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NM: You are stalling.

Bennett: No. I’m busy. It’s not the same thing.

NM: Do you think I give a shit about your schedule?

Bennett clenched his jaw. Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, he typed out a sarcastic reply. I figured you had it memorized, he wrote. With the way you stalk me and all.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Bennett had nearly finished brushing his teeth when the next message arrived.

NM: Dai, Bennett

NM: Did you forget what this is? Did you think it was more than a fuck?

Bennett gripped the phone tightly, so tight he was surprised it didn’t crack in half. The fucking asshole. Of course Bennett didn’t think it was something more. He wasn’t stupid, he knew why Nico had come that night—to show Bennett the photos and press for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he used sex as a motivator. It had been transactional, not emotional.

But, so what? All of Bennett’s sex was transactional—not for money or information, but a simple trade of orgasms. It wasn’t romantic or meaningful, just release. Which was all he could handle at the moment.

Rinsing his mouth, he returned his attention to his phone. I know exactly what it was, he wrote.

NM: Then I don’t need to tell you we aren’t finished

Was he talking about Bennett giving Nico a name? Or having sex again? Bennett wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t doing either.

Bennett: We are finished

Bennett: And I’m blocking your number

NM: It wouldn’t matter if you did

NM: And stop lying to yourself

Bennett: How am I lying?

NM: We both know if I offered to fuck you again that you would not hesitate

The idea that Marzano was probably right was humiliating—and infuriating. Yet Bennett couldn’t deny it. The sex had easily been the best of his life. He didn’t know if it was because it was Nico or the danger or the edging . . . or maybe all of the above.

But why did everything come down to sex with this guy? Were all mafia dons this constantly horny?

“Hey, Cap!” a voice called outside his door before a knock sounded.

Bennett flipped his phone down, even though whoever was on the other side of the door obviously couldn’t see anything. Feeling idiotic, he got up and went to open the door. He found Alex Sewell, one of the rookie wingers, waiting in the hall. “What’s up, Welly?”

“So, Mac has this club that he knows about here. I know you said not to go out tonight, but⁠—”

“It’s almost curfew and we have an early flight. No going out.”

“Look, I know it’s late, but come on. Just for a few hours. Please?”

“Once we land in Minnesota, we have practice then the rest of the day and night off. Plenty of time to go out there.”

Sewell’s hands came up, prayer style. “But it’s not that late. And Minneapolis will be cold as shit. Please?”

“No one is fucking going out,” Bennett snapped. “This is a job, Alex, not a non-stop party. You’re getting paid to win games, so go back to your room and go to sleep.”

“Fine, okay. Jesus.”

Shoulders sagging, Sewell turned and went down the hall toward his room, and Bennett shut the door. Did these kids have no sense of responsibility? Didn’t they want to win? Sewell’s time would be better spent studying game film of every goalie in the league, learning their weaknesses and habits, than doing shots and hooking up at bars.