face gets judged before they say a single word.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“You show up there looking like you did yesterday? They’ll write you off before you even get your coat off. But tonight, you walk in looking like this?” He gestures at the reflection, even half-finished, the stylist’s already doing something magical with my hair. “You make them stop. You make them ask who you are.”

“And then what?” I mutter, glaring at the nail technician as she starts shaping my nails with terrifying precision.

“Then, when I walk up to you after the next game and talk to you like you belong there, it looks real.”

I pause.

“It makes it believable,” he says, voice softer now. “You’ll already be in their heads. Not some invisible rookie. Someone they saw. Someone they’re curious about. Which means when you ask questions? They answer.”

I stare at him for a long second. Then glance back at the mirror.

My hair’s hidden away as they work. My skin somehow glows just from having someone dab a few creams on it. My nails are shaping up like I belong in a perfume ad instead of a press box.

“You really thought this through,” I say quietly.

“I told you,” he says, smirking faintly. “This isn’t just clothes and lipstick. It’s strategy.”

The stylist starts working on the first section of my hair, and I close my eyes, trying to pretend I don’t feel that flutter of nerves again.

Because as much as I hate to admit it… He might actually be right.

The soft whirl of the hairdryer blends with the low hum of voices around me, creating a strangely calming kind of noise. Everything smells expensive in here. Lavender, citrus, something powdery I can’t name. Even the floor looks like it costs more than my monthly rent. I sit stiffly in a black salon chair, draped in a sleek robe that does nothing to stop the anxiety twisting tighter in my stomach.

Alex lounges again on one of the pale leather couches across the room like he owns the place. He’s scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t just turned my entire day into some kind of high-gloss fashion montage. I glance at him in the mirror, trying to work out how the hell I let this happen.

He catches my look and pushes himself to his feet, slipping his phone into his pocket as he crosses the salon floor.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says, stretching slightly. “Team meeting.”

“Oh no, how will you survive not hovering over me while they shape my eyebrows,” I mutter without looking at him.

He stops beside my chair and taps something into his phone. “A car is going to collect you and your friend at eight. It’ll bring you both to the club.”

I blink at my reflection. “A car?”

“Yes, with seats and everything,” he says as if I’ve asked him what a car is.

“Do I have to go in the dress?” I already know the answer, but I ask anyway.

“You have to go in the dress,” he replies. “And the lingerie we picked. And the heels. Don’t go rogue on this.”

I turn my head toward him slightly. “Can’t I wear something more comfortable? Or something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to walk onto a red carpet I don’t belong on?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You want to blend in? You want them to remember you before they ever hear your name? Then yes, you wear the damn dress.”

I slump back in the chair as the stylist returns and begins parting my hair again. The tug of the comb is oddly grounding.

“This is a lot of effort,” I murmur.

“It’s not effort,” he replies. “It’s strategy.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like I should have known this from the beginning. He rests one hand on the back of my chair, leaning just enough that I can feel his presence behind me.

“When I talk to you after the next game, I don’t want anyone asking who you are,” he says. “I want them to recognize you. I want them to remember seeing you. That only works if you stand out tonight.”

I glance at him in the mirror, watching the way his expression stays calm and confident, like this is just another play he’s calling on the ice.

He straightens again and begins listing things off like he’s reading from a checklist.

“Don’t get too drunk. But don’t avoid drinking either. One or two drinks. Look relaxed. Don’t hover around your friend all night, and don’t hide in a corner like you’re waiting for a school dance to be over. Don’t check your phone every five seconds. Don’t look bored. Don’t look nervous. Don’t bolt.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to breathe, or is that against the rules too?”

He smiles and pats the top of my head like I’m a nervous little dog. “Try not to hyperventilate. Everything else is optional.”

“I really hate you,” I say.

“You’re doing great,” he replies.

He steps back and checks the time on his watch. “I’ll message later to make sure you’re ready. Remember the car will be outside at eight. Don’t be late.”

“Alex,” I say before he walks off. “What if I mess it up?”

He pauses at the door, glancing back at me with a look that’s strangely sincere.

“Then I’ll be the one who has to clean it up. So you won’t,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him, leaving me surrounded by stylists and the low buzz of conversation, still sitting in this glossy chair with my hair halfway done and the weight of everything he said hanging over me like smoke.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching the shape of someone I barely recognize starting to take form.

If I’m not careful, I might actually become her.

By the time I get home, the sky’s starting to lean into dusk, and everything feels a little unreal, like I’ve wandered off a movie set and no one’s told me to leave yet. My hair is smooth and shiny, curled in soft waves that bounce when I walk. My nails are perfect. My skin has been touched and tinted and powdered to within an inch of its life.

I don’t even look like me. Not the version I recognize, anyway.

As I push open the front door to my apartment, I hear Sarah call out from the living room.

“Finally! What took you—” Her voice cuts off as I step into the room.

She freezes halfway through standing, her jaw dropping.

“Damn,” she says, blinking once, then again. “You look… fuckable.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, flushing immediately.

She circles me like I’m some kind of designer handbag on display. “No, I’m serious. Who did this to you? You’ve got hair that moves in slow motion and cheekbones that could cut glass. Are you wearing lip gloss? You hate lip gloss.”

I try not to laugh but fail a little. “It was kind of a full transformation situation.”

“I’ll say. You walked out the door looking like a tired librarian and came back ready to ruin lives.”

I drop my bag on the table and kick off my shoes, which were already trying to kill me. “Don’t ask too many questions, okay? I’ll explain when I can. I just… I can’t right now.”

Sarah crosses her arms, her expression suddenly sharper. “Is this about that hockey player that clearly said you needed a dress sense? Yeah you didn’t say who it was but I figured that’s what happened.”

I hesitate. “Kind of.”

She raises both brows. “Elsie.”

“I said I’ll explain when I can.”

She sighs dramatically and flops onto the couch. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But I am officially stating for the record that this is the hottest you’ve ever looked and I hate you just a little bit for it.”

Snorting I drop beside her. “I’m not even fully ready yet. Still have to get dressed.”

“You don’t need to get dressed. You could show up in your bathrobe and people would weep.” She groans and tilts her head back. “I wish I got a makeover day. I look like a backup dancer for a community theater musical next to you.”

“You look fine,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.

“I look like I did laundry and ran out of energy before makeup. You look like you’re about to flirt with a billionaire and walk away with his yacht.”

I laugh, but deep down I feel it, the nerves, the weight of what’s coming tonight. This isn’t just dress-up. This is strategy. This is pressure.

Sarah doesn’t know it yet. But I’ll have to tell her eventually.

Just… not tonight.

I disappear into my room before Sarah can ask more questions, clutching the bag with the dress like it might bite me if I let go.

Closing the door behind me, I take a slow breath and open it up. The black dress slips out, impossibly sleek and cut in all the ways that make me second-guess every carb I’ve eaten since birth. I hang it on the back of my chair and grab the matching lingerie Alex insisted on.

Sliding into the push-up bra is an experience all its own. I barely recognize the reflection in the mirror. Everything looks… higher. Tighter. Better. When I pull on the rest, the lacey black underwear, the heels, the dress itself, I freeze for a second before the mirror, trying to process it.

This doesn’t look like me.

It looks like the kind of woman who knows what she’s doing. The kind who’s confident walking into a room full of people and knows they’re watching her. It’s terrifying, and kind of thrilling.

I smooth down the dress one last time and open the door.

Sarah’s in the living room, already dressed in a deep emerald green dress that hugs her hips and flares at her thighs. Her makeup’s bold, eyes smoky, lips painted with something she definitely didn’t buy at a drugstore. She looks stunning.

When she sees me, her jaw drops.

“What the hell.”

I freeze. “Is it too much?”

Sarah stares at me like she’s just spotted a unicorn in the hallway.

“Okay,” she says, taking a step closer. “What the hell. Where did those come from?”

I blink. “What?”

She points directly at my chest. “Your boobs. I’ve known you for years. You did not have boobs like this. You had maybe a gentle slope at best. Now you’ve got—” She circles her hands vaguely in the air. “—whatever this is.”

“It’s a push-up bra,” I mutter, adjusting the neckline of the dress.

“A what push-up bra? One blessed by a goddess? Because that’s not just lift. That’s… physics-defying witchcraft.” She steps closer and squints at me like she’s studying a crime scene. Then, without asking, she pokes me. “Oh my god. That’s real. That’s not stuffing.”

“Stop poking me like I’m some novelty balloon,” I hiss, swatting her hand away.

“I just don’t understand how you went from ‘local ghost’ to ‘walking thirst trap’ in less than twenty-four hours.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but Sarah sees right through it.

She folds her arms. “Okay. Spill. Who got into your head?”

“No one.”

She tilts her head. “That’s not a ‘no one’ dress. That’s a ‘someone helped you pick this’ dress. And your hair? Your face? Someone put you in a chair and had plans.”

I sigh and smooth down the side of my dress, suddenly feeling the pressure all over again. “It’s complicated.”

Sarah raises both eyebrows. “Complicated like you found a fairy godmother, or complicated like there’s a hot guy involved and you’re trying not to admit it?”

I don’t answer.

She grins like a shark. “There is someone.”

“Please don’t make this a thing,” I mutter.

“Oh it’s a thing,” she says, still circling me. “And whoever he is, I owe him flowers, because this makeover is criminal. You’re going to walk into that club tonight and ruin lives.”

“I’m not trying to ruin anything,” I say, cheeks warming. “I’m just trying to blend in.”

“With that dress?” She scoffs. “Babe, you’re not blending. You’re going to break necks.”

I groan and sink onto the edge of the couch. “This is why I didn’t want to do this in the first place.”

Sarah grabs her clutch and tugs me to my feet. “You’re doing it now. So own it. You’re hot, you’re mysterious, and you’ve clearly got secrets I’m going to pry out of you later.”

I glance at her, unsure whether to laugh or run.

She smirks. “Now come on. For once in your life, you’re the girl everyone’s going to stare at. Don’t waste it hiding behind me.”

We step out of the building and into the cool night air, heels clicking against the pavement. I’m trying to stay calm, like this is normal, like the butterflies in my stomach aren’t throwing a rave.

When I see what’s waiting at the curb, my breath catches.

The car isn’t just luxury, it’s legendary.

A gleaming black Rolls-Royce Ghost sits parked just outside, polished so perfectly I can see the streetlights reflected along its curves. The silver grille gleams like it was carved by royalty. The back door opens with a soft click as a uniformed chauffeur steps forward, holding it for us with a quiet nod.

Sarah slows beside me, heels halting on the sidewalk as she takes it all in.

“Elsie,” she says slowly, her voice hushed. “What the actual hell.”

“Don’t ask,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

She turns her head toward me, eyes narrowed with a thousand unspoken questions. I keep walking, refusing to meet her stare. My legs feel shaky, like I’m stepping into someone else’s life.

I lower myself into the car, the leather seats swallowing me with that rich, impossibly soft feel of money. The interior smells like sandalwood and understated wealth. Sarah climbs in beside me, still gaping as the door closes behind us with a smooth, weighty sound that silences the world outside.

The car starts moving, gliding through the city like it’s too important to feel the road. Sarah doesn’t speak. Not yet.

She’s too busy staring at me. I feel her eyes dragging across the dress, the hair, the makeup, the attitude I’m trying so hard to fake.

Finally, she says it. “Who are you right now?”

I don’t answer. I just press my fingers to my knees and watch the lights blur past the tinted window.

Because tonight? I’m not even sure I know myself.

The car glides to a stop so smoothly I almost don’t feel it. The engine hums into silence, and a second later, the chauffeur is opening the door with that same calm efficiency, like this is a routine drop-off and not the beginning of my impending public humiliation.

I step out into a world of flashing lights and low, pulsing bass. The club exterior gleams under high-end lighting, the entrance framed by gold-accented doors and a thick velvet rope guarded by men in black suits and earpieces. Camera flashes pop from across the street, where photographers line up behind barricades, catching shots of everyone who matters.

Apparently, tonight, that includes me.

Sarah steps out behind me and sucks in a breath. “Okay. This is… wow.”

It’s not just a club. It’s an event. A scene. The kind of place that usually only exists behind rumors and Instagram captions, full of elite smiles and connections whispered in corners.

Walking up to the velvet rope, I’m already bracing myself for the bouncer to shake his head, for the moment when Alex’s promise turns out to be a joke and I’m turned away in front of everyone.

I clear my throat and try not to flinch. “Elsie Monroe. Plus one.”

The man standing at the podium doesn’t blink. He checks a list, nods once, then lifts the rope and gestures us forward.

“Welcome,” he says smoothly. “Enjoy your night.”

I blink once, then again.

He actually… meant it. Alex actually put me on the list.

I step forward on legs that barely feel like mine, the club doors opening ahead of us with the soft hiss of cool air and pulsing music. Sarah clutches my arm, not saying a word, but I feel the shock rolling off her in waves.

I don’t know what I expected. But this? This is something else entirely, and I haven’t even seen Alex yet.

Chapter 12

Alex POV

The VIP lounge hums with noise and light, full of polished surfaces and curated chaos. Music pulses low through the walls, bass steady enough to feel it in your ribs. Across from me, the team sprawls in a semicircle of leather seats, drinks in hand, still laughing like this is just another post-game blowout.

Liam slaps my shoulder with the kind of lazy enthusiasm that usually means he’s about to talk shit. “Wolfe, be honest. Did you hide in the bathtub or the closet?”

I don’t even look at him. “Neither.”

Cal grins over his glass. “So, what then? Under the sink? Behind the minibar? You really committed to the escape.”

“I committed to survival,” I say flatly, but they’re already laughing again.

Josh leans in with a grin that makes me consider leaving the table entirely. “Tell me you at least climbed out the window.”

“I didn’t climb anywhere,” I mutter.

“Right,” Liam says, raising his drink like he’s toasting my humiliation. “You strolled into some mystery woman’s room like a gentleman and politely avoided glitter-based warfare.”

“Pretty sure the glitter won anyway,” Cal adds, nodding solemnly.

“Whole hotel still sparkles in your wake,” Josh says, shaking his head. “Legendary.”

I don’t argue. It won’t help. Their version of events is already locked in, a dramatic flight from Rachel, wrapped in a towel, tripping into some stranger’s room like it was a spy movie. I could say it was nothing, that I barely slept, that I didn’t touch her, but it wouldn’t change the story they’ve already decided to love.

They don’t know who she was. They don’t know about the deal. And they definitely don’t know I spent the morning watching her transform into someone no one will overlook again.

I lean back in the booth and let them talk, eyes scanning the lounge more out of habit than interest. The place is packed. Everyone looks expensive, drinks shimmer under the lights, and the air smells like perfume, money, and bad decisions waiting to happen.

Then Liam stops mid-sentence. He leans forward, eyes narrowing toward the entrance.

“Hold on,” he says. “Who the hell is that?”

I glance toward the door, more curious than concerned.

That’s when I see her. Elsie steps into the lounge like she belongs in a room like this. Her walk is calm, smooth, measured like someone who’s used to the click of heels on marble. The dress fits her perfectly, black and simple but cut to draw every eye in the room. Her hair is curled, styled into waves that frame her face. Her makeup is subtle but sharp, and the light catches the gloss on her lips just enough to make my throat tighten.

For a second, I forget that I’m supposed to breathe.

