The GM laughs and says he’s here to stay.The room laughs with him, like people can joke away the truth.
Monty doesn’t smile.He obviously hates the question, but he sits there like a man who could stare down a firing squad and make them feel awkward about it.
The questions continue.We do our best to respond until, of course, a reporter stands up with a bright voice filled with hunger.“What about the rivalry?You and Wade have history.How do you see that translating to the locker room?”
My smile returns automatically.It’s my oldest reflex.A shield and a weapon.
“Hockey’s intense,” I say.“You compete.You push.That doesn’t mean you can’t respect a guy’s game.He’s the best goalie in the league.Have you seen his stats?”
Monty’s gaze stays forward.He gives them nothing.He’s refusing to be entertainment.
I keep going anyway, because if I stop, my mind will go back to Vesper’s face.Back to the way she tried to joke through fear.Back to how small she looked when she said “positive” like it was a foreign language she didn’t want to learn.
Back to how much I want to fuck him—or for him to take me apart too.I shift, pressing my thigh against his under the table, needing something.Anything.Contact.Pressure.The idea that I could fill him up, calm him down, make him forget the bullshit questions and the performance of being Monty in public.
Even now, while we’re both dressed too nicely and answering things that don’t matter, I want him.Ineedhim.And I don’t know what’s worse—that I want to crawl into his lap, or that I want him to pull me into his and shut me up with his mouth.
“We’re professionals,” I say.“We want the same thing now.”
The coach jumps in, eager.“They’re here to win the Cup.Alberto Wade and Callaway Winthrop have always had respect for each other.”He clears his throat like he’s about to tell a bedtime story.“They attended the same camp for years.Back then, they were friends, and that friendship is what brings them back together.”
Nods.Scribbles.Satisfaction.
Everyone loves a clean narrative.Apparently, the rivalry is over, though it’s weird that I’m the last one finding out about my personal and professional life.
But hurray for small miracles.
Newsflash, Coach—it’s worse now.It’s worse than ever.We may no longer be fighting on the ice, but we’re still fighting for her.The woman who we’ve loved since forever.Plus, she’s carrying a child.
And beneath all that?
I still want him.
Still want him to press me into the nearest wall and fuck the part of me I’ve never let anyone else touch.
So yeah.
This season’s going to be fucking perfect.
Monty finally leans toward his mic.“We both care about winning.”His voice is flat.
The GM lets a few more questions in, then wraps the conference with thank-yous, forward momentum, and a grin like he’s personally fixed the franchise by putting us in the same room.
Then they hand us our jerseys.
Black and white.Orcas across the front.My name on the back like I belong to the Orcas family, as Mills Aldridge called it.
Cameras fire while we pull them on, shake hands with the GM, pose with the coach.
And then—of course—we have to shake hands with each other.
“Closer,” the photographer says.“Don’t let go of the handshake.Look at the camera like you’re best friends.”
Monty’s hand closes around mine.
His grip is firm.Warm.Calloused in places that make my mind go places I shouldn’t.My breath shifts before I can stop it.I feel every ridge of skin, every memory embedded in his palm.My thumb slides inward, slowly, tracing the soft line at his wrist.A small touch.Intimate.I rub once, then again, like I’m reminding him I still know where to find him.
How I’d tease the head of cock until his breath stuttered, until he begged without sound.I let my tongue brush my lower lip as I smirk, just enough to register.
