Then we can work on repairing our whole group and get back to what we were at the lodge.
Over the last forty-eight hours, my free moments have been consumed with texting and video calling Carter and slipping away for stolen private moments with him. My dad, Antony, andChase are none the wiser. Even when I’ve been under the same roof as Chase, Carter has become very adept at slipping me in and out without notice, and thankfully, we won’t have to do it for much longer. Tonight, though, I have a family dinner with Dad and, much to my dismay, Antony.
How he went from one of my closest friends to a man I loathe more than anything is a mystery to me. It wasn’t a sudden change, it was slow and deliberate. As if he calculated every move he made, every word to achieve the outcome we’re currently at.
I’ve tried to skip the dinner, coming up with every reason I could to get out of it. They all failed. Per my father, it's now mandatory so we can discuss our training schedule before the upcoming competition in two short weeks. A competition that will get us one step closer to making the Olympic team.
I pick up my gym bag from the floor, and disconnect my phone from the charger, smiling when I see what’s waiting.
Carter: GM Pixie. Hope you slept well and dreamed of me. Because I woke up hard from my dream of you.
Carter:
My mouth waters, and my pussy quivers, longing to have it inside of me, filling me. My breath hitches and I debate on dropping my bag and grabbing my vibrator instead for some pleasure. It takes me a few minutes, but I ultimately decide on skating. A little bit of a nagging feeling tugs at me that it was a wrong decision, but I’m sticking with it.
I step out into the hallway, taking hold of the door handle. It lets out the faintest creak as I ease it shut behind me, the sound barely more than a whisper in the silent hallway. I holdmy breath, fingers still curled around the knob, and listen—but there's nothing but the steady hum of the house settling in the early morning hush. When the door is shut and no one has come barging into the hallway, I let go of the knob and the breath I’ve been holding.
Barefoot, I step onto the cool hardwood, my steps feather-light as I move forward. The air in the hallway is still, thick with the quiet that only exists before dawn. Each step is deliberate, my toes barely pressing into the floor as I pass by the closed doors, my heart hammering as if at any moment someone might stir. That my dad will step out and question where I’m going and what I’m doing.
When I reach the top of the staircase, a shiver ripples down my spine. A feeling—subtle, unexplainable—creeps over me, prickling at my skin, the sensation of being watched.
I freeze, every muscle trembling as I try not to move.
My breath catches in my throat as I slowly turn, eyes scanning the hallway behind me. The shadows stretch long and deep, the dim glow from a nightlight in the bathroom casting just enough light to tease the edges of the darkness. I search the emptiness, my pulse pounding, but nothing stirs. No creak of the floorboards. No shift in the shadows. Nothing.
Swallowing, I force myself to exhale, shaking off the feeling. It was just the quiet and my nerves playing tricks on me. I turn back to the stairs and descend them quickly, my bare feet making no sound against the wood.
At the front door, I pause once more before slipping on my fur-lined boots and jacket. I press my palm against the cool metal of the handle before slipping outside. The air is crisp against my skin, and I shudder slightly, the lingering sense of unease not quite shaken. I pull the door shut behind me, locking it with steady hands, the mechanism clicking into place with a satisfying finality.
Only then do I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I make my way down the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the weight of my shoes as I approach my car. The morning air is thick with silence, save for the distant rustling of leaves in the wind. I reach into my coat pocket for my keys, casting one last glance over my shoulder before sliding into the driver’s seat and locking the doors.
As the engine purrs to life, I force myself to dismiss the unease coiling in my chest. It wasn't anything. Just my imagination.
I step through the heavy doors of the rink, the familiar chill of the arena wrapping around me like a whisper of ice. The sharp scent of frozen air and faint rubber lingers, the quiet hum of the building filling the vast, empty space. I had expected to be alone, the early hour guaranteeing me solitude to enjoy the ice, but as I turn the corner and step toward the ice, I see him.
Blake.
He’s on the ice, but not like I usually see him—hulking in front of the net, bracing against the force of oncoming shots, his body a wall of defense. No, here, now, he is something else entirely. He moves like liquid silver across the frozen surface, each push of his skates smooth and effortless. The rigid intensity he carriesin front of the goal has melted away, replaced by something freer, something beautiful, something calm.
I find myself unable to look away. I’m drawn to him like a bee to honey.
Blake picks up speed, shifting his weight as he carves deep arcs into the ice, his edges cutting clean and precise. His strides are powerful yet light, as if he’s barely touching the surface. Then, with a quick change in momentum, he pushes into a deep crossover, his legs crossing one over the other in a seamless rhythm. His upper body relaxes and is in tune with the motion. He turns sharply, the inside edge of his skate biting into the ice as he loops into a tight, controlled curve.
Then he spins.
Not just any spin, but a perfect pivot; his body tightens, one foot lifting slightly as he rotates, arms outstretched before pulling inward, increasing his speed. The world around him blurs, and for a moment, he looks weightless—completely at ease in his own movement. When he slows, uncoiling from the spin with an easy grace, he shifts into a backward glide, his eyes focusing on something somewhere distant, unaware he has an audience.
My breath catches at the beautiful moment before me. One I’d never have seen had I chosen to stay with my vibrator.
Here, in the quiet of the rink, Blake is different. He isn’t just a goalie. He’s not just a shield in front of the net. He is a skater—an artist on ice. And I have never seen him shine like this before.
Fuck me! This is where he should be. What he should be doing.
I move along the wall at the back of the rink, still unnoticed by Blake. My eyes don’t move from him. It’s as if I’m in a trance, being lured to him like a sailor to the siren’s call. Only if he catches me, I wouldn’t be a victim. I’d be his willingly.
The air shifts, a slow, creeping sensation curling down my spine before I hear his voice—low, rich, and laced with a venomous amusement.