This is the version I helped create, the version I coached into being, but it doesn’t feel like the same woman who snapped at me in a hotel room or argued over what size jeans she wore. This woman walks like a headline. She looks like power wrapped in silk.

I feel the shift ripple through the booth before anyone speaks.

Josh mutters something low under his breath. Liam’s still staring, and I can see the question forming behind his eyes.

They don’t recognize her. Of course they don’t.

I don’t say a word. I just sit there, trying not to react, not to stare, not to let the punch of it show on my face. I feel it anyway. It lands somewhere behind my ribs and settles there, heavy and uncomfortable.

Because I expected her to look good. I didn’t expect her to take over the room, and I definitely didn’t expect that I’d be the one who forgot how to look away.

I lose track of the conversation around me. The rest of the table is still talking, still drinking, still laughing about something one of them just said, but I don’t hear any of it. My attention is fixed on her.

She stands near the bar now, her back straight, one hand holding a delicate stemmed glass the waiter just handed her. She hasn’t spotted me, or if she has, she’s doing a damn good job pretending otherwise. Her eyes sweep the room like she’s assessing it, already pulling in the energy around her without even trying. She doesn’t fidget or shrink herself. She holds still. Poised. Present. Magnetic.

From the table, I hear Cal let out a low whistle.

“Damn,” he mutters, shifting in his seat to get a better angle. “Might need to go introduce myself.”

I glance over at him. He’s still watching her, one arm slung over the back of the booth like he’s already made the decision.

“Don’t,” I say.

He looks at me, blinking once. “What?”

“Just leave it.”

Cal lifts his eyebrows, amused. “Since when do you call dibs?”

“I’m just saying she’s not your type.”

“I’ll figure that out for myself,” he replies, already setting his drink down and pushing himself out of the booth.

I want to stop him. I want to say something that makes it clear she’s off-limits, that whatever idea he has in his head needs to disappear right now. But I can’t. I can’t explain why without explaining too much. So I watch him walk away, my hand tightening slightly around my glass.

The club is dimly lit, gold-edged and atmospheric, shadows clinging to corners where only the important people are allowed to linger. The music isn’t loud enough to drown out thought, but it vibrates through the floor and keeps everything moving.

Cal cuts through the lounge with that same effortless confidence he carries on the ice. People notice him. They always do. I watch as he approaches her, says something near her ear, casual and smooth. She turns, smiling politely, eyebrows lifting slightly like she’s trying to place him.

She doesn’t back away. Of course she doesn’t. She’s doing exactly what we planned, playing it calm, looking like she belongs. She’s letting him talk, listening, even laughing once at whatever it is he says next. He leans in closer.

My stomach twists.

The angle changes, and I can see her silhouette more clearly now. The dress fits her like it was sewn on. The heels make her legs look longer, the curl in her hair sways when she shifts her weight to one hip. I told her to wear that dress, to walk into this place and make people turn their heads.

I just didn’t expect to feel like this when it worked.

Josh knocks his knee against mine, forcing my eyes off the bar. “You watching Cal work his magic, or are you going to admit you’re annoyed someone got there before you?”

I shake my head and take a drink, not rushing my reply.

“I’m not watching anything.”

“Right,” he says with a grin. “You’re just over here staring into your drink like it insulted your mother.”

Shruging, I keep my expression flat. “She’s not mine. He can do what he wants.”

Josh doesn’t say anything else, but I can still feel his eyes on me. I lift the glass to my mouth again, letting the taste bite at my tongue, but it doesn’t distract me.

Cal leans in closer now, smiling, probably complimenting her dress. Elsie tilts her head again, brushing her hair back with one hand, and says something I can’t hear.

I look away, jaw clenched.

This was always going to be part of it. She needed to be seen. She needed to stand out.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like watching it happen.

Cal returns a few minutes later, sliding into the booth like he’s just scored the winning goal. His grin is wide and unapologetic, and the look in his eyes tells me he’s enjoying himself far too much.

“She’s called Elsie,” he says as he picks up his drink again.

I don’t look at him. I keep my focus on the crowd, my glass resting just a little too tight in my hand.

Liam raises an eyebrow. “That the one you were just chatting up?”

“Yup. Cool as hell,” Cal says, tossing back the last of his drink. “Little quiet, but she’s got that classy kind of sexy going on. You know the type.”

My jaw tightens.

Josh leans forward slightly. “What’s her deal?”

Cal shrugs. “Didn’t ask. She’s not from here, I don’t think. But she’s not shy, I’ll give her that.”

I stare into my glass, willing myself not to respond. I’ve already said too much just by telling Cal to leave her alone, and now he knows her name. The longer I say nothing, the more harmless it all seems. That’s the goal. Blend in. Don’t react.

Across the room, Elsie is still near the bar, now deep in conversation with someone new. Only it’s not just some guy. I recognize the suit before I even get a full look at the face.

Logan Hayes.

A forward from one of our rival teams. Cocky, flashy, always surrounded by the worst kind of attention. I’ve seen him in the press enough to know he’s the type who plays hard on and off the ice, and right now, he’s leaning a little too close to Elsie for my liking.

She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She’s smiling, still playing the part. But then he reaches for her hand, wraps his fingers around hers like it’s nothing, and leans in to say something. I can’t hear what it is, but she laughs softly, lets him guide her a few steps toward the stairs.

I sit up straighter.

Hayes keeps her hand in his as they ascend toward the VIP section. Toward us.

Now she’s closer. I can see her properly. The way the lights hit her hair. The way the dress catches just slightly at her hips. The confidence she’s wearing like a second skin.

She’s doing exactly what she was supposed to. Getting noticed. Being invited into the right spaces. She’s not clinging to the edges anymore. She’s stepping into the spotlight.

But something about the way Hayes is touching her, the easy grip on her hand, the familiarity he hasn’t earned, it turns something in my stomach.

Josh nudges me again. “Still nothing, huh?”

I shake my head. “Told you. Just a girl.”

He laughs, not buying it for a second, but I don’t give him anything more. I lean back in my seat, stare out at the room like I’m relaxed, like I don’t feel every muscle in my body straining not to stand up and drag her away from him.

This is what she wanted, and this is what I asked for. So now I have to sit here and watch it happen.

I force myself to look away. My eyes drop to my phone, the screen lighting up with notifications I’ve been ignoring for most of the night. A few messages from friends, one from my agent, and the group chat lighting up with pictures from earlier in the week. All of it is meaningless noise, and I scroll through it anyway just to keep from looking back toward her.

The music shifts again, deeper and heavier, pulsing under the floor. I scan the club lazily, watching the bartenders work the crowd, watching some influencer laugh too loudly at nothing. I lift my drink, sip it slowly, let the rhythm distract me.

For a moment, I almost believe I’ve pulled it off. Then I hear Cal. He doesn’t speak loud, but his voice is sharp enough to cut through everything else.

“He’s pushing it.”

My head turns without hesitation.

Across the lounge, I see Elsie sitting beside Logan. Her posture is still poised, but her shoulders have stiffened. She leans back slightly in her seat while Logan leans in, talking low near her ear like he thinks the club is an extension of his bedroom.

She doesn’t pull away, not directly. Not yet. But her discomfort is there in every subtle shift, I see it.

Cal watches them, frowning. His body has gone still, drink held forgotten in his hand.

Another voice, lower this time, comes from the other side of the booth. Josh speaks quietly. “She looks uncomfortable.”

I say nothing. I shrug once, low and slow, like I’m above it. Like I don’t notice anything unusual at all. My mouth opens around another sip of my drink, calm and cold, while the rest of me wants to break the glass in my hand.

Logan leans closer. He’s saying something I can’t hear, but then his hand slides along her thigh. Not casually. Not innocently. He trails it upward like he owns her, fingers brushing the edge of her dress.

She flinches.

It’s quick, and small. Barely visible to anyone not watching her as closely as I am.

Then Logan reaches for her chin. His fingers press against her jaw, thumb dragging near her mouth as he leans in, clearly aiming to kiss her.

Before he can, Cal moves.

He doesn’t say a word. He stands from the booth, swift and focused, and strides across the floor. I watch as he reaches them just as Logan’s mouth starts to lower toward hers.

Cal grabs Logan’s arm, yanks him back with enough force to make a few heads turn. Logan stumbles, confusion flashing across his face as he’s pulled from his prey.

Elsie blinks, caught mid-recoil, but before she can speak, Cal steps in front of her. He reaches out and gently takes her hand, not forceful, just certain. She hesitates for a second, then lets him guide her up from the couch.

Logan says something, probably a protest or a threat, but Cal ignores him entirely. His only focus is on getting Elsie away from him and out of that situation. The crowd parts slightly as they walk, people murmuring, half-curious, half-impressed.

I sit completely still.

My jaw is locked. My drink is untouched, and for a moment, my pulse is so loud in my ears that I can’t hear the music at all.

Then I see her face again. Her expression is calm, too calm, like she’s holding something back behind her eyes. Cal says something low to her as they approach, and she gives him a nod, eyes scanning ahead.

She sees me, her gaze doesn’t break, not once.

She’s coming to our table, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say when she gets here.

Chapter 13

Elsie POV

Cal keeps hold of my hand just long enough to steer me toward the booth. I can feel eyes on me from every direction, some curious, some amused, all of them weighing me up as we approach. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my expression steady, my chin lifted.

We stop at the edge of the booth where the team sprawls, drinks in hand, relaxed in the way only people who know they own the room can be.

Cal drops my hand and turns slightly toward me. His grin is easy and warm, like we are old friends.

“Everyone, this is Elsie,” he says casually, sweeping one hand toward me like I am a surprise he has unwrapped just for them. “Elsie, these degenerates are my team.”

A few chuckles rise up from the group.

“This idiot, Liam” Cal says, pointing to Liam, “is probably going to spill a drink on you at some point tonight, so stay alert.”

Liam raises his glass in salute. “I only spill on beautiful women. Welcome.”

“Josh,” Cal continues, nodding toward another man who tips his glass in my direction, “will probably offer you bad life advice if you stick around long enough.”

Josh grins. “Only the best terrible ideas.”

“And this one,” Cal says, turning toward the last man sitting back slightly apart from the others, his drink cradled loosely in his hand, “is Alex.”

The name lands heavier than I am ready for.

Alex doesn’t move at first. He just watches me, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. Then, finally, he nods once, slow and deliberate.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, voice low.

My mouth feels dry. “You too.”

Cal drops into the booth, sprawling out like he owns it, and gestures for me to sit between him and Josh. I slip into the space, feeling the warmth of the leather against my bare legs, the buzz of the club still pounding through the air.

Conversations pick up again, loud and easy, as if I have always been part of their group. Cal leans back, laughing at something Liam says, already pulling me into their orbit without another thought.

But my attention drifts. Always back to Alex.

He sits relaxed, one arm thrown casually along the back of the booth, but there is a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Every few seconds, his eyes flicker toward me, subtle but sharp, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what he is supposed to do with me now that I am sitting in the middle of his world.

And every time he looks away, I feel it like a string pulling tight between us.

Cal leans in toward me, his drink balanced loosely in one hand, the other arm resting on the back of the booth just behind my shoulders. His posture is easy and open, like we have known each other for years instead of barely an hour.

“So,” he says, lowering his voice slightly to be heard over the music, “tell me something. Are you secretly famous and just pretending not to be? Because I swear half the club looked like they forgot how to breathe when you walked in.”

I laugh before I can help it, the tension in my chest loosening a little.

“Definitely not famous,” I say, shaking my head. “Just good at walking without tripping. Tonight, anyway.”

Cal grins. “Shame. I was ready to ask for an autograph and everything.”

His teasing is easy, good-natured, not the heavy kind of attention I had braced for when I arrived. He’s charming without being overwhelming, the way he dips his head closer when he jokes making it feel like a secret between us, even in a room full of people.

“So what’s your deal then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You here for work? Pleasure? Accidentally took a wrong turn and ended up in VIP?”

I smile, hiding it behind the rim of my glass. “Something like that.”

He chuckles, leaning back just a little but still keeping his focus on me. “Well, however it happened, glad you’re here. Makes the view better.”

I laugh again, lighter this time, the nerves fading the more he talks. I find myself wanting to respond, to banter back, to ask him about the ridiculous stories the guys are trading across the table. He makes it easy. Cal makes it feel like I can breathe here, instead of stiffly pretending to belong.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of movement.

Alex.

Still sitting at the edge of the booth, still watching, though he masks it well behind lazy sips of his drink. His face gives nothing away, but something tightens in his posture every time I laugh at something Cal says.

I turn back to Cal quickly, refusing to let the heavy pull of Alex’s gaze drag me under.

Tonight is about being seen and standing out. For the first time, I feel like I can actually do this.

Cal turns slightly more toward me, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked grin that probably gets him out of trouble more often than it should. His knee bumps lightly against mine under the table, not hard enough to be obvious, just enough to remind me how close we are.

“So,” he says, swirling the last of his drink, “if you’re not secretly famous, and you’re not lost, does that mean you’re here looking for trouble?”

His voice drops just a little on the last word, enough to send a ripple of warmth across my skin.

I lift an eyebrow, playing along. “Maybe I am.”

“Good,” he says, smiling wider. “Because it just so happens, trouble’s my specialty.”

I laugh again, a real one this time, surprised at how easy it is. Talking to him doesn’t feel like work. It doesn’t feel like I am putting on some act to be noticed. It feels natural, simple, like slipping into a conversation I had forgotten I wanted to have.

Cal leans in a little more, his shoulder brushing mine. His cologne is clean and warm, just a little sharp, and when he smiles, it’s the kind of smile you can’t help but return.

“You’re dangerous,” I say lightly, tilting my glass toward him.

“Me?” He presses a hand to his chest, pretending to be wounded. “I’m a saint. Ask anyone.”

“I think you and I have very different definitions of saint.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You might be right. But you’re still sitting here, so either you’re braver than you look or you’re already having more fun than you expected.”

I shrug, playing coy, but my cheeks are warm and I know he can see it.

Across the table, someone calls Cal’s name, but he barely glances over, his focus anchored on me.

“So, Elsie,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air feel heavier between us. “Are you planning to stay glued to this booth all night? Or are you going to dance at some point and make the rest of us look bad?”

I open my mouth to reply, to toss something light back at him, but the words stick for a second when I glance across the table and catch Alex watching us.

His expression is unreadable, blank and cold in a way that hits me harder than it should.

I force my eyes back to Cal and smile, ignoring the weight that settles somewhere deep in my chest.

“Maybe,” I say softly. “Depends on if someone asks nicely.”

Cal’s grin is slow and wicked. “Then I’ll just have to make sure I do.”

For the first time tonight, I forget entirely about the rules I came here to follow. I’m just a woman sitting next to a guy, laughing at things that feel easy, feeling alive in a way I didn’t even know I had been missing.

Cal’s leaning in closer, smiling like he’s got all the time in the world. His knee nudges mine again under the table, just enough to make it feel like it could be a mistake, but definitely isn’t.

“You’ve got the best laugh,” he says, his voice low enough that it feels almost like a secret between us.

I laugh again, shaking my head. “You barely know me.”

“Don’t need to,” he says easily. “I’m a fast learner.”

Before I can think of a comeback, one of the guys across the table, Liam, I think, calls out, loud enough to cut through the noise around us.

