I cut the thought off, jaw tightening. The truck idled, exhaust curling into the cold morning air. My fingers twitched against the gearshift, still feeling the ghost of her nails digging into my back, the way she’d arched under me like she was trying to crawl inside my skin.
I hadn’t thought I was capable of wanting like that anymore.
Not after the divorce. Not after the career implosion. Not after years of drowning in whiskey and rage, convinced I’d burned through every decent thing inside me.
But then there she was.
Billie fucking Donovan.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, the stubble rough against my palm. The memory of her waseverywhere—the way she’d bitten her lip when I pinned her to the counter, the sound she made when she came, my name torn from her throat like a confession. The way she’d traced my scars like she was memorizing them.
Mine.
The word had been sitting in my chest like a live wire all weekend. I hadn’t said it. Hadn’t let myself. But it was there, humming under my ribs every time she looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
I killed the engine and stepped out, the cold air biting at my skin. The rink loomed ahead, all sharp edges and fluorescent lights. Inside, the team was already warming up, the sound of skates cutting ice and pucks hitting boards drifting out through the open doors.
And there she was.
Center ice.
Her ponytail swung as she pivoted, her stride smooth and effortless, like she’d been born with blades on her feet. She was laughing at something Kira said, her face bright, her guard up.
Professional. Distant.
Like we hadn’t spent the last forty-eight hours tangled together. Like I hadn’t had my mouth on every inch of her. Like she wasn’t stillunder my skin.
I leaned against the glass, my breath fogging the surface. She didn’t look at me. Not once. Just kept skating, kept smiling, kept playing the part of the good little center while I stood there like a goddamn idiot, my pulse kicking hard every time she bent to adjust her laces.
I should’ve been thinking about drills. About the game plan. About the way the defense needed to tighten up before the weekend’s matchup.
Instead, all I could think about was the way she’d tasted. Sweet and sharp, like whiskey and sin. And the way she’d looked at me when she came—like I was the only thing holding her together.
Fuck.
I pushed off the glass and stalked toward the bench, my skates biting into the rubber mats. The girls glanced at me, then away, like they could sense the storm coming. Billie didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just kept skating, her blade edges digging into the ice with every stride.
I wanted to grab her. Wanted to haul her off the ice and remind her who she’d been screaming for two nights straight.
But I couldn’t.
Because out here?
She wasn’t mine.
And that was the problem.
The rink doors banged open.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air shifted—lighter, cockier, like someone had cranked up the heat and let all the oxygen bleed out. The girls on the ice faltered for half a second, their chatter dying down before they forced themselves to focus again.
Nate.
My son.
Standing there in his designer jacket and that smug, media-trained grin, like he owned the goddamn building. Like he hadn’t spent the last decade acting like I didn’t exist unless it benefited him.
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just kept my eyes on the drill, my whistle between my teeth, my hands clenched so tight around my clipboard the edges bit into my palms.
