And if he thinks he does, he’s about to find out how wrong he is.
Chapter Twenty
Clay
She catches me off guard.
One second, I’m walking out of the tunnel toward my office, running through what we need to fix before the next game—and then she’s there.
“Tessa.”
Her name comes out rough, more growl than word. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even flinch.
“Clay.”
The way she says my name hits hard, like a check I never saw coming.
I try to shut it down—to let the cold from the rink numb whatever this is—but it doesn’t work. My eyes drag over her anyway, down to the flush in her cheeks, the way her breath catches before she steadies herself. Every piece of her comes back like muscle memory.
A door slams behind me. Someone calls down the hall. None of it registers. She doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
The tension in the air was tight, vibrating with everything we weren’t saying.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I manage, shoving my hands into my pockets before I do something I’ll regret.
She lifts her chin in defiance. “I could say the same to you.”
I should have seen that one coming.
For a second, all I can do is stare at her. Neither of us says a word. No small talk can fix this—not with the heat of anger rolling off her.
“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” she says, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine.
Her voice is calm, but it’s the kind of calm that should come with a warning.
We can’t have this conversation in the middle of the hallway—not with the guys still filing out of the locker room after practice.
My pulse kicks harder. She doesn’t care. I know better than to think she’ll back down.
“Not here,” I say, jaw tight.
“Then where?” she shoots back, stepping closer. “Because all you’ve done since Christmas is pretend I don’t exist.”
Those words crack something in me that’s barely been holding together. The anger, the guilt, the ache of missing her—all of it twists up inside me.
Before I can think, I grab her wrist. Not rough, but enough to stop her in her tracks.
“Clay—” she says my name again.
I don’t let her finish. I tug her with me down the hall, my stride too quick, her shoes clicking against the floor as she tries to keep up. She resists for a second before matching my pace, her skin warm against mine.
The closest place is the team meeting room—the only one besides my office that’s empty.
I shut the door behind us. The space is dark, except for the light filtering through the narrow windowpane beside the door.
It smells like coffee and disinfectant. Rows of chairs face a whiteboard at the front of the room, with half-erased plays and the schedule for the upcoming week written out.It’s not where I want her, but it’s the only place I can control the surroundings at the moment.
“Talk,” she demands, jerking her wrist free.