“Careful, Elsie,” he says, grinning wickedly. “You’re dealing with a flight risk.”

Josh joins in, raising his glass. “Cal’s got commitment issues bigger than his ego. And that’s saying something.”

Cal rolls his eyes but smirks, completely unfazed. “Ignore them,” he tells me. “They’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Liam fires back. “The ability to sprint away from anything remotely resembling a real relationship?”

Josh leans across the table, pretending to shield his mouth like he’s sharing a secret. “Last time a woman asked him to stay over, he ghosted before she could finish the sentence.”

I bite my lip, laughing as Cal tosses a napkin at Josh without much force.

“Maybe,” Cal says, flashing a grin that could melt steel, “I just hadn’t met the right woman yet.”

His eyes lock on mine for a beat too long, and even through the teasing, the flirting coils tighter between us. There’s a spark there that even the loudest jokes can’t drown out.

I shake my head, smiling, feeling a little too warm but not pulling away. “You’re all terrible,” I say, laughing.

“We’re not terrible,” Josh says, raising his glass in salute. “We’re honest. And one day, Cal’s gonna thank us for warning you.”

“Yeah,” Liam adds, smirking. “One day… when hell freezes over.”

Cal laughs, slinging an arm casually along the back of the booth behind me, his fingers brushing lightly against my hair. It’s not a move he makes for the others to notice. It’s subtle, easy, like he’s daring me to lean just a little closer.

I don’t, but I don’t move away either, and the part of me that’s supposed to be focused on standing out and playing a role tonight?

That part’s getting dangerously blurry.

Because right now, with Cal’s low laughter in my ear and the easy, buzzing warmth of the moment around me, it’s a little too easy to forget that I’m supposed to be playing a part at all.

Cal stands and extends a hand toward me, his grin full of nothing but mischief.

“Come on,” he says, voice warm. “You can’t come to a place like this and hide at a booth all night.”

I hesitate for a second, but his hand is steady, his smile easy, and before I can overthink it, I slip my hand into his.

He leads me through the crowd, weaving between the thrumming bodies and flashing lights, until we reach the dance floor. The music is louder here, heavier, the bass vibrating through the floor under my heels.

Cal pulls me into a slow, steady rhythm. His hands settle low at my waist, his touch light but sure, always respectful. He’s close enough that I feel the heat from his body, close enough that every shift and sway of the music pulls us tighter into sync.

He leans down slightly, his mouth near my ear so I can hear him over the music.

“You’re better at this than you let on,” he says, the words brushing warm against my skin.

I laugh, tipping my head slightly toward him. “Maybe I just have a good dance partner.”

“Maybe you’re dangerous,” he says, his voice teasing, soft, threading straight down my spine.

The dance floor around us blurs. People move in a colorful mess of bodies and light, but it all feels distant. Here, pressed close to Cal, the world narrows down to a shared beat, a shared warmth. His hand slides lightly along the curve of my waist as we turn, never crossing a line, but close enough that my skin prickles with every brush of his fingers.

He spins me once, pulling me back with a laugh that rumbles against my ear. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, my heart racing, my head light.

“You’re trouble,” I say, breathless.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs.

Before I can say anything else, a voice calls out, breaking the bubble around us.

“Cal! Get over here, man. Shots!”

One of the guys from the booth is waving him over, already half-dragging another teammate toward the bar.

Cal groans playfully, tipping his forehead against mine for a second.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, squeezing my hand lightly before letting go.

I take a breath, preparing to step back toward the edge of the dance floor, but before I can even move, someone else fills the space Cal left behind.

Alex.

I blink up at him, startled, but he doesn’t give me a chance to think. His hand finds my waist, firm and certain, and he pulls me closer in one smooth, unavoidable motion.

I stumble a little, catching myself against his chest, and when I look up, his eyes are already locked on mine. Dark. Intense. Quietly furious in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, voice low enough that no one else can hear.

His hand tightens slightly on my waist as he draws me deeper into the dance floor.

And just like that, the easy, laughing warmth I felt with Cal is gone. Replaced by something heavier and something hotter. I don’t know if I’m ready for it.

Alex moves with a slow, deliberate rhythm, steering me effortlessly through the crowd. His hand is still firm at my waist, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re close with Cal,” he says, his voice calm, but there’s an edge there that cuts through the music.

I glance up at him, catching the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.

“I’m just making sure I get noticed,” I say, keeping my tone light. “After the next game. That’s the plan, right?”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Looks like a lot more than that.”

I shake my head quickly. “It’s not.”

He hums low under his breath, a sound that’s half amusement, half something darker. Before I can say anything else, he shifts his hand, pulling me flush against him with a confidence that steals the air from my lungs.

I stiffen for a second, but he leans down, his mouth brushing close to my ear.

“You might want to be careful,” he murmurs, his voice slow and teasing. “Keep looking at him like that, and I’ll start thinking you forgot who’s supposed to be teaching you how to play this game.”

His breath is warm against my neck, and a shiver slides down my spine before I can stop it. I open my mouth, ready to fire back something sharp, anything to break the tension crackling between us, but before I can speak, Cal reappears at the edge of the dance floor.

“Thanks for keeping my seat warm,” Cal says with a lazy grin, clapping Alex lightly on the back.

Alex doesn’t let go of me right away. His fingers stay firm on my waist, his body still pressed against mine, and when he finally turns his head toward Cal, the smile he gives is slow and deliberate.

“I might just take it permanently,” Alex says, his voice smooth and almost casual.

Cal raises an eyebrow, amused but not backing down. “You’re gonna have to earn that, man.”

The two of them lock eyes for a moment, the air thick with something I don’t quite understand but can feel all the way down to my bones.

Then Alex finally, finally releases me, stepping back just enough to let Cal reclaim the space.

But not before his hand slides lightly along my waist in a way that leaves my skin buzzing.

I catch my breath, trying to steady myself, trying to pull myself back into the role I’m supposed to be playing.

But it’s hard to remember the rules when Alex Wolfe looks at you like you’re the only thing he wants in the entire damn room.

Chapter 14

Alex POV

Cal is too close to Elsie. I’m not bothered. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But if she gets too wrapped up with him, the others might not speak to her the same way after the game. She’s supposed to come off as available. Detached. Someone the guys might open up to without thinking twice.

And no one knows she’s a reporter. Not even Cal.

He wouldn’t care if he did. He’s not thinking about interviews. He’s too busy dancing with her like he’s already planning how the night ends.

I didn’t expect this kind of transformation so quickly. I thought it would take days, maybe even weeks, to shift her out of that oversized coat and into something that would get the room’s attention. The woman who stood outside the arena, invisible in the rain, is long gone. Now she’s dancing under club lights like she’s always belonged in the center of the room.

She didn’t just get noticed. She pulled the entire room’s focus the second she walked in.

Even the rival team noticed her. Some of the worst ones too, the kind who smile like they’ve already been let in. I know how fast things can spiral when the wrong kind of attention lingers too long.

“It looks like Cal’s got his hands full tonight,” someone says with a laugh beside me.

That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Cal’s my teammate, but I know what that look in his eye means. In his mind, the night’s already mapped out. And I don’t think Elsie came here for that. At least, I hope she didn’t. She doesn’t seem like someone who’d fall into bed with a guy she just met.

Then again, I spent the night in her room. She curled up against me like I was the last safe place in the world. We didn’t sleep together, but we were close.

I drop my head back against the booth and exhale.

Would she do it?

Would she go home with him?

It wouldn’t ruin her career. It might even help her. If she gets close enough to one of the guys, she gets better access. More answers. It’s not like there aren’t others who’ve done worse for a story.

Why do I care?

If she sleeps with him, it’s not my business. I told her I’d help her stand out, and she’s doing it. I should be proud of how well she’s handling this.

Still, I want to make sure she understands this world isn’t just about how she looks. Confidence gets attention, but it doesn’t guarantee respect. One wrong question and some of these guys will shut her out for the rest of the season. If she wants the interviews to last, she needs more than a pretty face.

Helping her wasn’t in my plans. Not like this. But now that I’ve started, I can’t pull back.

And yeah, I feel like a complete asshole for ignoring her outside the arena. She called my name. I looked her in the eye. Then I turned away like she was nobody.

I could’ve given her something. A sentence. A nod. Anything.

“You’re real quiet tonight,” Liam says, nudging my arm.

I shrug. “Just tired.”

Josh leans forward with a grin. “You? Tired? Come on. You bailed on one woman and scored another in the same night. You get her number, or are you still pretending to be above it all?”

“No. I didn’t get her number.”

It’s a lie. I have her number. I told her where to be. What to wear. How to act.

And now I’m sitting here watching her dance with Cal like she’s already forgotten who brought her into this room.

I don’t want to look at them anymore. I don’t want to keep watching Cal lean in close like he owns the night, like he’s the one who coached her into every move that’s getting her noticed.

Screw this. I push up from the booth and clap my hands once, loud enough to get their attention.

“Shots,” I say, not giving anyone the chance to argue. “Let’s drink like we actually won something this week.”

Liam cheers instantly. Josh grabs the server’s attention without hesitation, and within minutes, a tray of tequila lines the table. I pick up the first one before anyone else moves and knock it back fast enough that the burn barely registers.

“Someone’s trying to forget something,” Josh says, grinning as he takes his.

“Trying to forget I almost died in my own hotel room,” I shoot back.

Liam snorts. “Oh, right. How could we forget about Rachel, the perfect angel we found for you.”

“Perfect angel?” I nearly choke on the next shot. “She was naked in my bed before I’d even dried off from a shower.”

Josh chuckles, pointing. “That sounds like exactly what we were aiming for.”

“She cornered me,” I say, slamming the glass down. “Like a horror movie villain in lip gloss and perfume.”

“She wanted to make you feel better,” Liam teases. “She brought a whole army of women for emotional support.”

“One of whom glitter-bombed my game shirt. I found rhinestones in places rhinestones should never be,” I mutter, grabbing another shot and tossing it back.

“Should’ve just gone along with it,” Cal’s voice drifts over from the edge of the floor, but I don’t turn. I don’t need to see him with his hands on her again.

“I was emotionally compromised,” I say, leaning back into the booth. “I had two choices. Escape through the hallway or sacrifice my dignity to a woman who talked about my ‘vibe’ like I was a Pinterest board.”

Josh nearly spits out his drink. “God, I wish I could’ve seen it. Alex Wolfe, defensive wall of the team, hiding in a stranger’s room in nothing but a towel.”

Liam laughs harder. “And now he’s back in his clothes and drinking like he lost custody of his favorite stick.”

“I didn’t lose anything,” I mutter, reaching for another shot. “I just needed to reset.”

“Is that what we’re calling jealous drinking now?” Josh asks, nudging me with a smirk. “Because I’ve seen your ‘reset face.’ You’ve been wearing it all night.”

I wave them off and keep drinking, but I can feel their eyes on me, and I know they’re right. I am jealous. I just don’t want to admit it to them. I don’t want to admit it to myself.

So I raise another glass and let the tequila do its job.

If she’s going to dance with him, I’m going to drink with the guys.

And maybe if I drink enough, I won’t care that the woman I invited here is starting to laugh at someone else’s jokes.

I’m three shots past the limit where good decisions live when I see them… Cal and Elsie.

They’re slipping through the side entrance, her arm looped around his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s laughing at something he says, her head tilted back, and he’s watching her like he’s already succeed to fuck her.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s part of the plan. She’s here to get attention. She’s supposed to fit in, get noticed, look like someone the team would talk to.

But something about them leaving together twists in my gut like a blade. It’s not jealousy. Not exactly. It’s more like something’s out of place. Like I’ve handed her off to the wrong damn person.

They leave just like that.

No goodbye. No glance back. Cal’s hand on her as he guides her out of the club, and her smile, soft, easy and aimed up at him like he earned it.

It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t, but it does.

Something about it feels wrong, even if I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe because I know Cal. I know how this works for him. He’s not thinking about what her goal is. He’s not thinking about how the team will react if they think she’s just here for fun.

He’s thinking about getting her into a cab. Or into bed.

I knock back another shot and ignore the burn as it slides down my throat.

That’s her choice. It’s not my business. Still, if she’s serious about getting answers, about earning trust from the team, this is the exact kind of thing that’ll ruin it before it even starts.

I open my phone and stare at our messages. I shouldn’t say anything. I know that. But I’m drunk, frustrated, and halfway through typing before I think it through.

If you’re planning on getting actual interviews, maybe don’t disappear with the first guy who smiles at you.

I stare at the message for a second. I should delete it. Instead, I hit send then start typing again.

The team talks. You’re trying to be taken seriously, not be someone’s late-night highlight.

I hit send

Cal’s a good guy, but this isn’t about being liked. It’s about being respected. Right now you look like a party tag-along.

Hitting send I sigh and run a hand through my hair and lean back against the booth, still watching the door they walked through. The server drops off another round, and I take it without a word.

If you’re still in this for the right reason, meet me tomorrow. I’ll go through what to say, how to ask the right things.

You’ve got the look now. That part’s done. But this other stuff? It’s what really matters.

I’m not dragging you through this just for you to blow it because you danced with the wrong guy for too long.

I fire off my address before I can stop myself.

Josh drops into the seat next to me and gives me a long, suspicious look. “You good?”

I nod, still staring at my phone. “Fine.”

“Yeah, no,” Liam mutters, watching me type like I’m trying to submit an essay drunk. “You look like a guy who just texted his ex a five-paragraph confession.”

“We thinking cab or ambulance?” he adds.

Josh laughs and leans over my shoulder. “Nah, cop car. He’s drunk-texting like it’s a felony. You know how many bad decisions start with Alex and a keyboard?”

Liam points at me. “Didn’t we agree last season we were gonna confiscate his phone when he started typing like this while drunk?”

“You said that,” Josh replies. “You also said we should padlock the minibar. How’d that go?”

I keep ignoring them, even though I’m well aware I’ve sent more than I should have. The last message on the screen is my address. No context. No explanation. Great.

Josh waves down the server and tosses a bill on the tray. “Let’s go, Romeo. Time to get you home before you start live-streaming your regrets.”

Liam grabs my elbow and hauls me to my feet. “If he resists, I’m calling Rachel. Bet she still has the spare glitter.”

That gets me moving.

Kind of.

They half-guide, half-drag me out of the booth. My legs work fine. It’s the floor that keeps swaying. We reach the door, and the fresh air slaps me across the face like karma with cold hands.

A cab pulls up almost immediately.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Josh says, shoving me inside. “And for God’s sake, don’t text anyone else unless it’s to apologize.”

“Or to tell them where you buried your dignity,” Liam adds, slamming the door behind me.

The driver gets the address from Josh and pulls into traffic without saying a word.

I slump back in the seat, phone still glowing dimly in my hand. My thoughts are a mess, scattered between tequila, regret, and the soft look on her face as she smiled at Cal.

She might not come tomorrow.

She might block my number, delete the messages, and never speak to me again.

But if she does show up? I’ll deal with the rest then.

Right now, I just need to survive the cab ride and sleep off every bad choice I made tonight, and hope like hell that glitter isn’t still in my hair.

The cab drops me off outside my building, and the night air does nothing to sober me up. I stumble inside, tossing my keys on the counter before heading straight for the kitchen. I should drink water. I know that. Instead, I reach for the whiskey.

