She was warm. Soft. The kind of warmth that seeped into your skin and made you forget the cold edges of the world outside. And she smelled like mint and sleep and something vaguely floral—something I hadn’t noticed before and now couldn’t stop breathing in.
This was dangerous.
Everything about her always had been.
She wasn’t mine. This wasn’t real. We had rules, boundaries, a script we were supposed to follow—and none of them included lying in a shared bed with my heart racing like this.
I wasn’t supposed to want her.
But tonight, in the dark, pretending didn’t feel like pretending anymore.
It felt like possibility. Like the space between us wasn’t just an accident of hotel logistics, but a choice. One we hadn’t said out loud. One we couldn’t.
Her hand shifted, brushing against my forearm, featherlight.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because for the first time in too damn long, I didn’t want to.
Chapter 13
Daphne
I woke to the smell of burnt hotel coffee and a painfully empty bed.
Figures.
Kieren was already gone—probably at breakfast with the guys or doing whatever weird veteran rituals he had before games. Foam-rolling in complete silence. Meditating like a monk. Staring into a wall and brooding. Classic.
I groaned, stretched, and rolled out of bed. Tossed my hair into a messy ponytail and pulled on my Storm media jacket, zipped halfway over a tank top, then slid into black joggers and sneakers. Credential badge clipped to my zipper. Laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I grabbed my iced coffee from the mini-fridge and made my way toward the stadium.
The air outside buzzed.
It was that unmistakable game day electricity—loud, pulsing, alive. A sea of Storm jerseys moved around me like waves. Fans laughed and shouted, some already chanting, a few doing quick interviews for local news. Cameras clicked. Kids wore face paint and plastic helmets. The smell of fried food and cold beer wafted from every corner.
And then I saw it—his face.
Blown up on a massive banner hanging near the stadium entrance. Jaw sharp. Brow furrowed. Eyes locked in that impossible focus I’d seen maybe a dozen times now—but still hadn’t fully figured out.
My stomach fluttered.
Caffeine. Definitely caffeine.
I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that I knew that expression. That I’d seen it in real time—when he watched tape, when he tied his cleats.
I sipped my coffee, eyes on the banner for one second too long.
This wasn’t real. We were just pretending.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if the guy up there—the one fans screamed for, the one who crushed bodies on the ice—was the same one who handed me his jacket without a second thought. The one who slept on his side of the bed but never complained when I stole the covers.
I didn’t know what today would bring.
The Uber ride was quiet—just the low hum of tires on pavement and the occasional tap of the driver’s blinker. I sat in the backseat with my laptop bag clutched to my chest and my iced coffee sweating against my palm. My Storm media badge hung around my neck, the lanyard twisted twice, like it always did when I was nervous. I told myself it was just the caffeine, but I wasn’t buying it.
Outside the window, the city was already alive. Fans were pouring in from every direction—jerseys, painted faces, camera phones. Street vendors had set up near the stadium gates, selling bootleg shirts and overpriced hot dogs. Someone started chanting near the corner, and I caught the driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror like he was waiting for me to join in.
