I groan. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He’s literally a professional. So? Was he worth the hourly rate?”
My cheeks heat. “I wouldn’t know. He didn’t stick around long enough.”
Liz sits up straighter. “Excuse me?”
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Nate showed up.”
Her mouth drops open, then slowly curves into a grin. “Hold on.TheNate? Childhood-crush Nate?”
“Yes. But this stays between us. I signed an NDA. You can’t breathe a word.”
Her eyes widen with delight. “Oh, this is already my favorite secret. Spill everything.”
I cover my face with a pillow. “It was a disaster.”
Liz yanks the pillow away. “Start over. I’m not following.”
The story tumbles out—how I’m treating Nate Russoprofessionally, how he arrived with a girl and then went full lunatic mode on Daniel.
“He humiliated me,” I finish. “Scared Daniel off just as I was explaining what my issue is.”
Liz bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, I love this. Nate made an escort—the one guy who’s literally paid not to be rattled—walk out? Babe, that’s power. Pure, primal, caveman power.”
“It’s not funny!”
“It’s hilarious. And here’s my clinical diagnosis: only a man completely gone for a woman pulls a stunt that reckless.” She points a popcorn kernel at me. “That wasn’t a red flag; that was your name in LEDs. And you’re spiraling because part of you enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t.” Weak.
She smirks. “Your pupils disagree. I’m literally trained to notice. He isn’t just any guy; he’s the one you’ve had on your mental lock screen since twelve. He knows your wiring. He could give you everything you’ve been too careful to want.” She tilts her head. “And from the sound of it, he’s into you. Bad. So call him. Or text him a calendar invite titled ‘Terrible Decisions, my place, eight p.m.’”
I sink deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket over my head. “Watch your movie, woman.”
But even as I hide, her words echo in my head. Because the terrifying truth is that Nate Russo didn’t just burn himself into my skin last night—he reminded me how much I pined for him. And now I don’t know if I can go back to being the woman who settles for numbness when he’s offering me fire.
16
THE CLAIM (NATE)
The puck’s a black blur streaking toward me. I track it, knees bent, glove ready, but my brain trips for a split second, just enough to almost let it slip through.
Almost.
I snatch it out of the air with the tip of my glove, the impact stinging my palm. Before I can even exhale, Dmitri sweeps in to clear the rebound, firing the puck up the boards with a look that saysget your shit together, Russo. The crowd erupts, but I barely hear it over the pounding in my chest.
Focus.
My hip twinges when I push back into position, a reminder of the strain Eden’s been working on all week. Two sessions with her, following every damn drill she gave me, and the difference is…complicated. I’m stronger in the right places, but weirdly sore in others. My body seems to be adjusting to moving the way it’s supposed to.
The next rush comes hard, Boston skating with rockets in their skates. My body reacts on instinct—pads flashing,stick angled—but my head’s somewhere else. Somewhere blonde and dangerous, replaying a kiss I can’t shake. Her taste is still burned on my tongue—whiskey, want, ten years of silence combusting into one perfect, catastrophic moment.
I should be locked in. Instead, I’m gripping my stick, the only thing tethering me to this rink.
The puck streaks toward me, and for a split second, instead of seeing the black rubber disc, I see Eden’s lips parting under mine. By the time I snap back to reality, it’s whistling past my glove into the net.
The red light flares. Boston’s bench erupts. The scoreboard flashes 3–2 with two minutes left.
