“Understood.” But he’s still smiling, and the sheer confidence in his gaze sends a dangerous warmth through my veins. Like he's already planning exactly how we're going to navigate this impossible situation. “What happens at work stays professional. What happens outside this building...” He lets the sentence hang, loaded with promise.
“Completely separate,” I agree, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps at the implications. “This doesn't exist during business hours. We're colleagues. Nothing more.”
“Deal.”
He steps close again, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me. But he only reaches up and smooths a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is maddeningly gentle.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
I stay against the wall, lips tingling, my body a live wire humming with a current I can't shut off.
In less than eighteen hours, we’ll be trapped on the team jet together. Six hours. Same hotel. Same schedule.
Pretending we’re nothing, while this secret burns between us like a live wire.
I touch my fingers to my lips. I can still taste victory and trouble and the promise of whatever comes next.
The celebration roars on beyond the door, but the noise is a distant hum. All I can hear is the echo of his voice, a dangerous promise ringing in my ears.
Worth it.
11
Garrett
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since the kiss that changed the rules. Two weeks since Sloane and I made a pact to be ghosts.
Our lives have become a high-stakes game of inches and stolen glances, of living with a constant, humming wire of tension under the surface of every single day. We’re both so busy it feels like we live at the rink.
Most of our connection lives on our phones—a private, ongoing conversation that never sleeps. A GIF of a cartoon spy when she sees Kowalski coming down the hall. Me sending a picture of my morning coffee and her replying with a single eyeball emoji.Watching.
The real torture—thegoodkind—happens in person.
It’s passing her in a crowded arena hallway, the sleeve of her coat brushing my arm for a fraction of a second, sending a jolt through my entire body. It’s standing on opposite sides of a packed elevator, our eyes meeting only in the polished reflection of the doors.
And then there’s today.
I see her rounding the corner by the training rooms, tablet clutched to her chest, her expression carefully neutral, giving nothing away. She’s heading for the media scrum, and everyrational part of my brain tells me to keep walking. Give her a nod. Play by the rules we established.
But I’m not feeling rational. I’m feeling the ache of two weeks of near-misses and stolen glances.
I don’t even think. I just act.
As she passes the equipment closet, I reach out, my hand closing around her arm. Her head whips around, eyes wide with shock, but I don’t give her time to protest. I pull her into the darkness with me, the heavy door clicking shut behind us with soft finality.
The darkness is immediate, broken only by a thin sliver of light under the door. It smells like industrial cleaner, worn leather, and equipment tape, but all I can smell isher—that clean, sharp scent of citrus that’s been haunting my dreams.
Her surprised gasp turns into a soft laugh against my mouth. “Are you insane?” she whispers, but her arms are already winding around my neck.
“Completely,” I murmur, backing her against a rack of spare helmets that rattle softly with the movement.
This isn't the questioning, hesitant kiss from the arena corridor. This is frantic. Desperate. A thirty-second pressure release valve for weeks of pent-up need. My mouth is hungry on hers, and she meets me with equal force, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck.
My hands slide under her blazer, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me. The wall of her professionalism is gone, replaced by the woman who looks at me like I’m the only thing in her universe. I slide one hand up her back, feeling the delicate shape of her spine through the thin silk of her blouse. She arches into me with a soft sound, and I swallow it, deepening the kiss.
