Page 107

Five days since I touched her. Since I let myself touch her.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about it for a single fucking second. Not about her skin, or her mouth, or the way she looked at me like I still mean something.

But what’s haunting me is what came after. The way I shut down. The way I pushed her away. The way I told her to leave like she was just another mistake I didn’t want to claim.

I’ve never hated myself more.

And yet, part of me is still angry. At her. Now at me too. At whatever this twisted thing is that keeps pulling us together and tearing us apart in the same breath.

She didn’t even have to say anything.

The moment I saw her in that kitchen, jealousy written all over her face, I knew what she thought. And I shouldn’t care—I shouldn’t—but it gutted me. Because even after everything, even after all these months, she still doesn’t trust me. Not really.

Not entirely.

And I hated that. And I hated how much I wanted her anyway.

Even now, sitting on this cold-ass bench in the locker room, my body aching from drills and contact plays, she’s the one thing I can’t shake.

I tried to stay away. I tried to keep my hands off her. But the moment I saw her and I heard her provoke me… I knew it was a lost battle. And when I realized she still felt something, it was over.

Now I’m stuck in this space between regret and obsession. Between wanting her more than anything and wishing I’d never touched her again.

I scrub a towel over my face, trying to clean the mess inside my head. It doesn’t work.

The noise in the locker room is loud—gear clattering, guys laughing, boots stomping—but I’m barely in it. Not really.

Coach walks in, commanding attention with just one look.

“All right, shut it down for a minute.”

Silence rolls over the room. I sit up straighter, the towel clenched between my hands.

“This—“ Coach says, sweeping a look over the room, “—this is what a damn team looks like. I’m proud of what you’ve done this season. These last six years actually. Top of the table, best stats across the board, cleanest gameplay I’ve seen from this group since I signed on.”

A few whistles and stick taps break out. I force a nod. Smile a little. That’s what they expect.

“And we all know, none of this would’ve happened without you, Nick,” coach adds, locking eyes with me.

Fuck me. I don’t move.

“You’ve had offers flying at you from every direction—teams in North America, Sweden, even Canada—but you stayed with us. And we’re damn lucky you did.”

The guys clap. Someone calls my name. I just nod again, mechanical.

Coach finishes with a grin, “So I’m giving you the weekend off. No games, no training. You’ve earned it. Go out, blow off steam—just don’t end up on a tabloid. You know the drill. Be smart.”

Cheers erupt around me. But all I can think is—I have two days off, and not a single fucking clue what to do with them.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, muscles still tense, hair still wet from the shower. My mind’s already ten steps ahead—wondering if I’ll be able to sleep tonight, if I’ll manage to close my eyes without seeing hers.

I’m halfway out the locker room, heading for the parking lot, when I hear Chase call after me, “Hey, you’re coming tonight, right? To the new club opening. Aiden, what was it called?”

Aiden’s voice echoes from the showers. “Uh—Mayfair? Or something like that?”

I exhale sharply though my nose, dragging a hand down my face. Jesus. The last thing I need is neon lights, pounding bass, and drunk girls trying to get a selfie with a hockey player.

“Man, I don’t know. I’m not really in the mood for clubs…”