Page 25 of Keep Me Close

I huff out a laugh before I can stop it. “Dakota.”

“Whatever.”

I turn just enough to take him in. He’s standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders relaxed, expression inscrutable. What I’m starting to understand is that unreadable on Knox doesn’t mean unaffected. The man notices everything. Plans things without making a big deal out of it. Decides what needs to transpire and then maneuvers it into happening.

I think about the way he texted Laiken earlier, not hesitating to introduce me to his teammate and wife. The way he made sure I had someone to go shopping with tomorrow without making a big production out of it.

It’s unexpectedly thoughtful, and more than what I expected.

It’s not that Knox isn’t hot, arrogant, or bossy. I’ve known that for years. It’s the quieter parts that catch me off guard. The way he makes room for me without drawing attention to it. The way he takes care of things without making me feel weak for needing help.

It occurs to me that Knox might not be as easy to dismiss as I’ve always told myself.

Which could be a problem.

Keeping my distance was simple when I could write him off as nothing more than a handsome playboy. But now…

He’s revealing himself to be so much more than that.

When the doors slide open on his floor, he gestures for me to step out first. As we walk into the penthouse, I’m hit with a realization that makes my pulse kick up.

Our relationship might be fake, but the way he’s handling all of it—the care, the thoughtfulness, the quiet way he keeps stepping in—feels surprisingly real.

10

Knox

The puck slides across the ice, and I’m on it before anyone else. My stick is down, shoulders low as I drive through the neutral zone, cut inside, and snap a shot high glove side. Laiken slides, but he’s a fraction too late, and it slams into the back of the net.

“Jesus, McNichols,” Jax calls from the blue line. “Who the hell pissed in your Cheerios this morning?”

I don’t bother with a response.

Coach blows the whistle. “Reset.”

We line up again. During the next rep, I finish my check harder than I probably should. The boards rattle and Zane grunts.

“What the fuck, McNichols? You see this face? It needs to stay pretty for the cameras.”

I ignore him and keep skating.

“Easy,” Coach warns.

I jerk my head in a nod but go just as hard during the next drill. I’m wound tight in a way I don’t like, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake it off. It’s like there’s an itch beneath my skin, and the only way to get rid of it is to skate until my lungs burn and my muscles are a boneless heap of exhaustion.

It doesn’t work. Nothing does.

The problem isn’t my body. It’s my head.

With Cheyenne right across the hall and her scent lingering in the air long after she went to bed, I barely slept a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her on my couch. In my guest room. In my space. Apparently, the only way I know how to deal with that is by trying to outskate my own damn thoughts.

We run another scrimmage drill, and I crash the crease, taking a rebound before burying it at the back of the net.

River skates past, bumping my shoulder. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

He laughs. “Nothing my ass.”