I heard my voice before I knew I’d opened my mouth. “Billie.”
Soft, almost a whisper. The name felt different this time. Not a warning, not a slip. It rolled out of me like something sacred, a secret meant only for her.
Her lashes lifted. She didn’t retreat. Didn’t even blink. The way she watched me—it wasn’t a challenge anymore. It was trust. That was the part that undid me. I’d broken every version of that I’d ever been given, yet she kept offering hers without asking for anything in return.
My hand moved before my brain caught up, rising halfway between us, fingers trembling from restraint rather than fear. I wanted to brush that loose strand of hair off her cheek, tuck it behind her ear, trace the edge of her jaw the way I’dbeen memorizing it since the first night. But the motion stalled midway. Hovered there. Heat radiated between my fingers and her skin. The air carried it like static.
She looked at my hand, then back to me. Our faces were close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath ghosting against my mouth, slow and unsteady. Inches apart. One lean forward and the world would drop out from under us.
“This can’t happen.” The words came out rough, tight in my throat.
Her lips parted, the faintest curve of defiance pulling at the corner. “You keep saying that, and yet...”
Every muscle locked. The breath between us went heavy, waiting for me to decide what kind of man I was going to be in that half-second. The wrong kind—the one I’d always been—or something closer to decent. I couldn’t tell which choice felt harder.
I stepped back instead. The loss of heat hit first, then the realization that I was shaking. Her eyes followed me, unreadable, but the space I’d reclaimed already felt like punishment.
The hallway outside smelled of dust and pine cleaner, too bright after the closeness of her room. My hand found the doorframe, knuckles white around it.
“Get some sleep, Donovan.” My voice sounded foreign, scraped raw.
Before she could answer, I shut the door behind me. The click echoed down the empty corridor, small but final.
Cold air hit like punishment. I kept my head down, boots cutting through slush until the echo of her door faded. The lot was empty except for my truck, half-buried under a crust of snow. I yanked the door open and climbed in, heartbeat still hammering against my ribs.
“Jesus Christ.” The words fogged the window. I slammed the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Didn’t help. All it did was remind me she was still in there, a few hundred feet away, probably pacing the same stretch of floor where I’d nearly lost every ounce of control.
I started the engine, knuckles tight on the wheel. The heater coughed before breathing life. Warm air rolled out and did nothing to thaw what burned lower in me.
I wanted her. Not in the polite, fleeting way a man wants a distraction. I wanted the defiance in her eyes, the pulse in her throat, the way her name tasted like trouble every time I thought it.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d ruin us both. But the truth sat heavy anyway, low and certain—If she opened that door again, I’d go back. And I'd take what I shouldn’t.
Chapter 17
Billie
The ice bit through my skates like glass cutting skin. Every whistle hit like a jolt and every barked order found me first.
“Again, Donovan.”
I wheeled around the cone, legs burning, lungs clawing for air. My stick caught the puck clean, fired it toward the net—wide by an inch. The whistle shrieked before the puck even hit the boards.
“Do it right.”
My jaw locked. “Thatwasright.”
Calder’s answer came low but sharp. “Then nail it next time instead of arguing.”
The girls along the blue line kept their heads down, pretending to focus on tying laces or stretching out calves, but no one missed a thing. Reese met my stare for half a heartbeat, one brow lifting.What did you do?it said.
I didn’t have an answer.
Because it wasn’t just hard practice. He was different—colder, sharper, like every word held back last night had turned into a weapon and he was emptying the whole clip across the rink.
The next whistle cut through the cold. “Again.”
This time, I took it tighter, cut in fast, let the puck fly. It hit the post and clanged out. My throat burned. The air felt too thick to swallow.
