Misconducts & Temptation (The Crestwood Elite Hockey Academy #10)

19. Elodie

Chapter 19

Elodie

A lone in Keaton's room, I started to pull on my school uniform I had changed out of before our wedding. It was wrinkled, but I didn't care. The skirt felt like a second skin, its familiar fabric comforting compared to the strangeness around me.

I glanced around the room, taking in my new surroundings. The walls were painted a deep, calming blue, almost like the ocean just before it swallows the sun. Shelves lined one side, filled with books and trophies—hockey awards, mostly—shiny reminders of Keaton's prowess on the ice. A large window allowed sunlight to pour in, casting long shadows across the floorboards.

A massive bed sat against the far wall, neatly made with crisp white linens. The headboard was dark wood, matching the other furniture in the room. A desk cluttered with papers and an expensive-looking laptop occupied one corner. Beside it stood a small table with framed photographs. Curiosity tugged at me, but I resisted the urge to look closer.

This was my new home now. I wasn't sure what to make of it, to be honest. The opulence was overwhelming, almost suffocating compared to my modest bedroom back at my stepmother's house. The air here smelled clean and slightly floral, so different from the faint mustiness of my old attic room.

I sighed and smoothed down my uniform as best as I could, trying to push away the sense of unease that gnawed at me.

I ran my fingers through my hair, the strands still slightly tangled from the night's events. My gaze drifted to the bed, and I noticed a small, dark stain on the otherwise pristine white sheets. My face burned with embarrassment, but I couldn't deny the curiosity bubbling up inside me.

Memories of what Keaton and I had done last night flashed through my mind. I could still feel the soreness in my body, a lingering reminder of our intense encounter. Despite the awkwardness, a part of me admitted that I had liked it—more than liked it.

Just as I was lost in thought, the door swung open and Keaton walked in. His sharp features were drawn tight with frustration, his piercing blue eyes almost stormy.

"Let's go," he said gruffly, not meeting my eyes.

I quickly grabbed my bag and followed him out of the room. The tension between us was palpable as we walked through the hallway, passing paintings and antique vases that looked too expensive to even touch.

The house was silent except for our footsteps echoing off the marble floors. It felt like walking through a museum—cold, distant, and devoid of warmth. I kept my eyes downcast, trying to match Keaton's brisk pace without tripping over my own feet.

We reached the front door, and he held it open for me. The cool morning air hit my face as I stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. The driveway stretched out before us, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and expensive cars.

His frustration seemed to hang in the air between us like a storm cloud ready to burst. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other as we made our way down the steps.

The reality of our situation hit me all over again—this was my life now, intertwined with his in ways I couldn't yet comprehend.

"I'm going to make some calls and get your name changed on your documents," Keaton said as he pulled out of the garage. "What time is class over?"

Before I could respond, my phone rang. He furrowed his brow. "Who the fuck is calling you?"

I glanced at the screen. "My stepmother."

He said nothing, just looked straight ahead.

I answered it. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" she demanded. "You didn't show up for your shift at Clean the town blurring past us. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air between us.

We pulled into the school parking lot, the familiar sight of Crestwood Academy's ivy-covered buildings looming ahead. Keaton parked the car and turned off the engine, his intense blue eyes locking onto mine.

"Don't be such a fucking doormat," he said quietly but forcefully. "Don't let anyone treat you that way."

His words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I looked away, feeling a lump form in my throat.

"You don't have to be so cruel about it," I snapped, grabbing my bag.

Keaton's hand shot out, gripping my face with firm fingers, fury in his eyes. "What do you expect? The world is fucking cruel. Deal with it. Push back."

"Fine." I shoved him back, and he let go, his hand dropping to his side.

We stood there, glaring at each other, the tension between us almost tangible. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my heart pounding in my chest.

Without another word, I yanked open the car door and stepped out. The cool morning air hit my face.

"Maybe I'll fucking drive off," he snapped as I slammed the door behind me.

"It wouldn't be the first time someone forgot about me," I retorted over my shoulder. "I know how to survive, with or without you."

With that, I turned and walked towards the entrance of Crestwood Academy, clenching my teeth to keep from saying anything more. The anger bubbled inside me, each step a battle to maintain control.

The ivy-covered buildings loomed ahead, another reminder of the world I was struggling to navigate. As I approached the business building, I couldn't help but glance back briefly. Keaton was still sitting in the car, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

I took a deep breath and pushed through the doors, determined not to let this morning's encounter derail me. My life had always been a series of challenges—this was just another one to overcome.

The halls were relatively quiet. It felt strange to be here after everything that had happened last night. But this was where I belonged, at least for now.

I made my way to class, forcing myself to focus on the day ahead.

I slipped into the back of the classroom, hoping to go unnoticed. Heads turned, whispers filled the air. Everyone's eyes seemed to bore into me, curiosity and judgment written across their faces. Class was a blur, words from the professor blending into an unintelligible hum.

My phone buzzed on the desk, drawing my attention. I glanced down and saw a text from Stephanie:

You conniving little bitch. Is this true?

Attached was a picture of Keaton and me at the courthouse, exchanging rings. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at the screen, my eyes wide with shock.

