Or maybe I'd just torched the one friendship I'd managed to build here.
I leaned back against the wall, metal cool through my shirt, and tried to gather the scattered pieces of my composure. I couldn't go back to the café like this. Couldn't face Jenna's knowing looks or the possibility of players making comments or worse—Rhys walking past and seeing exactly how wrecked I was.
Just a minute. I needed one minute to pull myself together.
The overhead lights buzzed their relentless frequency. Someone laughed in the distance. A door slammed. Normal sounds from a normal game day that I was no longer part of because I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross and now everyone knew.
My hand drifted back to my neck. Found the tender spot. Pressed gently.
Rhys had done this. Marked me. Claimed me in a way that left physical evidence I couldn't hide or deny.
Part of me wanted to be furious with him for being careless.
The rest of me remembered exactly how it had felt when his mouth had found that spot—his teeth grazing, his tongue soothing, the growl that had vibrated through his chest when I'd gasped his name.
My breathing hitched for entirely different reasons.
I dropped my hand fast, as if touching the mark might summon him.
One more breath. One more second of hiding in this hallway before I had to face the consequences of wanting someone I'd promised myself I wouldn't want. Then I'd go back. Fix my hair better this time. Survive the rest of my shift. Pretend my world hadn't just shifted on its axis for the second time in twenty-four hours.
The shadow fell across the hallway before I registered movement.
My spine went rigid. Heart kicking against my ribs hard enough to bruise. Some primal part of my brain screamed danger before conscious thought could catch up.
I turned slowly.
My father stood at the end of the hallway.
Alone.
Blocking the exit.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting his face in harsh angles that made his smile look like something carved from stone. Cold fury lived behind his eyes—the kind I'd learned to recognize as a child, the kind that meant I'd done something wrong even when I hadn't.
Everything inside me went ice-cold.
"There you are." His voice carried that false warmth he'd always used in public. Reasonable. Concerned. The tone that fooled neighbors and teachers and anyone who didn't know what happened behind closed doors.
My hand found the wall behind me. Fingers pressed flat against cool metal, needing something solid because my knees had gone liquid.
"How did you—" The words died in my throat.
He stepped closer. One measured pace. Then another.
The hallway narrowed. Or maybe my vision did. Everything compressed down to the space between us—too small, shrinking with every second. The distant sounds of the arena faded until all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and his footsteps echoing off linoleum.
"You think you can just disappear?" His smile never wavered. "Think some washed-up hockey player scares me?"
Another step.
My throat closed. Breathing became a conscious effort—in, out, in—each breath shallow and insufficient.
"I'm not going anywhere with you." The words came out steadier than I felt. Small victory. Useless victory.
"That's where you're wrong, sweetheart." The endearment curdled in my stomach. "You're coming home. Where you belong."
He moved faster than I remembered. My body reacted before my mind caught up—pure survival instinct honed from years of reading his moods, anticipating his movements, knowing exactly when to run.
