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“You don’t owe them anything. You’d be the first one they’d cut to save money.” He leans against the wall, arms folded, a picture of easy confidence. God, it must be nice not to have any worries.
A pang of guilt tightens my chest. That’s not entirely true, is it? Blake has plenty of demons. He just doesn’t show them.
“That’s true, but I don’t know. There’s so much to do.” I glance at him, then away, feeling the weight of his gaze. It’s heavy and insistent, asking questions I don’t want to answer. “Besides, I have an anatomy test on Monday I’ve yet to study for.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun. Besides, one game won’t derail your future doctor plans.” His tone is coaxing, the verbal equivalent of a hand extended, promising to pull me into a world where I can breathe.
Fun is a language I’m forgetting how to speak. But there’s something in how he looks at me, blue eyes alight with more than playful sparks—it’s like he sees the girl buried under the avalanche of ambitions.
“Maybe not.” I shift from foot to foot. The idea of watching him on the ice, muscles flexing, sweat glistening … it’s tempting. Too tempting. But then reality snaps me out of my daydream.
Jesus, get it together, girl.
He is paying me to be there. This isn’t an actual date.
“And you know, I’ll play better knowing you’re there. Gives me a good luck charm to believe in.” He pushes off from the wall, taking a step closer. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of his body wash, an intoxicating mix of determination and desire.
“Blake, I—” The protest dies on my lips. His proximity sends a current crackling through the space between us, charging the air with unspoken possibilities.
“Tell you what. You show up on Saturday, and I’ll personally help you to study after. Anatomy, was it?” A sly grin plays upon his lips, and just like that, he’s offering a trade I’m not sure is fair—because he’s the subject I find most distracting.
“What do you know about Anatomy, Mr. Business Major?”
“I’ve got some firsthand experience with that.” His laugh is low, a rumble that seems to vibrate through me. And damn if it doesn’t warm spots that shouldn’t be heated when he’s around.
“Is that so?” The question comes out breathy, far from the assertive tone I aim for.
“Absolutely.” The corners of his mouth twitch, and he reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch lingers like a silent vow etched in the warmth of his skin against mine.
“But I also know you’re more than your GPA and potential internships. You’re Amanda Hoyt, who deserves a break—even if it’s just for one night.”
Without warning, my resolve crumbles. I nod, finally allowing myself the luxury of a night off with Blake Morton, who’s slowly chiseling through my defenses.
“Fine, you win,” I huff, but quickly add, “Since you’re paying me.”
His smile falters, and I instantly feel bad. The words were meant to ground me back to reality, not make him uncomfortable. He steps back, taking the charged air with him and leaving me empty.
“Great. I’ll see you there.” Blake’s eyes hold a mixture of triumph and something more profound, a vulnerability that echoes in those steely blue pools. For a moment, I see a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in his composed façade, revealing the raw emotions he keeps hidden beneath layers of charm and confidence. It was a fleeting glimpse, gone almost as quickly as it appeared, but it lingered in my mind like an unfinished melody.
As he walks away with confidence in every step, I stand immobile as fear claws at me, a reminder that getting too close could mean disaster. Yet, here I am, teetering on the edge of something more, something terrifyingly real.
I turn toward my apartment building to head back to the grind. But all I see are blue eyes. All I hear is his deep voice urging me to let loose, to live a little.
What am I even doing? Feeling sorry for a wealthy athlete isn’t what I signed up for.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
BLAKE
Game nightat Cessna U is electric. Coming off last night’s tie, I wouldn’t expect anything less, but nothing beats a home game. The crowd’s energy buzzes through the chilled air as their cheers and chants bounce off the walls, creating an insane echo one can feel in their bones. The concrete thunders under the stomp of hundreds of feet, like they’re drumming us straight into battle beneath the harsh, bright light.
The chant rips through the arena, “Let’s go, Wildcats!” and it’s impossible not to catch the fever. This wave of pure adrenaline and excitement sweeps through me and pumps me up.
Yet tonight seems different like there’s an edge to everything.
As we take to the ice, my eyes draw to the stands, searching, even though I know what I’ll find—those same empty seats that mock me every time. And as my gaze confirms what I suspected, the abandonment is a punch to the gut. Did part of me actually think this time would be different? I shove the disappointment down deep. Tonight, it’s about this—the puck and stick, ice and net.
“Let’s show them what we got,” Ryan says, his voice tethering me back to the job at hand.