Bad idea, sure but I don’t know what else to do.

I pour two fingers into a glass, then drink it like it’s the answer to everything I can’t name. The burn doesn’t help. It only adds to the weight in my chest, the kind that’s been growing ever since I watched Elsie leave with Cal.

I don’t even sit. I just stand there with the glass in my hand, staring at the wall like it might give me clarity.

The knock on the door is sharp. It breaks through the haze instantly.

I frown and walk over, confused, still holding the drink.

When I open the door, I freeze.

Elsie’s standing there with her arms crossed, her face unreadable. Her hair’s still done, but she’s changed into leggings and a hoodie. She looks nothing like the woman who’d walked into the club earlier, but something about her expression makes her ten times more intense.

She doesn’t wait for permission. She brushes past me without a word and steps inside like she owns the place.

I close the door behind her slowly. “Elsie—”

I barely get her name out before she turns. I don’t think. I reach for her, pull her in, and kiss her.

It’s instinct. Stupid, unfiltered instinct.

She freezes, lets out a low, surprised sound, then shoves me hard enough to make me stumble back.

Her hand cracks across my cheek a second later. The slap lands clean, and it burns.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Her voice is sharp, furious, and clear enough to cut straight through the whiskey clouding my thoughts.

I try to process what just happened. I kiss her, she slaps me, and now she’s shouting. I deserve it, but I’m too slow to stop any of it.

“You kiss me after those messages?” she continues, stepping closer. “After everything you said, that’s your next move?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You told me to be careful, like I’d just sleep with the first guy who paid attention to me. Like I went to that club to hook up and ruin everything. Cal didn’t touch me, he took me home.”

My mind catches up just enough for the important part to land. “Cal just took you home?” That confuses me more.

She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Yes. He dropped me off on the way to his place. Nothing happened. Not that it’s any of your business.”

I sit down heavily on the edge of the couch and drag a hand down my face. “I didn’t know.”

“No, you assumed,” she snaps. “And then you kissed me like you had any right to.”

“I’m drunk.”

“No kidding,” she mutters.

I reach for my phone, swiping clumsily at the screen. “I’ll text Cal. I’ll apologize. I’ll fix it.”

She strides forward and snatches the phone out of my hand before I can get two words out. “You are absolutely not texting anyone in your current state. He’ll screenshot it and bring it up in the locker room for the next ten years.”

I blink up at her. “I should say something.”

“You should sleep. Now. Before you make it worse.”

She drops my phone on the table and points down the hallway. “Go.”

I hesitate. “I was trying to help you.”

“No,” she says firmly. “You were jealous, sloppy, and completely out of line.”

I don’t argue, not because I agree, but because I can’t string together a good defense. I push off the couch, rubbing at my face.

“You’re still going to get the help you need,” I mumble.

“Not tonight.”

She watches me walk down the hall like she half-expects me to fall over. I don’t. But I do stop once, turning just enough to see her still standing there, arms crossed, her jaw tight.

“Don’t worry,” she says before I can speak again. “You can deal with your guilt in the morning.”

I keep walking. Because she’s right, and because the truth is, I don’t want to admit I’ve just completely screwed this up.

---

I wake up with a mouth like sandpaper and a headache that feels like it’s trying to hammer its way out through my skull. The sunlight slicing through the curtains might as well be a weapon. I groan, roll over, and instantly regret it. Every inch of my body feels like it was dragged behind a bus.

My brain is fog. Thick, slow, useless.

I sit up carefully, squinting at the room like I’ve never seen it before. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember leaving the club. The last clear thing in my memory is me dancing with Elsie.

The rest? It’s a blur.

My mouth tastes like regret and bad decisions, so I drag myself toward the kitchen in desperate need of water or coffee or maybe both.

I rub my hands over my face and turn the corner, then I stop dead.

Elsie is standing in my kitchen.

Wearing one of my T-shirts. Her hair is still pinned up from last night, a little messy now, and her legs are bare.

I freeze. My brain trips over itself.

She looks up from the mug she’s holding.

I blink. “Oh, shit.”

She raises an eyebrow slowly. “Good morning.”

I stare for a second longer, then run both hands through my hair like that’ll somehow fix anything.

“Please tell me we didn’t sleep together,” I say, already dreading the answer. “Of all the women I could end up going home with and fucking… it was you?”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean—” I pause, wincing. “I just meant… not that you’re not attractive, because obviously you are… I mean, last night you looked… but you’re… you.”

The look she gives me, I swear could kill me right now.

Chapter 15

Elsie POV

What the hell is wrong with Alex?

I watch him stumble down the hall toward his bedroom, completely unaware of how ridiculous and insulting he just was. He accused me, out loud, of sleeping with Cal, like I’m the type of person who hops into bed with the first guy who drives me home. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he kissed me like it meant nothing. Like it was normal.

I spin on my heel, ready to storm out, but then I stop.

Cal has no idea about any of the messages Alex sent me. The last thing I need is Alex trying to apologize and dragging Cal into a situation he doesn’t even know exists. That would only make everything worse.

I grab a pen and one of the pads from the kitchen counter. The writing is a little sloppy, but I make it clear.

Don’t message Cal. The absurd things you texted were to me, not him. He has no idea. Keep it that way.

I set the note where he can’t miss it and head for the door, only to freeze in place.

My bag. My entire bag is gone.

I glance around the apartment once, then twice. It’s nowhere. I feel the panic building in my chest. My phone, my keys, everything important, left in the damn taxi because I was too busy rushing over here to deal with his drunken meltdown.

Great. This is his fault. His ten thousand drunken, jealous, idiotic messages pulled me out of bed and straight into disaster. Now I’m stuck here, hungover, bagless, and tired.

With a sigh, I walk back into the living room and drop onto the couch. I should leave, but it’s not like I can do much until I figure out where my stuff ended up. Maybe Alex will be sober and kind enough to help me track it down in the morning.

I grab one of his clean shirts from the laundry basket, at least he does laundry. I change into it before curling up on the couch. I try not to think about the night, about how out of control it all felt. About how quickly it turned.

I fall asleep wondering why I ever thought teaming up with Alex Wolfe would be simple.

When I wake up, the sun’s already up. The apartment is quiet. I stretch, then make my way into the kitchen, bleary-eyed but functional enough to find the coffee.

The first sip is a lifesaver.

I stand by the counter, cradling the mug, staring at nothing, and wondering if Alex is always this reckless when he drinks. Or if last night was just a special kind of disaster reserved for me.

Either way, I’m definitely not letting him near tequila again.

---

This morning is proof that this guy is self-centred and egotistical. Panicking about sleeping with me like I’m the issue.

I set the mug down with a sharp clink. “Let’s get something straight. Nothing happened. Not even close.”

He looks relieved. A little too relieved. “Nothing?”

“You kissed me. I slapped you. You tried to text Cal a drunk apology, I took your phone, and I sent your ass to bed. That’s it.”

He closes his eyes and groans.

I grab my coat and brush past him. I’ve had enough of this place, this conversation, and especially his twisted logic.

“And now,” I say as I reach the door, “I’m leaving before you say anything else that makes me want to throw that coffee at your head.”

“Wait,” he mutters behind me, voice rough and still too slow to catch up. “Why are you even still here?”

I turn back just long enough to meet his eyes.

“To make sure you didn’t die choking on your own ego.” I move to the door, yanking it open, but before I can step out, his voice follows me.

“How nice,” he mutters behind me, “that you care so much about me not choking to death.”

I stop and turn just enough to glare at him. “I don’t.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.

“I was leaving,” I snap. “The only reason I didn’t is because I left my phone in the damn taxi. I was going to ask for your help, but I’d rather walk to another country barefoot than deal with your hungover attitude.”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, he straightens slightly, wiping a hand down his face. “You could’ve just said you needed help.”

“You kissed me and called me easy, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I was drunk.”

“You still did it.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking at anything but me for a second. Then he meets my eyes again. “I’ll help. You want your phone back, we’ll track it down.”

I cross my arms. “And why would you do that?”

“Because,” he says, voice a little quieter now, “you’re right. I screwed up. That doesn’t mean I can’t try to fix at least one thing.”

For a second, I almost believe him. I glance toward the door, still wide open, and then back to him.

Fine, he can help, but I’m not forgiving him just because he’s finally acting like a human being.

Not yet, anyway.

He steps around me, heading toward the kitchen, and before he picks up the coffee pot, he looks back over his shoulder with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Just so you’re aware,” he says casually, “you almost walked out of here wearing nothing but my shirt.”

I glance down.

Shit.

The hem barely covers anything. Legs bare, underwear nonexistent thanks to rushing over here in a panic, and this smug asshole just let me stomp around his apartment looking like I got lost halfway through an adult sleepover.

“Are you serious right now?” I snap.

He shrugs. “It was entertaining.”

I march over to the couch, snatch the blanket draped over the back, and throw it around myself. “Next time I leave in a state of rage, maybe try telling me I forgot to put pants on.”

He pours himself a coffee like we’re having the most normal morning in the world, then leans against the counter. His voice is lower now, more serious.

“I don’t remember everything from last night,” he says, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands. “But whatever I did, whatever I said… I’m sorry.”

I walk over and hold out his phone.

He looks down at it like I’m handing him a live grenade.

“You really want to know?”

He takes it from me slowly. Unlocks the screen. Scrolls through the messages.

I watch it happen, the moment the memories catch up to the words. His whole face shifts, and he groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face before planting it over his eyes.

“Oh my God,” he mutters. “Please tell me I didn’t send all of these.”

“You sent all of them,” I say, crossing my arms. “Every single dramatic, jealous, inappropriate line.”

He lowers the phone and stares into his coffee like he’s considering drowning in it. “I want to die.”

I shrug. “You should.”

Maybe, just maybe, I enjoy his shame a little too much.

He’s quiet for a long time. Leaning on the counter like the weight of the apology is somehow heavier than the hangover pounding behind his eyes. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug like he’s trying to remember how to function.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice low, rough. “For last night. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have pulled you into any of it. I was drunk and acting like an idiot.”

I watch him for a moment. He doesn’t look at me. He stares into his coffee like maybe the swirling bitterness will answer for him. I nod, just once.

“Right. Last night.”

He glances up, maybe expecting forgiveness, maybe expecting some joke. But I don’t give him either.

“It meant nothing,” I add simply.

He blinks. “What?”

“The kiss,” I clarify. “It was nothing. It didn’t matter. We were both in a mess, and it just happened. I’m not going to hold it over your head.”

He exhales, his shoulders loosening just a little.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m fine with everything else.”

The shift in his face is instant. His brow furrows again, tension crawling back in.

“Everything else?”

“What you said this morning.” I cross my arms and lean back slightly. “That’s what stuck.”

He frowns like he doesn’t understand.

“The way you looked at me,” I say. “The way your entire body reacted when you saw me in your kitchen. Like it was the worst possible outcome. Like waking up next to me would’ve been a catastrophe. Like you were too good for me.”

“I didn’t say that,” he mutters. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to,” I shoot back.

His jaw clenches.

I pick up my coffee, take a calm sip, then set it down and meet his eyes fully. “Let’s go through it again, just so we’re clear.”

He shifts but doesn’t speak.

“You looked at me,” I start, voice steady, “and you said, and I quote: ‘Please tell me we didn’t sleep together. Of all the women I could end up going home with and fucking… it was you?’”

His eyes shut slowly, like hearing it aloud physically hurts.

“And then, when I didn’t smack you straight back into your sheets, you panicked and added—‘Not that you’re not attractive, because obviously you’re… I mean, last night you looked… but you’re— you.’”

I wait.

He says nothing. Because what can he possibly say?

“So, no, you didn’t outright say I’m beneath you,” I continue. “You just made it perfectly clear that being with me would’ve been some kind of mistake. Something to regret. Something laughable.”

He opens his mouth, but the words stall before they even get out.

“You don’t have to explain it,” I add before he tries. “I’m used to people like you thinking I’m nothing. I’ve been ignored by better men than you, for far less.”

“That’s not what I think,” he says quietly.

“It’s what you said,” I counter. “And it’s what you meant. Whether you regret it now or not doesn’t erase the fact that you saw me and panicked. That the very idea of touching me made you feel… embarrassed.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue. Not directly.

“And look,” I go on, “you don’t need to worry. I’m not holding onto anything. You’ve made it crystal clear where I stand with you.”

The silence between us sharpens.

“I’ll still take your help,” I add, softer now. “Because I need it. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness. And definitely don’t mistake it for interest.”

He nods once, tight and ashamed.

I pick my mug back up, turn away, and walk back to the couch without another word.

Because I may be stuck here a little longer, but that doesn’t mean I have to let him keep taking shots at my worth. Not after this. Not again.

He says nothing for a while then announces he will call the taxi place and find out where my bag is.

I watch him as he paces the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, muttering quietly to someone on the other end. His hair’s still messy from sleep, his voice hoarse. He’s rubbing his forehead like the hangover’s trying to crawl out of his skull.

“Yeah… black leather, gold buckle,” he says into the phone. “No, she’s sure she left it in the back seat. No, it didn’t fall out into the street. You’d know if you had it.”

There’s a long pause. His shoulders sag slightly. “Okay, thanks. Just… call me if it turns up.”

He hangs up and glances over at me. “They haven’t had any drop-offs yet. Driver hasn’t reported anything.”

I sigh, trying to mask my disappointment. “It’s fine. I’ll head home, see if my roommate’s in. If not, I’ll just wait outside until she gets back.”

He frowns. “You don’t have your phone.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have your keys.”

“I know, Alex.”

He hesitates. “Just stay here.”

I look at him. “What?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “You let me stay with you at the hotel, didn’t you? Least I can do.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to owe him anything else, but I also don’t want to freeze outside waiting for Sarah to show up. Slowly, I nod. “Okay. But I’m only sleeping here tonight if it’s needed.”

“Deal,” he says, heading to the counter.

He pauses, back still to me. “Also… I know I already said it, but I am sorry. For what I said this morning. I was out of line.”

I don’t respond right away. I just look at him, unreadable. “You already said sorry.”

“And I meant it.”

“I heard you.”

He turns, eyes scanning mine. “Can I make it up to you?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Can you?”

He doesn’t press. Instead, he walks over, grabs his phone, and dials someone else.

“Coach?” he says, voice instantly rougher. “Yeah, I’m not good this morning. Still dizzy. No, I’ll rest. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

Did he really just fucking do that?

He hangs up without waiting for more questions, then disappears into the kitchen and starts moving like he’s done it a hundred times before. The coffee pot gurgles. Mugs clink. A minute later, he hands me one and takes the other for himself.

He sits opposite me and exhales slowly. “Alright. Let’s talk about the players.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to start asking questions, start soft,” he says. “You can’t go in heavy. No accusations, no pressure. They shut down fast.”

I take a sip of coffee. It’s stronger than I’d normally make, but good.

“Think of it like a pre-game warmup,” he adds. “You’re easing into the play. Let them feel in control, then steer.”

“And if they still won’t talk to me?”

He shrugs. “Then we change your playbook.”

For once, it actually sounds like he’s taking this seriously, and for the first time since I stepped into this apartment… I start to believe he might actually want to help.

Alex leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his coffee mug still steaming between his hands.