"Ms. Winters," the professor's voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. "Or should I say Mrs. Douglas?"

The class erupted in oohs and laughter; the noise swelling around me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"I understand congratulations are in order," the professor continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But it would behoove you to pay attention considering this information will be on the final. Save the bedroom chat for the bedroom."

I wanted to sink into my seat and disappear. The weight of everyone's stares pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. I forced myself to look up at the professor, trying to focus on his lecture despite the mortification coursing through me.

Every glance from my classmates felt like a dagger, each whispered comment like a punch to the gut. I clutched my pen tightly, my knuckles turning white as I tried to drown out their voices.

This was supposed to be a fresh start for me—a chance to escape my past and build something new. Now, it felt like everything was unraveling around me.

As the lecture continued, I scribbled notes mechanically, not really absorbing any of it. My mind kept drifting back to that text message and the picture that had turned my world upside down.

I knew I had to face Keaton later and deal with whatever fallout came next, but right now all I wanted was to get through this class without breaking down.

The clock ticked slowly forward, each second feeling like an eternity. All I could do was keep my head down and hope that somehow, I'd find a way through this mess.

Class was finally dismissed, and I quickly gathered my things, desperate to escape the whispers and judgmental glances. But as I stood up, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation behind me.

"I can't believe he chose to marry her over Lola Perez," one girl said, her voice dripping with disdain. "She's not even that pretty, especially not compared to Lola."

"She has to be easy," another voice chimed in. "I mean, if I got even a taste of that Douglas fortune, I'd be on my knees too."

My cheeks burned with humiliation and anger. I clenched my teeth together, forcing myself to stay calm. Without a word, I slung my bag over my shoulder and left the classroom.

The halls were a blur as I made my way to Pandora's Box. The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped inside, a welcome relief from the heat of embarrassment that still lingered on my skin.

I headed straight for the women's locker room, avoiding eye contact with anyone I passed. Once inside, I changed into my work uniform—a simple polo and slacks—hoping the routine would help steady my nerves. I slid off my rings and tucked them safely in my bag. The last thing I wanted was to damage them while I worked.

The familiar scent of the locker room—a mix of sweat and cleaning products—was oddly comforting. I began my usual tasks: folding towels, checking lockers, making sure everything was in order. The repetitive motions allowed me to clear my mind, if only for a moment.

As I worked, the sting of those cruel words still echoed in my head. But there was no time for self-pity; there was always work to be done. I folded towels and checked lockers, but I couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt in my mind. Had I made the right choice by marrying Keaton? The scrutiny, the whispers, the cruel words—had I really thought I could escape all that? I should have known better. Crestwood Academy was a breeding ground for gossip and judgment. Why wouldn't they latch onto the news of my sudden marriage to Keaton Douglas?

I finished my tasks, my mind a tangled mess of regret and uncertainty. Stepping out of the locker room, I paused as a familiar sound reached my ears—the rhythmic thwack of a hockey puck hitting the boards.

I turned toward the ice rink and caught a glimpse of Keaton. He was out there by himself, taking shots at the goal with an intensity that bordered on ferocious. Each movement was precise, controlled—an outlet for his pent-up frustration.

I found myself rooted to the spot, watching him. His sharp features were set in concentration, his tousled blond hair damp with sweat under his sleek black helmet. The way he moved on the ice was mesmerizing, each stride powerful and purposeful.

That's my husband , I realized with a jolt.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Despite everything—the pressure from his father, the arranged marriage to Lola, our own whirlwind union—there was something undeniably captivating about him.

Keaton's final shot hit the back of the net with a satisfying thud, and he skated to a stop, breathing heavily. He leaned on his stick for a moment before looking up and meeting my gaze through the glass.

For a split second, neither of us moved. Then he straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove.

I hesitated before stepping closer to the edge of the rink, unsure of what to say or do. But as Keaton continued to watch me with those eyes, something in his expression softened.

Without breaking eye contact, he skated toward me and stopped just in front of where I stood.

“Like what you see, babes?” he asked with a smirk.

Before I could respond, another figure glided onto the ice. Damien Sinclaire, with his silver-blond hair and stormy blue eyes, skated over with an air of casual confidence.

"Is this the new missus?" Damien asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Fuck off, Sinclaire," Keaton growled, not breaking eye contact with me.

Damien chuckled, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Nice to meet you too," he said, giving me a mocking salute. "You taking her to Windsor's solstice bash?" he asked Keaton.

Keaton shrugged, looking irritated. "Fuck if I know."

"Yeah, true," Damien replied. "I doubt I'd want to bring a ball and chain to that party either. Especially not with the orgies and the fucking that goes on." He smirked and skated off, leaving a trail of ice shavings in his wake.

Keaton grunted in frustration and took off after Damien, leaving me standing alone by the edge of the rink. A surge of possessiveness went through me—unexpected and confusing.

I watched them skate away, my thoughts a whirlwind. What was it about Keaton that elicited such strong emotions in me? And why did Damien's words sting more than they should have?

I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. There were too many questions and not enough answers.

And honestly? I shouldn't care. I made my bed. If this was what it looked like, I needed to lie in it.