"There is no us."
"I know." He nodded quickly, like he'd expected that. "And I get it. I screwed up. But we were good together, Billie. You know we were."
I stared at him, too tired for this performance. The man I'd left naked in bed with someone else stood in my room now, rewriting history like he could make me forget.
"You cheated on me," I said flatly.
"I made a mistake." He stepped closer, voice dropping into that intimate register he used to use in bed. "One stupid mistake. But we had something real. You were the only person who ever reallygotme."
The words landed wrong—hollow where they should've hit soft. Because less than an hour ago, someone else had looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than decoration.
Nate took my silence as encouragement. His hand reached for mine.
I pulled back before he could touch me. "Why are you really here?"
Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile tightened at the edges.
"I told you. I miss?—"
"Bullshit."
He shifted his weight, glanced at the door like he was checking for witnesses. When he looked back at me, the warmth had drained from his face completely.
"Look, there's this journalist doing a profile. Big piece forThe Athletic—my rise, my rookie season, the whole arc." He spoke faster now, the rehearsed quality slipping through. "They want the personal angle. You know, heartbreak to greatness, overcoming adversity, all that human interest garbage."
My arms tightened across my chest. "And?"
"And they want to talk to you." He said it like it was nothing. Like he was asking me to grab coffee. "Maybe get a photo. Youdon't even have to say much. Just show up, stand next to me, talk about how you supported me through the grind. Clean, simple."
For a second, I couldn't process what I was hearing. Then it hit me all at once—the audacity, the sheer fuckingnerve.
"You want me to lie?" My voice came out flat. "For PR?"
"It's not lying." He spread his hands like I was being unreasonable. "It's helping. And you owe me at least that much."
I laughed. Sharp and ugly, the sound scraping out of my throat. "You're unbelievable. I walk in on you fucking some puck slut andIoweyou?"
His jaw tightened. "You wouldn't have a spot on the Crestwood team without me."
"I think your father would disagree with that."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, then irritation. "Really?" He cocked his head, studying me with new interest. "I doubt he even knows what's going on, too fucking drunk to realize?—"
"You shouldn't talk about him that way." The words came out harder than I meant them. "He's not a drunk, Nate. Not anymore. He's a good coach."
Nate went still. His eyes narrowed, that calculating look I'd seen him use on opponents before a hit. "I don't give a fuck about my father."
He took a step closer, voice dropping into something colder.
"Let me guess…" A cruel smile tugged at his mouth. "He thinks you havepotential? That's what he always says before he fucks you and leaves you." His eyes raked over me, searching for confirmation. "Tell me, Billie. Is that it? You fucking my father to get back at me?"
The question hung in the air between us—loaded, dangerous. I should've denied it. Should've thrown him out. Should've done anything except what I did next.
I smiled.
"You would think something like that, wouldn't you?" I let the words settle, watched his expression start to shift. "I don't know, Nate. Maybe I'm fucking your father to feel what it actually feels like to be thoroughly fucked."
His face went dead. All the polished charm, the media-trained warmth—gone. What replaced it was cold and flat and purely threat.