“Stick to hockey when you first approach them,” he says, sounding a little more like a coach than a player now. “Simple stuff. Game stats, training routines, personal goals, upcoming matches. Don’t jump in with anything emotional or dramatic. You’ve got to earn that kind of trust.”

I nod slowly, trying to take mental notes. “What kind of questions get a good reaction?”

He smirks. “Asking about on-ice strategy always works. Team chemistry. Who they room with on road games, that kind of stuff. It makes them feel comfortable, like you’re just chatting, not digging.”

I take another sip of my coffee and lean my chin on my palm. “Okay, and what questions should I avoid?”

His grin widens immediately. “One time, a new reporter asked Josh if he cried during the national anthem.”

I blink. “What?”

“He looked her dead in the eye and said, ‘Only when they mess up the high note.’ Then didn’t speak to her again for two months.”

I choke on a laugh. “Okay. No emotional traps.”

“There was also a guy who asked Liam if he had a backup career because, and I quote, ‘you’re getting kind of slow.’”

I gasp. “He didn’t.”

“He did,” Alex confirms, nodding. “Liam offered to show him how slow he was by chasing him around the parking lot with a stick.”

I’m laughing now, really laughing. “What is wrong with people?”

“They get too confident, too fast. It backfires every time.” He shakes his head. “You want to stand out, but not because someone wants to shove you into a locker.”

The mood has shifted completely. For a few minutes, it’s light and easy, and I forget everything about last night, this morning, the fight, the kiss. It’s just us, sitting at his table, talking like two normal people.

A knock has me jump. Three loud, fast raps on the door, followed by a muffled voice.

“Wolfe, open up! You alive or did tequila win?” It’s Cal.

I freeze. So does Alex. Then another voice chimes in.

“Did he fall into a coffee coma again?” That’s definitely Josh.

Alex groans and tips his head back. “And so it begins.”

Panic rises fast in both of us. We stare at each other like two kids caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“They can’t see you here,” Alex says quickly. “If they do, forget the interviews. They won’t be answering your questions, they’ll be asking why you were in my apartment.”

He’s already standing, looking around like the walls might provide a solution. Then he grabs my elbow. “Cupboard. Now.”

I blink. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!” he snaps in a whisper. “They’ve got a habit of checking my bedroom and bathroom for women. Just give me two minutes, and they’ll be gone.”

This can’t be happening. Still, I glance toward the front door, already hearing Cal and Josh’s voices getting louder, followed by pounding knocks.

Muttering curses under my breath, I go into the nearest cupboard. “This is so fucking stupid,” I hiss as I step inside, pulling the door closed behind me.

From outside, Alex calls back toward the door, keeping his voice casual. The guys shout louder, teasing, banging harder. I press my hands against the back wall and lean into it, trying not to breathe too loud.

“Two minutes, Alex,” I whisper.

“Promise,” he mutters back.

Just like that, I’m in a cupboard. A literal fucking cupboard. This is my life now.

Chapter 16

Alex POV

I open the door and immediately regret it. All three of them are standing there like they’re ready to throw a party.

“Is this important?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Doesn’t matter. They don’t wait. Cal and Jacob push past me like they own the place, and Josh follows with a grin, already heading for the kitchen.

“You guys,” I start, closing the door behind them, “I’m busy.”

“Coach said you called in sick,” Cal says, opening my cabinet like it’s his own. “So we figured we’d cheer you up.”

“Yeah, with alcohol,” Josh adds, grabbing glasses.

Shit. I glance over and spot the shirt Elsie left on the back of the couch, her bra peeking out from underneath it.

Panic flares. I move fast and swipe the clothes into a bundle, shoving them behind the couch cushion before they can notice.

“I was actually about to go to bed,” I try, hoping they’ll take the hint.

“You can handle one drink before you crawl back under the covers,” Cal says, handing me a glass and smirking.

One drink, and then they’re out. That’s the deal I make with myself.

“One,” I say, meeting Cal’s eyes.

“Or two. Or three. We’re not picky,” Jacob says with a grin, dropping onto the armchair like he owns it.

I raise my glass and throw the drink back in one go. If I drink it fast enough, maybe they’ll take it as a sign I’m done.

Cal leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching me. “I wanted to ask you something. These two didn’t care, but… did you get Elsie’s number?”

The question hits like a slap. I keep my expression flat.

“You’re the one who went home with her,” I say coolly.

He laughs, easy and relaxed. “I dropped her off. Didn’t get her number, though.”

I shrug, keeping my face neutral. “Then I can’t help you.”

He tilts his head, studying me, but I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I just keep the glass in my hand and act like I’m not hiding a woman in my damn cupboard.

Jacob leans over and refills my glass without asking.

“I said one,” I remind him.

He grins. “And we said maybe more. Let’s see where the night takes us.”

This is going to be a disaster. I can feel it already.

Jacob stretches his legs out and props his feet on my coffee table like he pays the rent here. “So, Coach said if we take tomorrow’s game, we might get a week off next month.”

Cal perks up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said something about ‘earned downtime’ or whatever.” Jacob tips his head back and drains his drink.

Josh laughs from the kitchen. “He also said if we skate like we did today, he’s benching all of us.”

“Only because he had to drag your hungover ass off the ice,” Cal throws back.

“Not hungover,” Josh says with mock dignity. “Just… aggressively recovering.”

They all start arguing over who did what during drills this morning, who missed which passes, and who Coach threatened the most. I nod along, try to look interested, but my mind drifts.

Elsie, she’s still in the cupboard.

Shit. I need them to go, I can’t leave her in there. I shift in my seat, ready to stand and figure out a way to get them moving, but then Jacob lobs a question my way.

“Did you hear they moved Sam to the starting lineup?”

I blink. “What?”

“Tomorrow. Coach made the switch. Said he wants more speed off the opening faceoff.”

I sit back, frowning. “Sam’s not faster. He’s just flashier. It’ll screw our rhythm.”

“Tell Coach that,” Cal mutters. “He doesn’t listen to logic.”

Josh walks over and refills his drink, again. “You’re just bitter Sam out-skated you last game.”

“That’s because he damn near tripped me.”

They all start laughing again, another wave of banter breaking over the room, and I forget. I forget she’s here. I forget the two-minute deal. I forget the panic.

My mind slips back into the game, into tactics, into team dynamics. I lose track of time. My second drink vanishes. Then my third. The guys are still sprawled around my living room, arguing over who’ll end up with more goals this season and who’s most likely to be fined for fighting.

All the while, the cupboard stays closed. Silent.

Completely forgotten.

The guys are in full chaos mode now. Josh is telling some story about a failed Tinder date that involved a cat, a locked bathroom door, and what he claims was “an unfortunate misunderstanding.” Cal’s halfway through crying with laughter, and Jacob keeps tossing popcorn at him for missing the best part of the story while he wheezes.

I’ve almost forgotten we’re not at someone else’s place. Almost forgotten this is my apartment, and that I should be acting like a responsible adult who doesn’t have a woman hidden in his cupboard. I forget though, which is why I don’t complain at Jacob for throwing shit.

Cal shifts on the couch and pulls something out from behind the cushion.

“What the hell is—?” He pauses and holds it up.

It’s Elsie’s bra, and the shirt.

He stretches both out in his hands, eyebrows raised. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

My stomach sinks. “Give me that.”

Jacob and Josh immediately jump up, crowding around to get a better look. “Dude,” Josh laughs, “you’re hiding someone here?”

“I’m not hiding anyone,” I say quickly, stepping forward and snatching the clothes back.

They all stare at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Then whose are these?” Cal asks, still grinning.

“She left.”

“Without her top?” Jacob squints at me.

“She… didn’t notice?”

They’re already moving, heading for the hallway.

“Nope,” Josh calls over his shoulder, “we’re investigating. If she’s still here, we’re saying hi.”

“You’re not investigating anything,” I snap, following them. “There’s no one here.”

Cal yanks open the bathroom door. “Clear!”

Jacob shoves open the bedroom door. “Also clear!”

Josh turns and looks at me, smug. “So where is she?”

“Gone. Like I said,” I mutter.

There’s a soft sound. The tiniest rustle, but we all hear it and it comes from the cupboard.

Panic sets in. I dart forward, planting myself in front of the doors like a goalie guarding the net.

“She’s not in there,” I say too fast.

Cal crosses his arms. “Move.”

“No.”

“Come on,” Jacob groans. “We’ve gotta meet the legend. You owe us that much.”

“She’s not a legend, and you’re not meeting anyone,” I bite back.

Josh leans in, smirking. “We’re just saying hi.”

I don’t move, and they all look at each other, then back at me. “Leave, right now.”

“God, you’re no fun,” Cal mutters, throwing his hands up. “Buzzkill.”

Jacob shakes his head, laughing. “Protective much?”

They turn and head for the door, still laughing.

“We’ll find out who she is,” Josh calls as they walk out. “Might take us a day, but we’ve got resources.”

“Enjoy the mystery, Wolfe,” Cal adds with a wink, pulling the door shut behind him.

The second it clicks closed, I spin around and open the cupboard.

Elsie glares at me like she’s ready to murder someone. Probably me.

This is going to be a fun conversation. I totally fucking forget about her at one point.

She storms out like a hellstorm in bare feet.

“It’s been an hour,” she snaps, straightening my shirt and glaring at me like I told her to live in there.

“I didn’t mean for it to take that long,” I start.

She jabs a finger into my chest. “You said two minutes. Two. Not sixty. Do you even remember I was in there?”

“I was trying to get them to leave!”

“You were laughing. Drinking. Telling stories like you weren’t hiding a whole human being in your cupboard!” She gestures wildly, full-on furious now. “Do you just forget people when they’re inconvenient?”

“I didn’t forget,” I lie, even though I absolutely did.

“Oh really? Because Cal found my bra. The one you shoved under the cushion while you were too busy trying to have fun.”

I wince. “I was going to come get you—”

“But you didn’t. You let them sit around, talk shit, ask about me, and nearly tear your place apart trying to find the mystery woman. I was five seconds away from becoming a live-action horror movie.”

I run a hand over my face. “You said you didn’t want them to know you were here.”

“I didn’t mean hide me like contraband!”

“I was trying to protect your cover!”

“By burying me under your broom?!”

She keeps going, words sharp and fast, cutting through the hangover I didn’t know I still had. I can barely keep up, every sentence landing like a jab to the ribs.

She takes another step closer, still firing off her rage, and I just… snap.

I step in, grab her and I kiss her.

Her mouth is soft and angry and tastes like my coffee, and for one whole second, she kisses me back.

Then she pushes me, hard and I stumble back, blinking.

“You kissed me to shut me up!” she accuses.

My hands lift instinctively. “Yes?” Fuck, I did, I didn’t even realise until after.

She stares at me like she’s deciding which piece of furniture to throw first.

“I panicked,” I offer.

Her eyes narrow. “You panicked? Again?”

I nod once, completely serious. “It’s becoming a theme.”

She exhales like she’s trying not to scream, then turns and starts pacing, muttering something under her breath that I’m pretty sure involves stabbing.

I watch her, still feeling the kiss on my lips, still hearing her voice in my head.

Yeah.

I might’ve screwed this up even worse than I thought.

She spins on her heel, eyes sharp. “Do you have some kind of condition? Like… you physically can’t have a normal argument? Is kissing your go-to defense mechanism? Do you do that to shut everyone up or just me?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. She’s got a point.

“No,” I say eventually. “It’s… only ever happened with you.” That doesn’t sound any better. If anything, it sounds worse.

She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Fantastic. I get the special treatment.”

“I panicked,” I say again, quietly this time. “And I’m sorry. Again.”

She stares at me like she’s weighing whether or not to accept that. “I just want my bag, Alex. That’s it.”

“I called,” I tell her. “The taxi company said the driver hasn’t reported anything yet. They said they’d call back if it turns up.”

She exhales slowly, frustration still thick on her face. “Great.”

I move into the kitchen and grab two glasses. I don’t know what else to do except keep trying. I pour water for myself, not alcohol, and hold one out.

“Here. And for what it’s worth… I really am sorry.”

She takes the glass, but doesn’t drink. Her fingers wrap around it like she’s debating throwing it at me. After a long pause, she takes a small sip instead.

It feels like progress, but barely. She still won’t look at me.

I deserve that, every bit of it. She stands there in my kitchen, sipping from the glass like it’s the only thing keeping her from launching it at my face. I don’t blame her. If the roles were reversed, I’d be pissed too.

She doesn’t speak, just leans her hip against the counter and keeps her eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, like looking directly at me might reignite the fire.

I scrub a hand over my face and sit down at the table. The silence stretches, awkward and heavy. I hate it. I’d rather she scream again.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like an idiot,” I say quietly, “or like some secret I needed to hide. That wasn’t it.”

Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and unreadable. “You put me in a cupboard, Alex.”

“I know. Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.”

She shakes her head slowly, then sets the glass down with a soft clink. “You don’t get it. I came here to help my career. I trusted you to help. Then I wake up to you being drunk, sending insane messages, making assumptions, and then panicking so hard you forget I exist.”

“I didn’t forget,” I start, but the look she shoots me shuts that down.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” I correct myself. “I was trying to distract them, and then everything spiraled. You know what they’re like.”

She exhales and leans back against the counter. “They’re your friends. They’re not the ones I’m trying to impress. You are.”

That lands like a punch I wasn’t ready for. I stare at her, the words echoing in my head.

I clear my throat. “You are. You have. And I’m going to fix this.”

“How?” she asks, not accusing, genuinely curious, maybe a little tired.

“I’ll get your bag back. If it doesn’t turn up, I’ll replace everything. And when we’re at the game, I’ll come straight to you. I’ll make it obvious it’s not a one-time thing. The others will follow.”

She lifts a brow. “What if they don’t?”

“Then they’re idiots,” I say simply. “But they will.”

She watches me a little longer, then walks over to the table and sinks into the chair opposite mine. The fight drains from her shoulders, but not entirely.

“I’m still pissed,” she says.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

“And if you ever kiss me again to win an argument, I’m going to throw something.”

“Noted.”

She glances down at her glass, then back up at me. “You still owe me.”

“I know.”

“And you still called me easy.”

“I panicked.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It keeps being true.”

For the first time since she came out of the cupboard, her lips twitch. Not a smile, not quite, but something close. A crack in the ice.

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s not nothing either.

Chapter 17

Elsie POV

He drives me crazy in every possible way.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect you. I really like you, Elsie.”

Oh, hell. “That’s not happening. For one, I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m focusing on getting my career started. Second, I’m not about to date a guy I’ll be interviewing after games.”

Alex chuckles. “By like, I mean as a friend. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting anything. As you’ve probably noticed, all of my friends are sarcastic idiots. You’re different. You’re real, brutal, and honest. I need that in a friend.”

I watch him for a moment, then sigh and relax just a little.

“You’re a strange man, Alex,” I mutter.

He laughs and nods. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just focusing on surviving one day at a time.”

“Doubtful. You don’t strike me as someone who’s just surviving. You seem like you’re loving life, soaking up every second.”

His laugh makes me hesitate. For the first time, I wonder if I have him completely wrong.

“We only show the world the parts of ourselves and our lives we want them to see.”

The way he says it hits me harder than I expect. “You have dark secrets?” I tilt my head and wait. He sighs heavily.

“Like you wouldn’t know. And trust me, you don’t want to.”

