Page 121 of Broken Blades

I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, head down.

Trust me.

I'd said it to deflect. To charm. To control the narrative. But the truth underneath those words? She did trust me. More than she should. More than was safe. And I was starting to trust her back.

That was going to destroy us both.

I pulled on jeans, still warm from sitting in my bag. Then the hoodie—soft, dark, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and the faint musk of arena sweat that never quite washed out. Coat last, leather worn smooth from years of use.

Hair still damp, dripping cold trails down my neck. Scruff perfect—or close enough. I didn't give a damn either way.

I grabbed my gear bag, shouldered it, and pushed through the locker room door.

The hallway stretched ahead, concrete and fluorescent lights humming overhead. Post-game quiet settling in, just staff and stragglers now. My teammates had scattered already—Ryker dragged off by his girl, Jared hitting up some bar with his girl, Nikolai disappearing like smoke to find his girl.

I replayed the game in my head. Automatic. Always did after wins. The fight. Clean, brutal, necessary. The goal. Upper corner. Textbook.

Her cheering⁠—

Her face pressed to the glass⁠—

The way she'd looked at me like I'd hung the moon instead of just buried a puck in a net⁠—

I shook my head, tried to dislodge the image. Didn't work. Never worked anymore.

I turned the corner toward the exit, boots echoing on concrete. And stopped.

She stood near the player's entrance, arms wrapped around herself against the cold seeping in from outside. That oversized Serpents sweater drowning her frame. Hair slightly mussed from where she'd been pressed against the suite glass. Cheeks flushed—cold or nerves, hard to say.

She saw me. Her eyes went wide. Nervous. Bright.

My chest did something I refused to name. "Hey," she said, voice soft over the hum of overhead lights.

I didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't give a damn who was watching or what cameras might catch it or how many headlines would scream about it tomorrow.

I closed the distance between us in three strides, dropped my gear bag, and grabbed her waist.

She gasped—soft, surprised—and then I pulled her in. Close. Against me. No space. No air. No escape. And I kissed her. Not the careful, calculated kiss outside the charity event with cameras flashing. Not the performative press of lips designed to sell a story.

This?

This was claiming. Possession. Truth I'd been burying under layers of control and revenge and self-preservation.

My mouth moved against hers, demanding, insistent. Her lips parted on a breathless sound that shot straight through my chest, and I deepened the kiss, tasting her—sweetness and shock and something that felt dangerously like surrender.

Her hands fisted in my coat, pulling me closer instead of pushing away. Her body curved into mine like she'd been made to fit there, soft where I was hard, yielding where I was unyielding.

I felt her breath warm against my mouth, felt the tremor that ran through her entire frame, felt every single moment she stopped resisting and just melted.

Heat flooded my system—not just desire, though God knew that was there. But something deeper. Something that terrified me more than any fight I'd ever been in.

Mine.

The word roared through my head, primal and possessive and absolutely unacceptable.

I forced myself to pull back before I lost control completely. Before I backed her against the concrete wall and showed her exactly how far past performance this had gone.

We stared at each other, both breathing too hard.