It doesn’t help.
Because his messages are still there, stacked neatly in a thread I shouldn’t open and re-re-re-read, but absolutely do.
Aleks:
Landed.
Aleks:
Miss you already.
Aleks:
Smells like you on my hoodie. Don’t tell me that’s weird.
Aleks:
I need to taste you again, your mouth, your skin, your stunning cunt.
Aleks:
Daily.
Aleks:
Missionary and the best sex of my life, Tsaritsa moya?
Aleks:
I want your pussy wrapped around my cock every moment I’m not on the ice. How will that work IRL?
Aleks:
Last night was… yeah.
My chest aches, sharp and sweet all at once. I picture him in that hotel bed, alone, and seriously consider taking a red eye, but they will be back tomorrow morning.
I swallow and lock the screen.
Do not squirm in a house full of women who know exactly what that look means.
I refocus on the game. Aleks is on the ice again, shoulders loose, stride confident. He looks unreal tonight. Dangerous in that controlled way that should be illegal.
Nalani shifts beside me. Claudia murmurs something about spacing. Savannah cheers.
And then I feel it. That tightening. The air changing, the way everyone stills half a beat before the sound catches up.
I palm my face. “Don’t,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
The commentator’s voice jumps, sharp and excited. “Kilovac is throwing hands again!”
Noelle swears under her breath. Not surprised at all, just resigned.
On screen, Aleks drops the gloves like it was always coming. Jaw set in that way, I recognize immediately, and others will see this as Killer being Killer, but I know that someone crossed a line.
Nalani leans forward, eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t spontaneous. Someone said something.”
Of course they did.