“Why not? Everyone has secrets, Alex. I do too. We all carry something from our past that feels dark, dangerous, or makes us believe we’re unworthy of good things.”

His laugh turns cold. The sound makes my skin prickle.

“Dark and dangerous? Believe me, whatever you think you’ve survived, it doesn’t even come close to scratching the surface of mine.” He rubs his face roughly, then pours himself another drink.

I want to ask. I want to know. But I don’t push him. I know if I do, it will only make him shut down or leave. So instead, I go with the one thing I have been dying to know.

“How do you do it?” I ask quietly.

He looks at me, confused.

“That club. You got me and a plus-one on the list. How? Places like that don’t just let anyone in, Alex. From everything I’ve heard, even being a top hockey player wouldn’t give you that kind of pull.”

I’ve been thinking about it since I stood hidden in the cupboard. The longer I sat there, the more questions I had. I shouldn’t have been allowed in. Reporters are usually blacklisted from clubs like that.

“You’ve got more power than you should, Alex.”

He stares at me like I just caught him off guard. Slowly, he nods.

“Yeah, well, sometimes having people trust you and take your word as gospel isn’t always a good thing.”

He finishes his drink and I watch him carefully. “I can’t see how that isn’t a good thing. You’re always at the most exclusive places.”

“Just because the world looks lavish doesn’t mean it is.”

I don’t argue. I just nod, knowing he’s probably right. I wouldn’t know. Still, people seem to be drawn to Alex no matter where he goes. Anytime he shows up in newspapers or magazines, it’s always with him walking into some high-end club or event like he owns the place.

“What made you want to become a reporter?” he asks suddenly. His eyes flick over to me as he leans back. “Why sports? It’s a tough field to break into. Crime, homelessness, and human interest stories are easier, and they’re always in demand.”

I shrug. “My dad always told me that there’s more under the surface in sports than anyone ever sees. He said reporters pick and choose what to show the public.”

Alex lets out a low laugh. “That’s definitely true.”

“He told me most sports reporters don’t care about the players, not really. They just see dollar signs and controversy. I wanted to be different. I wanted to tell the truth, to write about their lives without twisting things or making every hockey player seem like an arrogant prick, even though you and your team made that a challenge.”

He groans and buries his face in his hands. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

I grin and his groan deepens.

“I already apologised for that. It’s just how players are. It’s not only my team.”

“Sexist pigs, got it.” I wink and his shoulders shake as he chuckles.

“I guess that’s how we come across sometimes, but honestly, we—”

His phone cuts him off mid-sentence. The shrill ring slices through the quiet. Alex glances at the screen, sighs, and without another word, gets up and walks out of the room.

I stare after him, frowning. That was odd. I push the thought aside and wait. Minutes stretch out painfully slow until nearly twenty minutes have passed before he finally comes back.

“They have your bag. Let’s go get it.”

He holds out my clothes and I take them, heading straight for his bathroom. Slipping out of his oversized shirt and back into my own clothes, I smooth my hands down my jeans and take a breath before stepping back out.

Alex is waiting at the door, silent, distant. He doesn’t say a word, just gestures for me to leave. I hesitate for a second, expecting him to at least ask if I’m ready or if I want to grab a coffee first, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly leads the way out of his apartment. His mood has shifted completely, and I have no idea why.

The car ride is quiet. I glance sideways at him as he drives, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel, the other flicking on the indicator at the next turn. The silence feels heavier than usual. I fiddle with the strap of my seatbelt as I finally speak.

“Can you drop me at the office?”

Alex gives a quick nod. “Yeah, no problem.”

We pull into the lot of the cab company where my bag was dropped off. I wait as he jogs inside, and a few minutes later he comes back out carrying it over his shoulder. I watch him through the glass, noting how tense his expression still is. He tosses the bag into my lap before sliding back behind the wheel and pulling away again.

As we cruise down the street toward the city, I can’t take the quiet anymore.

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning toward him fully. “You’ve gone all weird since that call.”

“I’m fine.” His voice is flat, clipped. “Just family drama.”

“Your sister?” I chuckle.

“No, other family not her.”

I frown, confused. “I thought you didn’t have any other family?”

He laughs, bitter and hollow, eyes fixed on the road. “Just because nearly your whole family is dead doesn’t mean their drama disappears.”

I stare at him, startled, but before I can ask anything else, he pulls the car to a smooth stop outside my office building. I blink, realising we’re already here. Alex doesn’t even look over as I gather my bag and open the door.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say quietly, stepping out onto the pavement.

The door clicks shut behind me and I watch him for a second through the window, but he’s already shifting the car into gear. Without another word, he pulls away and vanishes into the city traffic.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk into the building, feeling the weight of unanswered questions settle hard in my chest.

Sitting at my desk, I force myself to focus. The cursor blinks at me from the screen like it knows I’m hesitating. I lean back in my chair and stare at the half-filled document. My editor has been on my case all day, I’ve seen the messages and missed calls. The message was clear. “You said you had something on Alex Wolfe. I want to see it. Now.”

I take a breath and start typing.

The first time I properly met Alex Wolfe, he ignored me.

I let the words hang for a moment. They feel true. Because they are.

I stood outside the arena with my microphone, surrounded by other reporters all desperate to grab a soundbite. I called his name once as he walked by. He turned toward the reporter next to me and gave them an answer. I tried again, louder this time. His eyes flicked to me for one second, blank and unimpressed, then slid away without a word. That was my introduction to the man known for being hockey’s most private star.

I rub my thumb over the corner of my desk as I keep writing.

I expected that to be the last time we crossed paths. I never imagined a few hours later he would be standing in my hotel room, both of us wearing nothing but towels, staring at each other in pure disbelief.

The guys on his team had sent a woman named Rachel to his room as some kind of sick prank. Alex, desperate to get away from her, had grabbed whatever dignity he had left and bolted down the hallway. By sheer dumb luck, he ended up in my room. I had just stepped out of the shower myself. He practically shoved his way in and begged me to hide him. That was our real introduction.

I sigh, remembering it vividly.

That night, we argued. I told him exactly what I thought of him brushing me off at the arena. He stared me dead in the eye and blurted out, “Are you a virgin?” I still don’t know what possessed him to ask that, but it shut me up fast enough.

After that disaster, I was sure I would never see him again. I was wrong.

The next day began what I now refer to as The Makeover War. Alex insisted that my entire look was the problem. That no player would speak to a reporter dressed like a lost college intern. I argued that I should be judged on my skills. He told me that in his world, first impressions were everything.

I let him drag me through multiple shops, biting back my pride as he and his stylist debated colors, fabrics, and cuts like I was a mannequin. I was humiliated the entire time. When he handed me a push-up bra and told me to change, I considered throwing it at him. Instead, I put it on, walked out, and caught him looking longer than he should have before he coughed and turned away.

I smile faintly and keep typing.

The club night was next. The first time I walked into the VIP lounge, my legs nearly gave out. He had told me to bring my friend Sarah, refused to be seen arriving with me, and acted like he didn’t even know me once inside. Yet somehow, I knew he was watching. I danced with Cal, laughed too loud, let myself get lost in the music just to ignore how nervous I was. Then, when Cal stepped away, Alex pulled me on the dancefloor with a look I will never forget.

I grimace and move to the next memory.

The texts started that night. Dozens of them. At first they were professional reminders about how to act around the players, then came the passive-aggressive warnings about how I was getting too close to Cal. Then more advice, even more warnings. I ignored most of them, knowing full well Alex was drunk and spiraling. I went to his place to put in him in his place and his response was to kiss me.

I shake my head. The worst part still makes me furious.

The next morning, his teammates showed up uninvited at his apartment. Panicked, Alex ordered me into his cupboard so I would not be caught there. “Two minutes,” he promised. I stayed hidden for over an hour, listening to them drink and joke while I sat wedged between spare coats and shoes, fuming. The humiliation was unbearable.

When I finally emerged and confronted him, he kissed me. Not gently. Not thoughtfully. Just to shut me up. I slapped him immediately, furious beyond words.

I sit back and stare at the screen, breathing hard.

Alex Wolfe is a hurricane. He barges into your life, knocks everything over, and walks away like it never happened. I was sent to get a story, not get involved. The issue is, when Alex dragged me into his life and stepped into mine. He became the story.

I stare at it and click save. It’s not detailed, but it’s enough. I email it off to my editor and sit in the quiet offices. No one is here, it’s too late.

His reply comes quickly.

Talk less about unimportant facts, and describe the night he stayed in your hotel room. Describe everything that involves him and shows him as a person.

Well, that’s that then. Another message comes through.

You need to get deeper. There’s nothing in this that is Alex; it’s all the show and what he wants the world to see. Dig deeper.”

He’s wrong. The Alex the world knows wouldn’t help a woman like me. Sure, I helped him, but he could have just given me advice and sent me on my way.

Instead he took me shopping, dressed me, in a way introduced me to his sister. Everything like that, is the real Alex. I won’t cut it out, as it shows he’s not unemotional, and unable to feel. It proves he has feelings and cares.

Chapter 18

Alex POV

I step into the office, not caring that the heavy door slams shut behind me. I’m pissed, my plan was to keep Elsie at mine tonight and that entire fucking plan flew out the window because of this asshole.

The sharp echo of the door banging bounces off the high marble walls, drawing every eye in the room. Not that there are many. Only one man waits, sitting comfortably behind an obnoxiously expensive walnut desk, the skyline of the city glittering behind him like he owns it.

“About time,” he says smoothly, folding his manicured hands on the desk.

I walk straight to the decanter at the sideboard and pour myself a drink without asking. I don’t even look at him as I speak. “Are you fucking serious? I told you I was busy. You knew I’d handle it.”

“Busy hiding reporters in cupboards apparently.”

I stop mid-sip, my fingers tightening around the glass, then I turn and walk across the office. He’s clearly spoke to someone in the team. I drop heavily into the leather chair opposite him and stretch my legs. The energy radiating off me makes the man’s expensive artwork and overpriced furniture feel small.

“Don’t push me, Thomas.”

Thomas Albright. Family lawyer, crisis manager, professional manipulator. Retained by my father decades ago and kept on only because cutting him loose would cause more problems than it solved. His suit is flawless, his gold cufflinks polished, his dark tie straight and cold against his perfect white shirt.

“I’m not pushing.” He leans back smoothly, folding his hands together like he owns the building we sit in. “I’m doing what I always do. Containing your chaos.”

I smile slightly and swirl the drink in my hand. “You don’t contain me. You clean up minor inconveniences.”

His eyes narrow for a flicker of a second, but he recovers instantly. “You’re reckless, Alex. You always have been. And usually, we ride that out. Your brawls. Your fights. Your attitude problems. You win, the papers move on, the sponsors stay quiet, and I do my job. But this? This is different.”

I tilt my head lazily, though my attention sharpens. “Say what you mean.”

He gestures at a slim folder on his desk. I don’t reach for it.

“The girl,” he says calmly. “You’re letting her get too close.”

“She’s a reporter. I’m helping her blend in so the players will talk to her. That benefits me too. I’ve told you that already.”

“She’s not just a reporter anymore. You know what happens when anyone outside our world gets close. They start asking the wrong questions.”

I give him a cold, slow grin. “You think I don’t know the rules?”

Thomas exhales through his nose. “Your father always knew how to walk that line. He had flaws, sure. But he kept business and personal completely separate.”

My jaw tightens for half a second. “Don’t bring him up.”

“He kept your family name ironclad. Doors opened for him because people knew he would never expose them. Now they open for you because of the same expectation. And I’m telling you right now, that expectation is starting to crack.”

I down the rest of my drink and set the glass down carefully. “You’re worried I’m going to start talking? You really think I’d burn the family for a woman?”

“I think you don’t realize how fast this could spiral. You dragged her into a situation that wasn’t her business. The Rachel incident, the cupboard, the nightclub, and now players from other teams are noticing her because she walked in on your arm.”

“She didn’t walk in on my arm.” I sit forward, voice low but razor sharp. “You don’t get to twist this like I’m playing house with her.”

Thomas taps the folder with one long finger. “The cameras saw it differently. She draws attention and attention draws questions. I don’t care if you sleep with her. I care if she starts digging and ends up connecting dots no one outside the family ever should.”

I lean back and let the tension stretch long between us. I take my time before speaking again. “You’re assuming she’d even know what dots to look for. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Yet.”

I give him a hard stare. “She won’t.”

“She’s a reporter. They always dig. You know this.”

“She won’t,” I repeat flatly.

Thomas leans back, watching me with that same cold lawyer detachment he’s had since I was sixteen and breaking noses in underground fights for extra cash. “You’ve built something most people would kill for. You control access, you control the press, you control which clubs even let you walk through their door. Don’t fuck that up because of your pride or whatever this is between you and her.”

I crack my knuckles slowly and stand. “If I lose it, I rebuild it.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “You think that’s how this works? This city tolerates you because you know how to play. Your father earned that. You inherited it. You’ve kept the wolves at bay because they know you don’t break the code.”

I stare down at him from my full height. “I still haven’t.”

Thomas’s eyes sharpen. “You’re close. Too close. That’s why I’m warning you. I don’t speak to you like this because I enjoy it. I do it because I know exactly what happens to men who forget the difference between control and chaos.”

I walk to the bar and pour another drink. This time I sip it slower. “You’ve said your piece. Anything else?”

He straightens his tie and stands. “You know what happens if she digs too far. I won’t be able to stop them. Not this time.”

I glance over my shoulder. My voice is soft but dangerous. “If anyone touches her, there won’t be anything left of them to stop.”

His mouth tightens, but he nods once. “Then make sure it never comes to that.”

I set the glass down with a sharp clink. “It won’t.”

Without another word, I walk out. The heavy office door closes behind me with a quiet finality.

I walk fast, shoulders tight, every muscle coiled. The cold air outside hits me and I drag it deep into my lungs. The city lights blur through the windshield of my parked car as I climb in.

I told him she wouldn’t pull those threads. I told him she wouldn’t find out.

But for the first time, I am not sure I believe myself.

The city rolls past in blurs of gold and steel as I drive. The night is colder than it should be for this time of year. I crack the window anyway, letting the sharp air sting my skin. I deserve that at least.

My fingers flex on the steering wheel, the tension refusing to leave my body no matter how many breaths I take.

This was never supposed to be my life.

I never wanted this.

Hockey was supposed to be the escape. The rink was the only place where I could shut everything out. The blood, the weight of the family name, the rules, the expectations. On the ice I could hit and be hit. It made sense there. Pain had rules. Pain had boundaries.

Off the ice, nothing ever has.

When my father died, I thought maybe that was it. Maybe I was free. I was wrong. I inherited everything the same way you inherit debt. The Wolfe name came with power, influence, access no one else could touch. It also came with silent agreements, people who expected the Wolfe heir to keep playing the game, people who expected the son to keep the family reputation intact.

I never asked for any of it.

I could walk away. I have thought about it more times than I can count. The second I retire, I can let it all go. Let the doors close. Let the wolves finally turn on each other without me as the buffer between their egos and their grudges.

But it’s not that simple.

My world doesn’t allow people to leave. Not cleanly.

The only way out of my family’s web is through death or bankruptcy. Both are a slow, painful suicide. Both leave destruction behind. Both are choices that would drag innocent people down with me. I could walk away and bring down entire business deals, reputations, careers that have nothing to do with the darkness tied to the Wolfe name. The city would devour itself trying to fill the power vacuum. I know because I’ve watched it happen to others.

