The tunnel’s half dark, half thunder. Skates clatter past, the air still tasting of sweat and ozone. I stay behind, helmet under one arm, the thunder of the crowd leaking through the concrete.
Every hit tonight was supposed to bleed the anger out of me—the desperation, the humiliation, the picture of her face at the opera, of the ring on tape. It didn’t. The more I hit, the louder it got.
It was pretend, I tell myself. But the words don’t land right.
The scoreboard says we won. Everything in me says otherwise. The ache under my ribs feels earned but not solved, the kind that doesn’t cool off with ice or time.
I jam my stick into the rack and head for the exit, sweat freezing on my neck. The roar follows me up the ramp, chanting my name as if that’s proof I’m fine.
I should go home. Shower. Sleep. Process.
Instead, I’m at the Penalty Box an hour later, tie loose, nursing a soda I’m not drinking. The team sprawls across two high-tops in loosened ties and open collars.
The door swings and noise lifts. Joy—hair in a careless ponytail, hoodie swallowing her shape, camera bag crossbody. She sweeps the room for light and starts to shoot.
Watching her work, a thought slips in, unwelcome and sharp:
She never lied.
She said her name was Joy Preston. It is. She said she works digital for the Defenders. She does. She told me about the inheritance clause. The fake engagement. All of it.
What she didn’t tell me: her uncle’s name. Her full name. The size of the trust.
Not lies. Omissions.
The kind you make when you’re testing whether someone sees you—or just the dollar signs.
When you want to be Joy, the girl behind the camera, not Josephine Osgood Yardley Preston stamped on a building.
She was protecting herself.
From guys exactly like me, who couldn’t see past the money to the girl underneath.
“Preston!” Tanner crows. “Close-ups?”
“Done for tonight,” Joy says, stowing the camera. “I’ve got enough until next game.”
“Then dance,” Rowan calls.
The DJ drops “Dear God.” Bass sways; synths thread the air. A sleek suit slides into her orbit—navy, sharp taper, pocket square. He extends an invitation, smile easy.
Joy weighs him a heartbeat, then nods. She peels off the hoodie—sports bra under a cropped tank, black jeans that mean business—and accepts. The suit blinks, recalibrates, sweeps her head to toe; his shoulders square. He’s just upgraded his weekend plan.
Heat spikes in my neck. I know exactly what he’s thinking:hook, line, entire weekend.It’s the same thought all of us had.
“Jaw,” Finn murmurs. “Unclench.”
“The Finance Bro’s running the numbers—dinner, drinks, no-sleep,” Tanner adds. “You good with that?”
Russo tips his chin toward the floor. “You gonna let Retail Therapy walk off with your girl, Kane?”
“She’s not my?—”
“Your jaw says otherwise,” Finn cuts in.
“Eyes, too,” Tanner chuckles.
Dmitri, gentler: “Bear. Air.”
