By the time I leave the locker room, my jaw is locked tight. Aleks catches up in the parking lot. “You coming for food?”
“No,” I say.
He squints. “You always come.”
“I have an errand.”
He studies me. “Since when?”
“Just now.”
He watches me head to my vehicle, unconvinced but smart enough not to push it.
There it sits, my black-on-black BMW X7—huge, plush, German precision. Practical, yes. Also, wildly obscene.
The engine’s quiet growl soothes me more than it should. I merge into traffic, telling myself I’m en route to Pembrooke for books. True—I do need books. Just not right this second.
It gets dark early this time of year. Streetlights flicker, headlights multiply, crowds tighten. I picture Hildy mapping it all—pace, density, safest route—because she has to. I hate that she has to.
I swear it’s not about control, not about undermining her. I simply have a vehicle and free time. If I pass near them, I’ll offer a ride. If they say no, fine.
I say that twice, to convince myself.
Traffic eases as I near Pembrooke. I signal, turn, and pull up to the curb and park.
Inside Pembrooke Books, the air is dense with dust and aged paper—a silent wealth that never shouts. It’s exactly like my grandmother’s winter parlor, where even a whisper felt intrusive. I stand still, aware any movement could mark me an outsider.
I glance at the desk, the office behind it, remembering Lucy told me she has a special place in the office where she works. She’s currently hard at work taking a nap.
I walk in further and spot Hildy Sullivan—her last name now seared into my memory—perches on a scuffed step stool, reshelving hardcovers. Her hands glide over the spines without hesitation, handling each book like a seasoned hockey player caresses a stick. Her hair, impossible to miss, is braided back in a riot of copper-tones, catching the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.
I hover at the edge of her vision, rehearsing a peace offering—never an apology, because I refuse to regret what was real. This meeting should’ve happened weeks ago if Aleks hadn’t warned me she was off-limits, Fairfax territory. Had I ignored his caution, the tension of the past week might never have settled into this simmering dread. I still don’t know why I obeyed or why I never tested those boundaries.
With hockey, my parents declared I couldn’t both play and graduate Yale with honors. I met that head-on, excelling in both arenas. I was drafted into the pros without hesitation. But how could I compete at that level and then turn around to fulfill family obligations—marry a girl they chose long ago, oversee our estate? I may not have outrun it, but I delayed it.
That night with Hildy was amazing, and I’ve been furious I haven’t been living in her memory too. Time would dull the edges, but memories aren’t so easily buried beneath sand. Hers of me may have faded; mine of her ever present.
We didn’t swap numbers, schemes, or even names—our encounter was disposable, a contract with no terms. A one-night accord born of mutual need, sealed with the lie that there’d be no fallout. Yet here I stand, confronting its aftermath.
She reaches high for a book, and the hem of her shirt flutters—a sliver of skin revealed, then gone. I note it: she’s an expert at hiding in plain sight, even that night I knew her clothes were not made for her, even though she spoke as if she’d been raised like me. It’s not exposure she offers, but the promise of it. Sheguards herself, convinced the world doesn’t deserve full access.I couldn’t agree more.
My mind doesn’t panic or race; it catalogs every detail and, in her case, refuses to move on. Something has changed. Her movements are a fraction more cautious, her breath a hair shallower as she bends, the way her hand steadies her back as she straightens. A subtle, almost forensic trace.
She steps down with the soft grace. For a moment, the sunlight outlines her. Freckles dust the bridge of her nose, her gaze fixed, unaware of the storm I’m navigating, she can’t.
I pick up a book from the table—anything to occupy my hands while I convince myself I’m imagining this. I turn and grab a copy titled Inheritance—of course—it bears a subtitle about bloodlines and choices echoing across generations. Fitting.
I almost laugh, but I was raised to maintain composure. I am a Faulker von Hohenwald, descendant, accident of lineage. Trained to appear unbothered, except when it comes to hockey, the only exception. My private life isn’t for public display, and this moment threatens that.
I think of Savannah—another one-night outcome—and Claudia, here on a summer PhD internship. The parallels are uncanny.
Kyle Dingy may look monstrous for trying to reclaim what he abandoned, but at least he had an option.
“Hi,” she says, voice cool, but courteous.
“I’m hunting for a new read,” I say, smiling as harmlessly as I can. “Seen this one?”
She glances toward the book in my hand. “It’s a YA series—popular, but not my thing.”
