“What face?”
His eyes narrow and I force a smile, shaking my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,”
I huff a small laugh that dies on my lips. The thought of him being accessible to other women is not funny.
He rests his fork against his plate, his eyes are on me, waiting in that unsettling way that makes me feel like he already knows what I’m about to say.
“I told you,” I say again, quieter. “It’s nothing.”
His brow lifts a fraction.
I want to be the chill, the unbothered girl who doesn’t ask questions she has no right to ask. But then reality checks me. This man took my virginity. He took me on a date and bought me coloring pencils. Last night, he had sex with me in his shower and cooked dinner afterward.
I do have the damn right to know.
“Actually,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel, “there is something.”
He straightens, attention sharpening.
Words spill out before I can organize them. “It’s just… everywhere we go, women stare. They talk. At the clubs, at events, online.” The words tumble out. “Your comments are insane. Tons of women offering themselves up like it’s an audition.”
His mouth twitches.
“And whenever I post anything even remotely related to you or the team,” I continue, picking up speed, “my DMs turn into a disaster. Hate, warnings, girls telling me to enjoy it while it lasts—like I’m borrowing something that’s theirs.”
I pause, “And I don’t want to picture it. Women throw themselves at you all the time, getting threats just for being with you. I keep thinking,” my hands curl against my thighs, “if they’re that bold with me, they must be twice as bold with you.”
I finally suck a breath in, and Dom cuts me off. “Jessica. “Where is this going?”
I take a deep breath. “How many women are you texting?” I ask, meeting his eyes. I phrase it to avoid a yes-or-no answer; I want a number. A man can’t resist attention like that, ice-cold NHL captain or not.
The question hangs between us, getting heavier with each silent second. Does he even know how many women he’s texting?
He picks up his fork, unbothered and unhurried. He stabs into his eggs and avocado, lifts the bite to his mouth, and starts chewing with a tiny, insufferable grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
I stare, unblinking, growing more confused. He keeps chewing, watching me like it’s a mildly entertaining circus act. His silence says it all. I got my answer loud and clear.
I scoff and roll my eyes, looking out at his infinity pool. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slip a hand into his pocket and pull out his phone. He unlocks it casually and slides it across the table, screen up, without a word. Then he leans back, still chewing, still watching.
“What?”
I glance at the phone, thinking he’s cruel for making me look at all the women he’s talking to. The Instagram app is open to his DMs, the chats visible. I don’t dare look down, but the curiosity burns. I stare at him with every ounce of apprehension I feel.
“Go ahead,” he nods toward the phone. “Check.”
“I can’t. I’m not— I can’t invade your privacy like that.” I shake my head, stunned.
“It’s not an invasion if I’m telling you to do it,” he counters.
I hesitate, fingers twitching. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
“Jessica,” he says, firmer. “Look at the chats.”
I swallow and glance down. The first message at the top is mine from moments ago—the automatic note that pops up when you mention someone in your story. He watches me as I scan the chats, noting the blue ticks next to names.
“Read them out loud,” he orders.
