Forty-three minutes. That's how long she lasted in the crushing noise and press of bodies, the bass making her bones ache, watching him be the conquering hero for everyone but her.
She pushed through the crowd toward the back, finding a narrow hallway that led past the bathrooms to the back exit. The sounds of celebration became muffled thunder through the walls. Emergency exit lights cast everything in red shadows. She leaned against the wall, the sudden relative quiet making her ears ring.
What was she doing? What had she been thinking? The fake dating had seemed manageable at that charity gala—all champagne bubbles and ball gowns and PR strategy. The quiet closeness they'd shared in Portland had made everything seem possible. Okay, not just possible—real. But now, forty-three minutes of watching Liam be everyone else's hero while she stood in the corner like she hadn't spent hours learning the difference between his real smile and his media smile, like shedidn't know the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at her terrible jokes... This was torture. Self-inflicted, stupid torture.
"Running away?"
Her eyes snapped open. Liam stood at the entrance to the hallway, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the chaos beyond. The red exit sign cast shadows across his face, but she could still see something dangerous in his eyes.
"Taking a break," she said, hating how her voice caught.
He moved into the hallway, and suddenly the space felt impossibly small. He took up so much room—six-two of solid muscle filling the narrow corridor, making her acutely aware of how trapped she was between him and the wall. The noise from the bar became muffled, distant, like they'd entered their own separate world. He was close enough now that she could smell that clean soap he used, somehow still cutting through the bar's haze of beer and sweat.
"You can't do that," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "You can't look at me like that after scoring the biggest goal of your playoffs—on the jumbotron, Liam, in front of everyone—then treat me like a stranger at your own celebration."
He moved closer, and she stepped back instinctively until her shoulders hit the wall. "I'm trying to protect your professional integrity?—"
"That's MY choice to make, not yours." The words came out sharp, angry. "You don't get to decide what risks I take with my career. You don't get to make unilateral decisions about what's best for me."
In the darkness, she could hear his breathing change.
"You had lunch with Gray Wickham today." His voice was controlled, but she could hear the edge underneath—sharp, possessive.
"How did you—" She stopped. Of course. "You're having me followed?"
"Security briefings. During playoffs, anyone connected to the team—" He didn't apologize, didn't try to soften it. "What did you give him?"
"I would never." The words came out fierce, offended. "He tried, but I didn't..."
"What did he try?" One wide palm flattened against the wall behind her, and she was suddenly very aware of how close he was, how he'd effectively caged her in. She clenched her fists at her sides to keep from putting her hands on his chest, from arching into his warmth.
"He wanted to know about your knee. If you were favoring it." She kept her voice steady despite his proximity. "He made it very clear what he thought I'd know from our... arrangement."
"Fuck." The curse was sharp, vicious. Liam dropped his forehead to hers for a moment, his breathing harsh. "I'm going to kill him."
"It's what we've sold them," she said quietly. "Who can blame him for thinking..."
When he pulled back slightly, his eyes were wild. "I can blame him. I do blame him." His jaw clenched. "Half the media thinks the same thing—that you're sleeping your way to access?—"
"I know what they think." She cut him off. "I thought... it would be easier. I thought I could do this but... I'm not sure if things wouldn't have been better if we'd just let the photo do its damage and moved on."
A long pause. The bass from the bar thrummed through the walls.
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." She took a breath, steadying herself. "Montreal has one more game in their series. We'd have almosta week before the Conference Finals. If we're going to stage a breakup, now's the time."
He went completely still. Then he pushed off the wall, putting sudden distance between them. The loss of his warmth echoed the icy edge in his voice.
"Is that what you want?" He paused, something shifting in his expression. "You'd risk your career? The damage to your reputation when everyone assumes I dumped you? That you really were just another puck bunny who got in over her head?"
Each word hit her like a little flung stone, sharp and precise. She raised her chin. "Maybe I'm not cut out for covering the NHL anyway."
"Don't." The word came out fierce, furious. He was suddenly back in her space, pressing her back against the wall. "Don't you dare. I've never met anyone more meant to be at the top of their field in my entire life. Your analysis, your writing, the way you see the game—you're brilliant. And you know it."
She couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, which somehow made it easier to be honest. "That doesn't mean this was the right choice. For either of us."
"What is that supposed to mean?" His voice was low, dangerous.
