“Elena,” I say, voice low, sharp. “Get out. Please.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Get out. Give me my key and get out.”
She laughs again, brittle this time. “Seriously? Because you can’t get hard for me?”
“Because I’m done with this game.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to sit on my couch, pretend we’re a thing, and then mock me when I tell you to stop. You don’t get to walk in here like you own me.”
Her expression shifts, hardens. “Who is it?” she asks suddenly. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
I don’t answer. I don’t care enough to give her an answer.
The silence is enough. Her smile twists. “Figures. Whoever she is, I hope she knows you’ll chew her up just like you did me.”
I step forward, holding out my hand. “The key.”
For a second, she looks like she might fight me on it. But finally she digs into her bag, fishes it out, and drops it into my palm with a sharp clink.
“Fine,” she spits. “But don’t come crawling back the next time you feel lonely.”
I toss the key on the kitchen counter, jaw tight. “I won’t.”
She storms out, slamming the door behind her.
I lean against the counter, staring down at my useless hands. The image of her on her knees should excite me. It should frustrate me. Instead, all I can see is Hale’s face. All I can hear is the way he gasped my name.
The apartment’s too quiet. The silence doesn’t soothe me—it needles under my skin. I can still smell her perfume clinging to the couch cushions, sweet and heavy, but I want the scent of his sweat and the smell of sex lingering in my home.
I grab a bottle of whiskey from the counter and drink straight from it. The burn cuts through, but not enough. Nothing’s enough.
By the time the bottle’s half gone, I’m sprawled in the dim light of the living room, phone glowing in my hand. I know it’s a bad idea. I know exactly how pathetic it looks. But I can’t stop myself.
I type his name into the search bar:Alaric Hale.
The first thing that comes up is the Titans’ official Instagram. I scroll through, heart pounding harder with every swipe. There’s Alaric in his gear, stone-faced after a win. A slow-motion clip of him body-checking someone against the boards. A team photo, his jaw tight, eyes hooded.
Christ. Even in curated photos he looks untouchable. Untouchable and—fuck—hot.
I swipe over to TikTok, fingers clumsy. There are fan edits: shaky arena footage of him skating, captions calling himIce Prince, edits that zoom in on his face in the locker room, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Some fan has slowed down a clip of him smoothing his hair back after an interview. I watch it three times.
But it’s not enough.
I want more. I want him raw, uncurated. I want proof of who he is when the cameras aren’t watching.
It takes me half an hour of digging before I find it. His private Instagram.
My pulse jumps.
Before I can think better of it, I hitRequest Follow.
For ten minutes, I stare at the screen, every muscle buzzing. I’m half-expecting silence. Half-expecting him to block me outright. Then the notification pings.Alaric Hale has accepted your follow request.
My breath catches. My lips split into a grin before I realize it.
I scroll through his page greedily. There’s not much—some practice selfies, a shot of him and Kyle at a charity event, a black-and-white picture of him sitting alone at a café table with a book. A shaggy dog curled at his feet. A blurry night skyline from his condo balcony. His bio is blank, just his name and a lock symbol. Each one makes my stomach knot tighter. Each one feels like stepping into a room he didn’t want me in.
I can’t stop myself. I hitMessage.
