Thirty Three
West
The chill of the morning air bites at my skin, but the exertion of practice quickly replaces it with a burning heat. The ice is my sanctuary, a place where the chaos of my life finds a singular, brutal focus. Every drill, every skate, every hit is a release, a channeling of the relentless energy that constantly thrums beneath my skin. As captain, I demand nothing less than perfection from myself and from my team. The NHL isn't just a dream; it's a destiny I'm forging with every drop of sweat, everycalculated move. I practice to be the best, because anything less is failure.
Even here, on the hallowed ground of the rink, she intrudes. A flash of emerald green, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her body trembled beneath mine last night. My storm. The thought sends a jolt of possessive satisfaction through me. She was asleep when I left, but I know the fight is in her. I know she's awake now, probably pacing, probably planning her escape. Good. It means she’s still alive, still vibrant. A docile Kinsley would be a broken Kinsley, and that’s not what I want. I want her fire. I want her to burn for me.
“Monroe! Head in the game!” Coach’s voice barks, pulling me back to the present. I nod, focusing on the next play, but a corner of my mind is already anticipating my return to the penthouse, to her.
After practice, the locker room is a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the clang of equipment.
“So, Monroe,” Liam, my closest friend and fellow defenseman grins, nudging me with his elbow. “Heard you had a busy weekend.”
I grunt, pulling on a fresh t-shirt. “Something like that.”
“And the girl,” another teammate, Jake, a forward chimes in, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Kinsley, right? Saw you with her after your pharmacology lecture the other day. She’s… intense.”
Liam snorts. “Intense is one word for it. She looked like she wanted to cross-check you with a pen.”
My smile tightens, losing its amusement. “She’s got spirit,” I correct, my voice dropping a notch.
“Spirit, sure,” Jake says, shaking his head. “But she’s not exactly the usual Monroe arm candy, is she? No offense.”
My gaze snaps to Jake, cold and sharp. “Kinsley Fischer is exactly where she belongs,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.“And she’s not ‘arm candy.’ She’s mine, and she’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever been with. That’s why I want her.”
Liam raises an eyebrow, sensing the shift in my tone. “Want her? You’re serious about her, then? I thought this was just… a distraction.”
I turn to face them, my expression hardening. “I’m always serious Liam, and Kinsley Fischer is no distraction. She’s… a challenge.” The word tastes good on my tongue. “She’s brilliant. She’s fiery, and she keeps me on my skates.”
Liam claps me on the shoulder. “Well, good for you, man. She’s definitely got something. Never seen you look at anyone like that before.”
They don’t understand. They see the surface. The public performance. They don’t see the storm, the chaos. The raw, untamed brilliance that I’m slowly, meticulously, claiming for myself.
I leave the locker room, the sounds of my teammates fading behind me, a satisfied hum in my veins. The burn from practice is a pleasant ache, but it’s the thought of her, waiting for me that truly fuels me. The thought of her defiance, her reluctant surrender. The way she tastes of fire, fear, and a desire she can’t yet admit to.
I key in the code to the penthouse, the door swinging open into the silent apartment.
But the silence is wrong.
It’s not the tense, charged silence of her presence. It’s an empty, hollow silence—a void.
My eyes sweep the living room. She’s not on the couch. I stride into the kitchen. My note is on the counter, exactly where I left it.
And on top of it, a single, black key card.
For a moment, I just stare. The key card sits on my handwriting like a tombstone. A declaration. A rejection.
A cold, black rage, so pure and potent it makes my vision swim floods my system. She left. She actuallyleft. After everything. After I claimed her, after I showed her a glimpse of what it felt like to be truly seen, truly possessed.
My first instinct is to smash something, to put my fist through the nearest wall. But then just as quickly as the rage came, something else replaces it.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face.
Kinsley didn't just run, she didn't cower, hide, or cry. She made a statement. She left the key, a silent “fuck you” that is so quintessentially her that I can't help but feel a surge of dark, twisted admiration.
She’s playing the game.
I pull out my phone, my movements calm and deliberate. I dial her number. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.