There’s no way out. Not one I can live with.

So I stay. I play. I wear the name like armor and try not to let the rot underneath crack through the surface. I walk the line. I maintain control. I control access. I control the media. I control the conversations.

Until her.

I tighten my grip on the wheel. I don’t even say her name in my head. It makes it too real.

I didn’t mean for this to happen. She was supposed to be another invisible face in the background. Another nobody reporter desperate for a soundbite. But the second I stepped into that hotel room, dripping wet, towel barely hanging on, and saw her glare at me like I was the asshole for barging in, I knew I was screwed.

I’ve tried to push her back. I’ve tried to hold her at arm’s length. I’ve tried to remind myself she is a liability.

But she’s not backing down.

And I’m running out of excuses for why I keep letting her in.

The car slows as I pull into the underground garage beneath my building. The thick security doors close behind me as I kill the engine.

For a long moment, I sit in silence.

I have survived this long because I never let anyone too close. Not teammates. Not friends. Not women.

But she’s already too close.

And no matter how much I tell myself I’m still in control, I know deep down I’m lying to myself.

I push open the car door and step into the dark concrete stillness of the garage. My boots echo with every heavy step toward the elevator. My mind keeps racing, keeps cataloguing the things I can’t afford to forget.

The family. The rules. The lines I can’t cross. The lines I am already dangerously close to blurring.

The girl I can’t stop thinking about.

The elevator dings and I step inside, running my hand through my hair as the doors slide shut. My reflection stares back at me in the polished metal. Cold eyes. Hard jaw. I look exactly like my father right now and it makes me want to punch the glass.

I can’t be him and I refuse to be him. But in this world, I know better than anyone how little choice I have left.

I slam my keys down on the kitchen counter and grab my phone. I don’t think. I just call.

Two rings is all it takes.

“Yeah?” Cal’s voice is rough, still thick with sleep.

“Get over here.”

There’s a beat of silence. He hears it in my tone.

“Ten minutes.”

I hang up and head to the window. The city below looks cold and distant, lights blurring into nothing against the dark sky. My jaw tightens. I’ve held my world together for years, but I can feel the cracks now, spreading in ways I can’t stop.

The knock finally comes. I open the door and Cal steps in, hoodie loose over his shoulders, hair messy, eyes sharp as always. He takes one look at me and frowns.

“What happened?”

I don’t answer right away. I pour him a drink, hand it over, and drop onto the couch. “They’re pushing me. They want me to cut her off. Now.”

Cal raises an eyebrow and settles onto the chair opposite. “The girl from the cupboard?”

I shoot him a glare. He just smirks.

“I knew it. When we showed up the other day and you shoved me and the guys out like your place was on fire? I said then, ‘He’s hiding someone he fucking likes a lot.’ You stuffed her in your damn cupboard, Alex.”

I lean back and sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Cal laughs and takes a sip of his drink. “You? The guy who always has a choice? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I was protecting her.”

“From me?” His eyes are full of teasing disbelief. “Come on.”

I stare him down. “Not from you. From what happens if anyone connects her to me.”

Cal pauses, watching me over the rim of his glass. “So, she’s not just some girl you picked up?”

I say nothing.

Cal chuckles and shakes his head. “So you called me over to tell me you slept with her and can’t decide if you want to dip it in some more?”

“I didn’t.”

His entire body freezes. “You what?”

“I haven’t touched her.”

The silence stretches long. Cal stares like I’ve grown a second head. Then slowly, the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen spreads across his face.

“You’re joking.”

I shake my head.

He leans forward, laughing under his breath. “You mean to tell me Alex Wolfe, king of the hit-it-and-leave, has been running around obsessed over a girl and hasn’t even tried to sleep with her?”

“I haven’t.”

He laughs harder, throws his head back and groans like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’ve gotta be kidding. You’ve been avoiding women like the plague ever since this started. You let her into your apartment, hid her in a cupboard, called me over in the middle of the night, and you haven’t even tried to get her into your bed?”

I say nothing.

Cal lets out a whistle and leans back against the chair, shaking his head. “You’re down bad, man. I mean, you’ve had women falling over themselves to get your attention for years. You chew through them like they’re disposable. But now the first time you actually give a damn, you’re terrified to even touch her?”

“I’m not terrified.” My voice comes out sharp.

He lifts his hands, mock surrender. “I’m just saying, I didn’t see this coming. You always get them out of your system quick. One night, done. Now suddenly, you’re stuck.”

I scowl into my drink. I hate that he’s right.

Cal watches me for another long beat, his grin softening. “You’re not wrong to be careful. People are already watching you closer than ever. They’re waiting for you to screw up. You’re the last one they expect to lose control.”

I drain my glass and set it down with more force than I mean to. “I haven’t lost control.”

Cal arches a brow. “You called me in the middle of the night. You stuffed a woman in a cupboard. You’ve been ignoring every other distraction since she showed up. You skipped training for her. If that’s not losing control, it’s close.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ve kept my world together for years. I’ve walked the line every single day. I can’t afford to let this blow up.”

Cal watches me closely. “Then walk away.”

I look out the window. “I can’t.”

His voice softens, losing the mocking edge. “I know.”

We sit in silence for a while. Cal finally drains the rest of his glass and stands, tugging his hoodie back into place.

“I’ll say this much,” he says as he walks to the door. “You’ve handled bigger messes than this. You’ll figure it out. Just be smart.”

I nod. “I always am.”

Cal opens the door, glances back at me one last time. “Not always, Alex. Just most of the time.”

Then he’s gone. I’m left staring at the empty glass, the city still cold and endless outside my window, and the one woman I shouldn’t be thinking about still at the front of my mind.

Chapter 19

Alex POV

Sleep didn’t come last night. I stared at the ceiling, thinking through every possible angle, every outcome. If I can keep this relationship with Elsie strictly business, if I never let it cross the line, then she stays safe. She’ll never get close enough to the mess my life is tangled in. She’ll never be a target.

That’s why I said I liked her as a friend. Cal knows the truth about the world I’m forced to live in. No one else does. Not even her.

But Elsie’s smart. Too smart. The way she talks, the way she holds herself even when she’s out of her depth, it draws people in. There’s a power in it, even if she doesn’t realize.

I keep telling myself that helping her start her career is proof I care. That I’m already giving her everything I can. That she’ll see it and never betray me.

She can’t betray me. She doesn’t know anything.

Hockey was always my escape. My passion. When I was a kid, I used to watch my father on the ice, thinking there was no one in the world better than him. The way he moved, the way the crowd worshipped him. I was going to be him. The next Wolfe legend.

When I was old enough to skate, he was the one who taught me. I lived for those practices, thinking I was training to become the next great player, to carry his legacy.

I idolized him. I thought he was a hero, the hero of the game.

I was a fucking idiot.

I remember the day everything shattered. The day I learned the truth. I’d made it, I was deep into my career, and he was long retired. I still thought the reason he had so much power, the reason he walked into any exclusive club or event without ever being questioned, was because of how good he’d been on the ice.

Fuck… I was wrong.

I still remember the feeling when I found out what was behind the curtain. My father hadn’t just played hockey. He manipulated it. He’d brokered deals, thrown games, pulled strings to line his own pockets and secure power.

I remember exactly when I stopped idolizing him and started hating him.

I thought I was free of him when he died. Then the message came. The announcement behind closed doors. The one where they informed me I’d be continuing where he left off.

Me.

The first thing I did was get drunk. The second was beat the hell out of a group of men who got in my way that night. I threatened to expose everything, to burn it all down. I was ready to blow it wide open.

Cal was the only one who pulled me back. The only one I trusted to know the truth.

I made my choice that night. I agreed to pass on information when I heard things. Rumors. Player chatter. What I refused to do was ever throw a game, never deliberately win or lose. I play because I love the sport. I play to compete. I have no idea if someone else on my team is doing it. I refused to know. That’s what eats at me the most.

The idea that someone I trust could be continuing my father’s legacy behind my back makes me fucking sick.

I snap back to reality and realize I’m standing inside the rink. I must’ve driven here on autopilot. Worse, I walked straight through the main doors, past the media entrance, past the corridor where she always waits.

I didn’t stop.

Fuck.

I stare at the door behind me, frozen. If she saw me blow past her like that, I’ve just undone everything I’ve tried to build between us. Walking back out would only make it worse.

I’m standing here debating whether I should walk back, apologize, and fix this or keep going and pretend I didn’t notice.

Shit. Neither option feels right.

I push open the locker room door and head straight for my stall. My mind’s still half back at that damn door, thinking about whether Elsie saw me, whether she’s pissed, whether I’ve just wrecked this whole arrangement.

The second I sit, I force it out of my head. I tug on my jersey and pads automatically, going through the motions I’ve done a thousand times. My focus shifts to the room.

The locker room feels tighter than usual as I finish lacing my skates. The buzz of conversations and random bursts of laughter bounce off the concrete walls, but I’m not part of it. My head’s not here. Cal watches me from the next stall, taping his stick slowly, studying me out of the corner of his eye like he knows exactly what’s running through my mind.

I ignore him. My eyes scan the room. Sam’s adjusting his pads for the third time, fidgeting nervously. Deano leans back, legs stretched out like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know better. I know the signs of someone trying too hard to look casual.

I shake it off and stand. Time to focus.

The roar of the crowd shakes the glass as I step onto the ice. The bright white surface stretches ahead like a battlefield under floodlights. My blades bite in as I push off, joining the flow of bodies circling for warm-ups. I fall into rhythm, cutting sharp turns, snapping passes with Cal across the ice. The familiar weight of my stick in my hands calms me.

But I’m not calm.

The crowd roars as the puck drops and I drive forward, cutting hard toward the boards. I chip it deep into the offensive zone, following the play, grinding for every inch of space against the boards. Cal swoops in from the weak side and spins the puck back to the point. I drift toward the crease, trying to screen their goalie.

The shot comes, low and fast, but Deano mishandles the rebound at the blue line. The puck jumps over his stick and slides helplessly back into our end. I curse under my breath and race back on the backcheck.

I catch their winger just as he crosses the blue line and slam my shoulder into him and steal the puck clean. The crowd explodes. I skate it out with speed, weaving around a defender, then dish it off to Sam, who fires it into the goalie’s chest.

The whistle blows. I skate back to the bench breathing hard, watching Deano cruise back like nothing happened.

The second period starts and the intensity ramps up. We push hard on offense, grinding out every shift. I battle along the boards, fighting off hooks and slashes to keep the puck deep. Cal throws sharp passes to me and I snap two shots on net. Both are stopped.

I turn to see Deano flat-footed again as his winger blows past him, leading to a clean breakaway. Our goalie bails us out with a brilliant pad save. I slam my stick against the boards in frustration.

Next shift, Deano tries to clear the puck along the boards but fails completely. It trickles straight to their center, who wires it on net. Our goalie barely holds the post.

I skate to Deano at the end of the play and glare. “Get your head in the game.”

He just shrugs and skates away.

We keep pushing. I throw my weight around, landing clean hits along the boards. I tip shots on goal, scramble for rebounds, and drive hard to the net. I block a heavy slapshot with my leg and shake it off as the pain radiates up my thigh. I refuse to show it.

Every time we get momentum, Deano finds a way to blow it. A weak clearing attempt. A lazy dump-in. A botched coverage in our own zone that forces me to scramble and bail him out with a desperate stick lift.

I barely breathe between shifts. My lungs burn. My legs feel like concrete. But I keep going.

The third period hits and the game stays tied. We forecheck hard. We battle for every loose puck. The bench is alive with energy, everyone willing us to break through.

Then Deano does it.

With four minutes left, he skates a lazy shift, fails to pressure their winger at the point, and watches flat-footed as the puck sails right to the back post for a tap-in goal.

The horn sounds and the building falls silent. One mistake. One goddamn mistake.

I rip off my helmet and slam it into the boards. My eyes lock on Deano as he coasts to the bench like nothing happened.

I grind my teeth, rage boiling under my skin. We shake hands at center ice out of obligation. I can barely bring myself to go through the line.

I skate toward the tunnel, my heart pounding, fury radiating off me with every step. The cameras miss nothing, but I don’t care. Deano will answer for this.

Not here. Not yet.

The door to the locker room slams open, and I storm inside. The tension hits me in the chest like a wall. Sticks clatter against the concrete floor, gear drops, players strip off their jerseys and pads in silence. No music plays. No one speaks.

I tear off my helmet and gloves and slam them into my stall. My eyes lock on Deano across the room. He is leaning back, unlacing his skates like it is any other night. Calm, casual and indifferent.

I can’t let it go.

I cross the room in three hard strides, grab a handful of his jersey, and yank him up from the bench. His skates hit the floor awkwardly as I shove him back into the row of lockers behind him.

“What the hell was that?” I growl, my voice low but sharp enough to slice the air.

Deano blinks, stunned, then shoves my hand off his chest. “What’s your problem?”

“You gave up the puck all night. Turnovers, bad clears, no pressure on the last goal. You coasted. You gave them that game.”

He straightens his shoulders, his eyes flashing with irritation. “It was one goal, Alex. One. I had a bad night. Get over yourself.”

I step in closer, fists tight at my sides. “You weren’t trying. I saw you, every shift. You weren’t in the game.”

The room freezes. Conversations stop and heads turn. Nobody dares speak.

Cal’s voice cuts through like a blade. “Alex, let it go.”

I don’t move. My jaw clenches so tight it feels like my teeth will crack.

“Alex.”

Cal steps between us, places a firm hand on my chest, and pushes me back a step. “Not here, and not now.”

Deano shrugs, scoffs under his breath, and goes back to untying his skates like nothing happened.

I stand there, chest heaving, fists still clenched. Cal gives me a look that isn’t a suggestion but an order.

“Come on,” Cal says quietly. “You need to cool off.”

I glance around the room. The guys are watching me, waiting to see what I do. I swallow the boiling fury down into a tight knot and turn away. I grab my towel and slam my stick back into the rack with a sharp crack.

Cal follows me out into the hallway, his skates still on, walking awkwardly as we push through the heavy doors and into the cold concrete tunnel.

“You’ve got to stop thinking every missed play is a setup,” he says firmly once we are out of earshot. “You’re spiraling, man.”

I stare at the far wall, breathing hard, sweat still dripping down my spine. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

“I did.” Cal leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “I saw a teammate have a bad game. It happens. If you start thinking every mistake is a conspiracy, you’re going to lose yourself.”

I shake my head slowly. “I can’t not think it.”

Cal’s voice softens but stays serious. “Then fake it. You’re still the captain. Act like you trust them, even if you don’t.”

I run a hand through my damp hair and close my eyes. I know he’s right. I just don’t know if I can do it. We walk back into the locker room.

Hardly anyone speaks as we get sorted, and slowly, the locker room empties around me. I sit for a long time with a towel draped over my head, sweat drying cold on my skin. I go through the motions. I pull on jeans, a hoodie, and jam my feet into my shoes without tying them properly. My phone and keys clatter into my pocket.

Cal’s already gone. I hear the door slam shut behind him. I take my time, letting the space clear before I follow. I trail behind him at a distance as we head down the long tunnel and out into the sharp night air.

