I watch him pour water into my glass and feel a smug, deeply inappropriate satisfaction. Every time Dom posts, his comments become a thirst pit—women offering body parts, making it painfully clear what they’d let him do. And when I post anything that hints I might be near him or even breathing his oxygen? Hate. DMs from women I don’t even know, accusing me of being a clout-chaser, a nobody, a placeholder.
At first, the attention terrified me. The loathing, the knives behind every “just letting you know” message. But now there’s a horrible, wicked part of me that likes it. He has every single one of those women at his fingertips, yet his hands were on my body.
My legs squeeze together instinctively at the memory. The soreness returns—the deep, aching reminder of how thoroughly he took me apart.
But the questions linger. Was that real or just need? A man scratching an itch, using the girl who’s contractually obligated to be in his house? Has he realized he can enjoy himself during this arrangement? Is he really that cruel, or is this crossing into something else for him too?
I pick up my toast and bite down, hoping that chewing will quiet my thoughts.
I eye his plate: granola, avocado, scrambled eggs, and a single dark slice of something that should look like bread.
“You’re really eating that for breakfast?” I ask, squinting over the rim of my glass.
He spears a piece of egg and lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m a hockey captain in season. I can’t exactly eat Fruit Loops.”
“Thank God I’m not a hockey captain, then.”
“Yeah, your diet would be a problem,” he nods mockingly.
“Are you saying I don’t possess the skill to be one?”
“Oh, your skating skills are unmatched.” His mouth twitches.
I scoff, trying not to stare at the ropes of veins on his arms. God, he looks good.
“So… when’s the next game?” I ask, tone light.
“Tomorrow. Didn’t Tinnie send you the schedule?”
“I don’t know,” I admit with a grimace. “I’m scared to open my email.”
It’s a war zone in there. My inbox has become a sentient monster, and I’m not emotionally prepared to face it.
I reach for my phone, already thinking about the posts I have to make for tomorrow’s game. “Can you take a forkful of eggs real quick?”
“What?”
“For my story,” I explain, opening the camera. “Breakfast shot.”
He stays silent, eyes flicking to my phone.
“It’s my end of the bargain, Captain,” I say, lifting the camera. “Stories, visibility, engagement. Let me do my job.”
“So being a prop is my end of the bargain?”
“Pretty much.” I glance at him over the phone and wink. “Now do it, and don’t look like I’m holding you hostage.”
He raises a brow but obliges, stabbing his fork into the eggs and lifting them to his mouth. I snap the pic, adjusting the angle until he’s perfectly visible in the corner—sunlit abs and all.
“Great!” I crop the photo three times to get just the right amount of shirtless Dom in the background, add a caption about tomorrow’s game, hit upload, then immediately brace for impact.
Can’t wait for the hate DMs to flood in like they always do. Yet the worst part isn’t what they send me. It’s what I imagine they’re sending him. If I’m getting dozens of messages a day, he’s getting hundreds.
I stare at my screen, suddenly in my head. Does he open his DMs and scroll through the offers? Does he reply or flirt back?
My throat tightens, and I put my phone down.
“What’s that face?”
