Cold air skims my face, reminding me of the heat behind our kiss mere minutes ago. An instant, hollow ache slams into my chest, expanding like an expanding drop of ink blotted on a piece of tissue. My muscles tighten, and any relaxed and warm feeling that was lingering from my orgasm has gone, replaced by even more fucking shame.
I stare at the still-fogged up windows, a sinking sensation taking over my body. It’s for the best. Resetting boundaries, expectations, and laying down the understanding that it won’t be happening again. It can’t. We aren’t a good idea. The sooner he accepts that and moves on, the better.
My fingers drift to my lips, ghosting where his mouth was pressed against mine. The stifling scent of cinnamon in the car makes my stomach clench, lurching against the familiar warmth that’s normally so comforting. If it’s for the best, then why the hell does it feel like this?
CHAPTER 18
Xavier
New year, new me!
Except it’s the same fucking year, and the heaviness in my limbs reminds me that I’mdefinitelythe same old me.
But not for tonight, not for this game. Here and now, I’m a new man. No more pining or obsessing over an emotionally stunted, sexually suppressed millionaire.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I slunk out of Artemis’s car like it was on fire and drove my ass home. I had intended on spending the night, preferably at the hot enforcer’s apartment, but after hisIt’s not like thatdeclaration, I opted to hit the road, instead.
My game day ritual today has been fucked up because I didn’t get home until nearly morning, and I needed to bag at leastsomesleep before I hit the ice tonight.
But I don’t care. Rituals be damned. Superstition be damned. Because I fucking said so. Tonight is going tos-l-a-p. Warmup was great, and so far, Coach has opted to keep me on the first line. This is where I prove to him it’s where I belong.
I win the opening face off. I snap the puck back, cutbetween their D before they even know I’m there, and call for the return pass. Nate feeds it to me, and I toe-drag their captain so hard he actually looks behind him for the puck. I rip a far-side wrister that rings off the post and drops behind their goalie like a guillotine.
The biscuit rattles around in the basket, and within seconds, strong arms wrap around me in a bone crushing hug. The air is compressed out of me as my teammates celebrate like it’s game seven of a tied Stanley Cup finals.
“Dude, who pissed in your skates?” Nate shoves my shoulder.
“Shut up and keep up.” I ignore his concerned stare and skate back to the bench. By the start of the second, I’ve scored two goals and bagged an assist, too.
On my next shift, I pick off a breakout pass that wasn’t even meant for me, steal it clean, and burn down the ice. Their biggest defenseman tries to line me up, but I cut inside so sharply his stick snaps on my hip. ‘Try again, sweetheart,’ I chirp, but the ref warns me before I can finish the insult.
My legs burn, sweat streams down my face, and myfuck youattitude is firmly in place. It’s fine. I’m fine. Whatever. I’m scoring goals because I’m talented, not because I’m spiraling over a man who said, ‘it’s not like that.’
Every goal isn’t just a 'fuck you' to Artemis; it’s a line in a resume I’m building for a city where the fans don't know Roman's name yet.
His face flashes in my mind, all reserved, hell bent on sticking to the rules, and so fucking frustratingly calm. Just like Artemis. I hit harder, skate faster, chirp louder, and when I get rammed into the boards so hard I see stars, I can’t help but grin.
Next shift, I return the favor. I shoulder-check their center so perfectly his helmet pops. He screams something in my face, and I smile with blood in my teeth, daring him to take aswing. He almost does—until he clocks my grin and realizes that’s exactly what I want so he skates away instead.
The more I taunt our opponents, the more they suffer. Power play after power play because they just keep targeting me. I keep parking myself in the goalie’s crease, tapping the ice, humming a little tune that drives their defense insane. One of them shoves me, I fall theatrically, and the ref’s arm shoots up. I wink at the guy who pushed me on my way to the bench.
Cross-check, hook, high stick, even spearing. I’m invincible. Okay, fine, my ribs ache from the hits.
The spear came when I cut across their slot and dared their winger to keep up. The cross-check? That was from their assistant captain after I dangled him twice in one shift. And the high stick? Pure frustration from a defenseman I’d victimized on both of my goals.
But we’re winning. And I fucking love winning. The opposition don’t even bother pulling their goalie late in the third, there’s no point. It’s a massacre. I think the only player on our team that hasn’t gotten a point during this game is Colton, our goalie.
I can’t remember a time my muscles were this hot and loose. In the last minute, I steal the puck behind their net, skate a full circle around their zone just because I can, and fire a no-look pass that Oliver buries. The arena detonates.
I throw my arms up and let the noise wash over me like rocket fuel. The Madison crowd is different—louder, rowdier, the kind of fans who bleed blue and white and expect nothing less than an absolute barn burner on home ice.
I get the first star of the game. My teammates shower me with adoration and head pats. And someone mentions dessert. I’m momentarily drowning in the scent of cinnamon, the tart explosion of apples on my tongue wrapped in a buttery, pastry casing. Shit. Shaking my head doesn’t clear the sensory reminder that there’s only one dessert I want. And he’s inanother state re-building his internal walls becauseIt’s not like that.
On my way into the locker room, Coach stops me. “Good game, son.” His tone says, ‘well done.’ His eyes say, ‘do it again.’ That’s the curse of being good—you don’t get praise, you get expectations. And they’re often set too high on purpose.
I nod at him. “Coach.”
“Go get cleaned up.” He points at my lip that’s still trickling blood down my chin. “Looks like you need a stitch.”
