Because after that? After the way he’d touched me, claimed me,seenme? How the hell was I supposed to walk away?
The driveto Calder’s place was quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. My fingers traced idle patterns on my thigh, still buzzing from the way his hands had been thereminutes before. He didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t speak. Just reached over once, his palm rough and warm against my knee, squeezing like he needed to make sure I was still there.
I kicked off my shoes by the door, my socks damp from the slush outside. He tossed his keys onto the counter, the clatter loud in the stillness.
"Shower’s hot," he said, already peeling off his jacket. "Towels are clean. Probably."
I smirked. "Probably?"
He shot me a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. "I don’t entertain much."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. Because I knew what he meant.You’re the only one.
The water ran hot, steam fogging the mirror as I scrubbed off the day—the rink, the lies, the way Nate’s hands had felt like a violation. I washed until my skin was pink, until the only thing left was the ghost of Calder’s touch, the way his mouth had moved against mine like he was trying to rewrite my entire history.
When I stepped out, his shirt was draped over the towel rack—soft, worn cotton that smelled like him. I pulled it on; the hem hitting mid-thigh; the sleeves swallowing my hands. It was ridiculous how good it felt. Howright.
He was in the kitchen when I padded out, barefoot, hair damp. The microwave beeped, and he pulled out two plates of something that smelled suspiciously like diner food reheated one too many times.
"Gourmet," he said, sliding one toward me.
I poked at the congealed cheese. "You’re spoiling me."
We ate at the counter, shoulders brushing, the TV on low in the background—some old hockey game, the announcer’s voice a familiar murmur. He didn’t ask if I wanted to watch. Just leftit on, like he knew I’d like the sound of it, the way it filled the silence without demanding anything.
Halfway through, I stole a fry off his plate. He caught my wrist, not hard, just enough to make me look at him. His thumb brushed over my pulse point, his eyes dark and quiet.
"Mine," he murmured.
I didn’t argue.
We didn’t make it through the movie. Somewhere between the second act and the credits, I curled into his side on the couch, my head on his chest, his fingers tangled in my damp hair. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, his breath slow and even. I traced the lines of his tattoos through the fabric of his shirt, the rise and fall of his chest lulling me under.
I could do this,I thought, my eyelids heavy.This could be real.
The morning lightwas too bright.
I groaned, rolling over, my arm flopping across the empty space where Calder had been. The sheets were cold. He was already gone, probably getting ready for practice.
My phone buzzed again—again—vibrating against the nightstand like a goddamn alarm. I cracked an eye open. Five missed calls. Twelve texts. All from Hannah.
Billie. Wake the FUCK up.
Turn on NHL Morning.
What the actual hell is going on?
I sat up, my stomach lurching. The room spun for half a second before my fingers fumbled for the remote. The TV flickered to life, the volume too loud, some perky anchor’s voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.
"—breaking news this morning as scandal rocks Crestwood Academy's inaugural women's hockey program. Sources confirm Coach Calder Shaw has been involved in an inappropriate relationship with one of his players?—"
The screen cut to a grainy photo. Me. My hood pulled up, but there was no mistaking the Crestwood logo on my sweatshirt, the way I was looking over my shoulder—right at Calder’s front door. The timestamp glared in the corner:11:47 PM.
"—and in a twist that has the hockey world talking, the player in question is none other than Billie Donovan, former girlfriend of Calder's son, NHL rising star Nate Ransom. Back to you, Greg."
The anchor tossed it to some smug guy in a suit who smirked like he’d won the lottery."Well, Karen, if this isn’t the plot of a Lifetime movie, I don’t know what is. The question is—how long has this been going on? And did Calder use his position to?—"
I hit MUTE.
