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I toyed with the hem of Dalton’s shirt, mind whirling with what’d just happened. “Not a damn clue.”

THIRTY-NINE

DALTON

YES, I KNOW IN HOCKEY THEY WOULD HAVE MORE THAN ONE PRESEASON GAME, BUT COME ON, WE BOTH KNOW THIS IS FICTION AND YOU’RE HERE FOR HOT FICTIONAL PEOPLE.

We’d won the preseason game 2–1. It wasn’t perfect, but I felt good about our performance on the ice. Nashville was a solid mid-tier team, and it’d been a good gauge of where we needed to tighten up before the season opener against San Jose in a week.

The first goal had come off a setup from Jimenez. A crisp tape-to-tape pass from the blue line to Roberts, who read the play perfectly and deflected it past their goalie. Ari would be pumped to know that Monroe took her advice and put him in. Watching the rookie celebrate with the stupid goofy grin that could split his face in two was a highlight of the night.

Second one was a dirty goal from a scramble in front of the net.

I was tied up with their center, but Stephens fought through the traffic, poked the puck loose, and slammed it into the back of the net. The bench erupted in cheers when he threw his arms in the air and yelled like we’d won the damn Stanley Cup.

But there were cracks we couldn’t ignore.

Our transition game was sloppy at times, and we struggled to connect on some breakout plays. Nashville didn’t capitalize on it, but a team like San Jose would eat us alive in those situations. If we could work out the kinks in practice, we’d be ready to make waves this season.

The game had gone well, but a rock was still in my stomach.

The walk to my apartment was torturous, and I stretched my arms over my head, trying to release tension in my shoulders and neck.

What if she wasn’t there? What if she’d moved out?

I’d been too chicken shit to ask her before boarding my flight.

Those worries disappeared when I pushed the door open, but a whole new set of emotions I hadn’t anticipated facing soon took their place.

Now I wished she’d left.

Rejection hit me in the solar plex, all the heat leeching my body, leaving nothing but a cold shell.

It was like the night I’d come home to the note from Emma breaking things off with me, yet somehow so much worse. A million different scenarios had run through my head on the plane of what I’d find when I came home, but none of them were of me stopped dead in my tracks, listening to Ari’s grunts and moans coming from my living room.

Sounds that I wanted to be the one to pull from her pouty lips.

Not whoever the fuck it was she had in there with her. I was stripped raw at the idea of her with someone else. I’d thought I’d had more time to convince her to give us a real shot. Thought I’d notice a change in our relationship. But apparently I was seeing things that weren’t there—hoping for things that weren’t real.

The pathetic part? I still wanted to convince her to give me a shot.

Pain radiated from where my nails bit into my palms as I stood there trying to decide if I should barge in and break up whoever she was with or turn back around and go black out at a bar. My jaw ticked when another grunt taunted me.

Fuck that.

There was no way I was letting another man fuck her in my house.

“Ariella!” My voice boomed through the apartment, and I stormed toward the source of the sounds, practically putting my feet through the floor with each step. Asshole better start running because when I got a hold of him, I was going to put my fist into his face. “I know you might not think we are really dating, but you’re mine, and I thought I’d made that fucking cle⁠—”

Oh.

There she sat in the living room, legs sprawled out in front of her on the floor, her long hair pulled up in a knot on the top of her head, showing off the long line of her neck, staring up at me with wide eyes, two little lines creased between her brows.

She wasn’t with someone.

She was alone, if you didn’t count the foam roller, and in my shirt.

Instead of the possessive feelings subsiding, it was as if they’d gathered momentum at the sight. I fisted my hands at my side, but not out of anger. Now, it was to try and control the urge to reach for her. To trace my hands along the tan, muscled lines of her legs.