The players’ exit is already crowded. A cluster of reporters waits outside the ropes with cameras and microphones ready. They buzz and shift as players file out one by one. I hang back under the shadow of the overhang and scan the group automatically.

Then I see her.

Elsie stands near the front of the group, notebook in hand, hair tucked back in a sleek ponytail, sharp and focused as she watches the players. She looks professional. Confident and completely different from the woman who was lost outside the arena not long ago.

I watch Cal casually peel away from our group and head straight for her. My gut twists tight immediately.

Cal leans in close, says something to her. I can’t hear it over the low chatter of the reporters. Elsie shifts slightly back, clearly uncomfortable, but Cal steps closer. He reaches up, fingers brushing lightly under her chin, tilts her face up.

Before I can react, he kisses her.

It’s not long. It’s not deep. It’s cocky and bold and for show, right there in front of every reporter standing nearby.

I feel my fists clench tightly at my sides. The surge of heat that shoots through my chest almost makes me step forward without thinking.

But then Elsie’s hand comes up fast. The sharp crack of her slap echoes like a gunshot across the lot. Cal stumbles back half a step, stunned for barely a second.

Then he laughs. A low, deep laugh that rolls out of him like he finds the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

He stays where he is, still rubbing the faint red mark on his jaw with a grin. The reporters freeze, wide-eyed and stunned. Some lower their cameras in shock. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.

The jealousy burns hotter than it should, twisting into frustration I cannot fully explain.

I stay in the shadows, watching. I shouldn’t have stopped. I shouldn’t care.

But I do, and I can’t look away.

Chapter 20

Elsie POV

Today has been quiet. Alex hasn’t messaged me, which for him is strange. Then again, the entire end of yesterday with him was strange. I still don’t know how to even process it.

I sit at my desk, tapping the end of my pen against my notebook as I stare at the half-written questions. I’m not sure what I’m going to ask the players today. The usual safe stuff comes to mind. What are you aiming for the score to be? Who do you think will be the first in the box for overstepping? Beyond that, it’ll depend on how the game goes.

With a sigh, I shove my things into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head out. The stadium’s already busy by the time I arrive. Fans in jerseys crowd around the entrance, camera crews are setting up near the tunnel, and the press area buzzes with quiet anticipation.

I move to the small section reserved for reporters and settle in to wait.

The visiting team’s bus arrives first. Players in crisp suits file out, barely glancing at the crowd. I glance around, wondering if I somehow missed Alex’s team coming in. They’re local, so I know some drive themselves.

A few of his teammates stroll past, stopping for autographs or chatting briefly with reporters. I stay where I am, scanning every figure walking up from the lot. I know I’m waiting for Alex, and I hate how obvious it feels.

Then I see his car pull in.

I stand, smoothing down my jacket and preparing to catch his attention. The door opens, and there he is. Alex steps out, tall, broad-shouldered, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up but not enough to hide that familiar sharp profile.

My heart lifts for a stupid second. Then it drops straight through the floor.

His expression is distant. Vacant. His eyes are cold, locked somewhere ahead as if nothing around him matters. I watch him walk straight past me, not even a flicker of recognition, as though I don’t exist.

I stand frozen, mouth half open, my notebook loose in my hand.

Well. Fuck. What does that even mean?

I sit back down hard on the cold bench and stare at the ground for a long moment. Then I force myself up, pack my things, and leave.

The entire walk back to my apartment feels surreal. Sarah looks up from the couch as I come in and immediately starts to speak, but I shake my head. I can’t explain it. I don’t even know where to begin.

Instead, I flick on the TV and find the channel airing the game. I curl up on the couch, hugging my knees to my chest as I watch.

They look good on the ice. Sharp, fast, aggressive. Alex moves like nothing’s wrong, throwing hits, chasing down plays, taking shots. It’s almost easy to forget the cold dismissal earlier, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t go away.

I keep thinking. Was last night the line? Did I push too far? Has he decided he doesn’t want to help me anymore?

If he has, I can’t blame him.

I sink lower into the couch and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My notepad lies untouched on the coffee table. I watch in silence as the first period ticks by.

By the time the game ends, I hesitate at my door. They lost. I already know what that means. Alex will be in a worse mood than usual. Still, I might be able to catch a few of the other guys. I look the part now, after all. There’s no excuse for them to ignore me anymore.

I gather my things and head straight for the stadium. It’s just as chaotic as before. Fans still crowd near the ropes. Reporters hustle for position. I take my place in the small press section and pull my notebook close, pretending to study my notes.

Players start coming out. I keep my focus straight ahead, professional and calm, even though my heart’s racing with nerves. That’s why I don’t notice Cal until he’s right in front of me.

“I never got your number,” he says casually, flashing me a grin.

I step back, blinking. “Well, I never gave it,” I shoot back, trying not to smile but failing just a little.

“You’ve got me there.” Cal steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly under my chin. I freeze, already thinking about what questions I should ask him, when he leans down and kisses me.

My brain stalls. For a half-second I just stand there before everything snaps back into place. I shove him back and slap him hard across the cheek.

Cal blinks in surprise before throwing his head back and laughing, rubbing his jaw. “Damn, I deserved that.” He leans in again, ignoring the cameras and the stunned silence of the reporters nearby. “I wanted to do that the other night, but I was so busy trying to figure out how to ask you out for a date, I forgot both the kiss and your number.”

“Cal…” I warn, already exhausted.

His eyes flick around us. His entire expression shifts. “Why the hell are you standing with the reporters?” He looks back up sharply, frowning.

I sigh and pull the lanyard out from under my coat. The credentials hang there plain as day.

“Oh hell,” he groans dramatically, dragging a hand over his face. “You just destroyed our entire relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship, Cal.”

“You danced with me.”

The teasing tone is back. I roll my eyes, but before I can reply, one of his teammates strolls by and claps Cal on the back.

“She danced with you?” Tyler laughs. “Poor girl. That’s a rookie mistake.”

“Hey, don’t be jealous,” Cal shoots back with a grin.

Another player, Josh, snorts. “You’ll get ghosted by tomorrow, Cal. She’ll wise up.”

“I never ghost,” Cal says proudly. “They leave me first.”

The guys keep laughing and throwing playful jabs, the easy, bantering rhythm between them obvious. I’m halfway between annoyed and amused, but my eyes flick to the tunnel without thinking.

That’s when I see Alex.

He walks toward us, head down, hoodie up, jaw tight. There’s no joy, no banter. His face is sharp, unreadable.

He comes straight toward the group but doesn’t even glance at me. He slows only slightly near Cal and the others.

“Let’s go,” Alex says flatly. His voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

Cal shrugs and winks at me. “I’ll see you later,” he says playfully as he turns and jogs to catch up with Alex.

I watch them go. Alex never once looks back.

Maybe I did do something wrong. I push the thought aside and focus on working, trying to get players to stop for a few questions, but most of them skip past me. They head straight to the big-name reporters they recognize.

When the crowd starts to thin, I pack up and walk to the small café around the corner. I slide into a booth, set my bag down, and order a coffee. The warmth feels good against my fingers as I stare at my phone.

I debate sending the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard for too long. Finally, I type it out.

Look, whatever I said or did, I’m sorry. I get it if you don’t want to be around me.

The screen shows delivered. Then the dots appear. They stop. They appear again. Stop. The cycle repeats for what feels like forever as I sip my drink and try not to overthink.

Finally, the reply comes.

You did nothing. I’m just…

That’s it. Nothing else. I stare at the message, waiting for more, but nothing comes through.

I chew the inside of my cheek and type back.

Want to talk about it? As friends of course. As your only sane, adult-orientated friend.

The message is read almost instantly. His reply comes just as fast.

Fuck… Elsie.

Not a yes. Not a no either. I don’t know what to make of it. Then a location drops into the chat.

I click on it. A club. Of course it’s a club.

I’ve made sure you’re on the list.

That’s all he sends. No explanation, no details. I close my phone and exhale hard before standing up. I’m not going to reply again. Instead, I head home.

The moment I walk through the door, Sarah is waiting.

“So? Did you finally get any questions answered?” she asks, leaning over the kitchen counter.

I drop my bags with a sigh. “No. Cal kissed me. I slapped him.”

Her eyes widen before she bursts out laughing. “Damn. So both Alex and Cal have kissed you now? Who’s next?”

“No one.” I rub a hand across my face. “I need to get ready.” I slip past her and head to my room.

I stare at my closet for a long time before grabbing one of the dresses Alex bought for me. I have no clue what kind of club this is, but I’d rather be overdressed than under.

Sarah appears in the doorway as I zip up. “Going anywhere fun?”

“Just meeting Alex,” I say as casually as possible. “I won’t be long.” I gather my laptop bag and other essentials.

She arches a brow, smirking. “What more could you possibly need help with?”

“Who knows? Maybe my hair was too flat today.” I grin.

She laughs and walks off, giving me the space to slip out without more questions.

Once outside, I stash my laptop bag safely in the car and lock everything up. The drive is short, but I can’t stop glancing at my phone every red light.

Pulling up to the club, I park around the corner and walk to the main entrance. The place looks upscale, dark exterior with gold accents and velvet ropes at the door.

The bouncer watches me approach, head tilted slightly as if trying to place me.

“I’m Elsie,” I tell him quickly. “I should be on the list.”

He sighs and checks his phone. After a second he nods and steps aside, pulling the heavy door open.

Music floods out into the night, a deep pulse that vibrates through my chest.

I thank him and step inside.

The music is louder inside, a deep bassline that rattles the floor under my heels. I pause just inside the entrance and scan the room for Alex.

The club is darker than I expected. Spotlights flash across sleek black floors and low, velvet-covered booths. As my eyes adjust, I finally take in the full scene.

Oh, hell.

I freeze.

It’s a strip club.

I blink hard, then glance down at my phone and check the address again. Same street, same number. I double-check the name. It matches. I stare around the room again, at the stages, the poles, the men scattered around the floor drinking, and the dancers moving gracefully under dim lights.

I pull out my phone and text Alex.

I’m here. I think you gave me the wrong address.

The reply comes seconds later.

Red door. Code is 458924. Then green door, same code.

I lower the phone slowly and glance around again, completely thrown. Finally, near the far side of the room past the bar, I spot a red door almost hidden behind a heavy curtain. No bouncer, no sign. Just a keypad.

I move carefully between tables, ignoring the surprised stares I get as I pass. My cheeks burn, but I keep my head high and walk like I belong here.

At the red door, I punch in the code. The lock clicks open with a soft beep. I step through into a narrow hallway, the music muffled behind me. Another few steps and I find the green door at the end of the corridor.

I enter the code again.

The second door swings open into a completely different world.

The room is quiet, high-ceilinged, with low lighting and no music at all. Plush leather chairs and sofas are scattered around. It feels more like a private lounge than part of the club.

Alex is stretched out on a deep charcoal-colored couch, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His hoodie is wrinkled like he’s been lying there for hours. He stares up at the ceiling, completely still, like he’s lost in thought.

He doesn’t even react when I step in.

I stand in the doorway for a beat, watching him. He’s alone.

Finally, I speak.

“Alex.”

His head turns slowly toward me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes darken the moment they meet mine.

His gaze drops, slowly taking in the dress I picked out before landing back on my face. There’s the faintest trace of a smirk.

“Perfect dress,” he murmurs. “Were you planning to dance tonight?”

I let out a soft laugh as I close the door behind me. “I had no idea what kind of club this was. I thought it was just a club, you know, loud music, overpriced drinks, bad lighting.”

His lips twitch at that, but it fades just as quickly. I walk across the room and lower myself onto the sofa across from him. The silence feels heavier here. The walls seem to absorb it.

I shift uncomfortably, resting my hands in my lap as I study him. He’s stretched out like he doesn’t have the energy to sit properly, his head tilted back against the cushion, jaw tense.

“What’s wrong?” I ask gently.

Alex shrugs but doesn’t look at me. “Just… life.”

I wait, not pushing, and eventually he exhales, scrubbing a hand across his face before letting it drop.

“I had a meeting earlier,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t exactly a friendly one. It was a reminder, I guess. People like to think they know what’s best for me, who I should have around, who I should keep away from.”

His eyes flick briefly to mine but then slide away again.

I frown. “Keep away from?”

He shakes his head with a dry laugh. “Nothing to worry about. Just people trying to manage me, like I’m some prize racehorse who might embarrass them if I step out of line.”

I stare at him, confused by the bitter edge in his voice.

“Is that why you blew past me this morning?” I ask carefully.

His mouth tightens, and for a second I think he won’t answer. Then he nods slowly.

“Yeah. That meeting got into my head. I let it mess with me. I thought if I kept my distance, stayed out of the way, it’d shut them up. I didn’t mean to drag you into it. I just stormed inside and forgot about you.”

I lean back against the soft leather, watching him. He’s tense in a way I haven’t seen before. Normally Alex is cocky, confident, quick with a comeback. Right now, he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world and can’t shake it off.

I fold my arms lightly across my chest. “You know you’re terrible at communicating, right?”

That draws the smallest chuckle from him. “Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out.”

The silence stretches between us again, but it feels a little lighter this time.

I watch him for a long moment. The weight on his shoulders is obvious now, even if he won’t name it. The coldness from earlier, the way he walked past me, it all makes sense. Still, he shouldn’t let other people decide for him.

“It’s your life, Alex,” I say softly. “Your choices. You shouldn’t let anyone dictate who you talk to or what you do. They don’t get to decide what’s right for you.”

He finally meets my eyes properly, and the guarded edge softens just a little. “You make it sound simple.”

I smile faintly. “Sometimes it is. People just like to complicate it.”

For the first time since I walked in, he smiles too, a real one. The tension drains from the room as he shifts to sit up straighter. He stretches his arms back behind the couch and lets out a long breath.

“Alright, no more heavy shit,” he says. “Tell me something normal.”

I laugh, grateful for the change. “I was actually going to go shopping tomorrow. I need a few more things now that I apparently have to be taken seriously at games.”

He groans immediately. “Please tell me you’re not buying another trench coat.”

I gasp in mock outrage. “You did not just insult the trench coat.”

He leans back and grins lazily. “I did. It makes you look like you’re about to solve a murder in a foggy alley somewhere.”

I burst out laughing. “It’s a classic! It’s timeless.”

“It’s depressing.” His eyes sparkle as he teases. “You’re in the business of standing out now. You’re not going to blend in with the background dressed like Sherlock Holmes.”

I shake my head and try to stifle another laugh. “I can’t believe you’re trying to control my wardrobe again.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” he says, holding his hands up like he’s innocent. “I’m invested now. It would reflect badly on me if you showed up looking like you crawled out of a 1940s detective movie.”

“You’re terrible,” I say, nudging his foot with mine.

He nudges back, grinning wider. “But you love it.”

The banter flows so easily I almost forget where we are. The dark walls, the heavy velvet curtains, the low hum of distant music, it all fades away. Sitting here, talking and laughing with Alex, feels strangely comfortable.

We fall into a rhythm, teasing, talking, our shoulders just a little too close as the conversation drifts from fashion disasters to food, to the absolute tragedy of his music taste.

“Hey, don’t knock my playlists,” he protests as I snort at one of his song choices.

“They belong in a retirement home.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

His answering smile makes my stomach flip slightly. There’s something easy and dangerous about this, sitting here with him like this. I ignore it. For now.