His breath fans across my cheek. My lips part.
“You’re not wrong,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My voice is shaky, full of everything I’ve been too afraid to admit. “I’m here, Clay. I’m not going anywhere.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my hip, his other hand sliding higher, weaving into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my face toward his. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and burning. For the first time, I feel like he’s letting me see all the things he’s fought to hide.
“It is wrong,” he mutters. “Wrong for how bad I want you…for how long I’ve wanted you. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop.”
The words shatter something inside me, and before I can breathe, his mouth crashes into mine.
The world blurs. Right and wrong blur. All that exists is the taste of him and the feeling of his body against me. The press of his lips is rough and hungry, like he’s been holding back for toolong. My body molds to his, every nerve alive, every inch of me aware of the heat radiating from him.
When he finally tears himself away, his forehead drops against mine. We’re both breathing hard, gasps scraping against the space between us. His voice comes low, ragged, like gravel dragged across stone. “I’ve never craved someone the way I crave you.”
The confession sears through me. My hand slides higher into his hair. I tug gently, dragging my nails across his scalp, and his breath stutters. I pull him back, our mouths colliding again. This kiss is slower, deeper, and just as desperate, but edged with something we don’t dare say.
The world outside this hallway doesn’t matter. Christmas lights glow faintly through the window, the scent of pine lingers in the air, and the framed photos along the wall fade into the background. The years of family trips, the history between Evan and me—all of it disappears, and I know I’m crossing a line I can’t come back from.
All that’s left is Clay. His mouth. His hands. His weight pinning me against the wall, and the dizzying truth that I’ve wanted this longer than I’ve ever admitted.
Sin tastes sweeter than it should. And even as every voice in my head screams that this can’t last, I can’t bring myself to regret a single second.
Chapter One
Clay
“Think they’ll fall for it?”
Liam’s voice carries across the table, lazy and sharp at the same time, like he’s been waiting for the perfect chance to needle me. He leans back in his chair, ankles crossed, beer hanging between his fingers. His grin is the kind of shit-eating smirk only a best friend can get away with.
“You, convincing them you’re suddenly coach material?” He gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “That’s one hell of a sales pitch. Guess we’ll see how gullible Kolmont really is.”
Kolmont. My alma mater. The small North Carolina college where I spent four years bleeding on the ice and turned a shot at the Frozen Four into a ticket to the NHL. Now I’m crawling back, hoping they’ll believe I’m cut out for a whistle and clipboard.
I take a long pull from my beer before answering, the bitter taste settling heavy on my tongue. “It’s not a sales pitch.”
“Sure it isn’t.” He raises his bottle in a mock toast. “Because nothing screams leadership like Clay Barlowe—grumpy bastard, professional hothead, two-time ACL tear survivor turned beacon of inspiration for the youth of America. Hell, maybe they’ll put you on the poster. Get a few parents to sign their kids up with a big slogan underneath:Learn from the guy who threw away his career.”
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might crack.
That’s the problem with Liam. He doesn’t care about the mess I’ve made of my career, not really, but he also doesn’t pull punches. He isn’t afraid to say the shit everyone else whispers behind my back. And the worst part? Half of it’s true.
Stubborn. Hot-tempered. Un-coachable. Every teammate I’ve ever had would sign their names to that list. It doesn’tmatter that I played hurt, that I bled for the jersey, or that I showed up even when my knee screamed with every stride. The only thing people remember is the suspension, the fights, the headlines that paint me as a problem they couldn’t fix.
And then came the call that finished me—released from the team, like I meant nothing. Years of my life devoted to hockey, and all I get is a three-minute phone call and a one-way ticket home.
My agent didn’t even wait a week before he dumped me. “You’re not marketable anymore, Clay,” he said, like I’m just another piece of broken equipment collecting dust in the locker room.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just stopped answering the phone. Cut everyone out before they had the chance to tell me they’re sorry, or worse—pretend they understand.
Everyone but Liam.
He’s the only one who looks at me, not the wreckage of my dreams going up in smoke. He still invites me out for beers, still calls me an asshole when I deserve it, and still treats me like the same guy I was before my career went up in flames.
My old coach’s words still linger from earlier in the week, like they’ve burrowed into my skull.Coach Rudnick is retiring at the end of the season, which leaves an opening on my staff. I want you here. Think about it.
That’s all it takes. One damn call.
And now here I am, staring at an empty glass and a half-packed duffel bag in the corner of my apartment, debating if I’m really about to fly back to the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again.
