The storage unit came back into focus piece by piece. Metal shelving. A half-collapsed box of random things in the corner. The fluorescent strip overhead casting everything in unforgiving yellow light.
And I was still bent over a table in the middle of it.
My stomach dropped.
Aiden shifted behind me, concern threading into his movements before he even spoke.
“Sage?” His hand slid from my hair to my shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”
I pulled away too fast.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, already reaching for my clothes scattered across the concrete floor.
He stepped back to give me space, confusion written all over him. “Did I—?” He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair. “Did I do something?”
My jeans were inside out. I yanked them right side out with shaking hands, and stepped into them without bothering to brush off the dust. My shirt followed. No bra. Didn’t care. I dragged it over my head and shoved my arms through, tugging the hem down like that would pull everything back into place.
“Sage.” Closer now, but more careful. “Talk to me.”
As if it were that simple.
Because if I opened my mouth, I’d either say something stupid or something honest, and both options were too much for me to deal with right now.
This wasn’t just sex. That was the problem.
I shoved my feet into my sneakers without tying them and grabbed my bag from the floor. My hands wouldn’t stop moving. If I stopped, I’d feel it again. The heat. The want. The way I’d let myself have him without thinking about the cost.
He reached for my wrist, then seemed to think better of it and let his hand fall. “If I crossed a line, tell me. I need to know. I want to fix it.”
He sounded wrecked by the possibility, and that almost undid me.
I finally looked at him.
He was standing there half dressed, hair a mess, chest still rising hard, eyes searching my face like he was trying to read alanguage he hadn’t quite yet learned. There was no arrogance. No smug satisfaction. Just worry.
Which made it worse.
I shook my head once, glancing his way with an apologetic look. All I could muster up. Then I forced myself to turn away before I changed my mind. The metal door screeched when I yanked it open, light flooding in from the corridor outside. The shift in brightness made everything feel harsher, more exposed.
It also made what I was doing a whole lot easier. Because it was easier to remember the outside world when it was encroaching on our space like this.
“Sage,” he tried again, but the soft defeat in his voice let me know he knew it was futile.
I stepped out into the narrow aisle between units and pulled the door down behind me.
11
Aiden
Coach was already halfway through the whiteboard when I finished lacing my skates.
“Vancouver’s first line likes the stretch pass,” he said, circling a route with the marker. “If we let them build speed through the neutral zone, we’re chasing all night. I don’t want us chasing.”
The locker room had that tight pregame focus where everyone listens even when they pretend not to. Gloves thudded into stalls. Tape tore in short pulls. The dryers rattled under the benches.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, stick resting against my thigh, and kept my eyes on the board.
Coach capped the marker and turned around. “We’re adjusting lines.”
