Reckless Rebound (The Detroit Serpents #4)

Chapter 1

Billie

Ididn’t mean to show up so late. I’d just left a study group at the library, my brain fried from stats and caffeine, and realized my phone was dying.

Figured I’d swing by Nate’s to grab the charger I left last night — he was supposed to be home, icing his shoulder and laying low before his weekend media circuit.

The elevator felt like it moved through molasses, every ding between floors dragging out the tension already coiling in my gut. I told myself I was just tired. That everything was fine.

But when I stepped inside, the vibe was wrong.

The lights were low and golden — not the harsh LED whites he always swore helped him “stay locked in.” A window was cracked, letting in the muffled sounds of downtown. Someone had lit one of those stupid woodsy candles he hated.

My sneakers squeaked against the tile as I kicked them off.

“Nate?” I called out, my voice slicing through the stillness.

No answer.

The TV was off. Strange, considering he usually fell asleep to game replays or highlight reels. The silence pressed in. The air smelled wrong — perfume, sugary and clinging, something too sweet and heavy for this late at night. Not mine. Not neutral. Like it had been sprayed in a rush.

Then I saw it. A hoodie thrown near the sofa, slouched and crumpled. Not his; I’d never seen that pale pink before. I stooped, stared at it like maybe it would explain itself. A tag stuck out. Some boutique brand I knew he would never wear.

Also, extremely feminine.

Something in my chest twitched. I told myself it was nothing, maybe a friend crashing after a late night. Nate had plenty of those. But that perfume… it clung too close to the doorway leading down the short hallway.

Then laughter — a woman’s. Soft, muffled, someplace behind his bedroom door.

I froze. My hand still gripped my phone, thumb pressing uselessly at the black screen. The laugh came again, higher this time, and then his voice, low and teasing. A pulse beat in my jaw like it wanted out.

I didn’t breathe. I didn’t knock. The handle felt cold when I pushed it down.

The door swung open slow, hinges whining.

Nate turned first. He was propped up in bed, a grin half-finished on his mouth. The sheet tangled around his waist. Her hair spilled over his arm, bright against his skin. They looked caught mid-movie, some private joke just hanging there.

The woman screamed, yanked the sheet up to her chin, eyes wide.

Nate didn’t even flinch. He groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“Fuck, Billie, what are you doing here?”

My throat burned. I couldn’t move. The room seemed to tilt.

He looked bored, like I’d interrupted a commercial.

She shifted beside him, whispering something I couldn’t catch. Her fingers clutched the fabric like it might hide her from what she’d walked into.

He stretched, bare shoulders rolling, then squinted at me. “You gonna stand there all night?”

I wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. All that came out was his name. “Nate.” It sounded foreign, flat.

He smirked. “You forget we’re not married, right?”

“You told me you were home, resting.”

“Guess I changed my plans.”

That perfume clogged the air now. He knew I hated it — it triggered migraines. He used to fling open windows when I even mentioned it.

My voice shook loose. “Who is she?”

He shrugged, looked at the wall. “Doesn’t matter.”

The woman’s eyes darted between us, frightened now. “I didn’t know—”

I couldn’t hear her finish. Every muscle felt locked. My hand shook but I couldn’t drop my phone. The silence stretched thin enough to cut. He was watching me the way people watch fireworks from behind a window — distant, safe, vaguely entertained.

At last he sighed. “It’s not what it looks like.”

That line hit harder than any slap. Not what it looks like. He sat there, still smirking, the sheet slipping to his lap. The lie landed with a dull thud, heavy and final.

I stepped back, tripped on the doorframe. My heartbeat filled the whole space, drowning the city noise, drowning everything except that half-laugh still ghosting around his mouth.

The charger I’d come for lay on the desk beside the bed — the white cord coiled neat. I stared at it, one useless, ordinary thing that hadn’t betrayed me.

The woman turned her face away. Her shoulders trembled.

I crossed the room. Every step sounded too loud. Picked up the charger, shoved it into my pocket. My hands didn’t feel like mine.

Nate leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “Close the door when you leave.”

The sound that tore from me wasn’t words. It was short, ugly, raw. I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I turned, the charger wire tangling around my fingers, and walked out into the silent hall where the perfume couldn’t reach me.

The hallway lights flickered, harsh and sterile after the dim glow of his apartment. My breath came fast, too loud in the stillness. I didn’t look back. Not once.

The elevator loomed at the end of the corridor, its chrome doors dull and warped, throwing back a bent reflection — some twisted version of me, eyes wide and hollow. I jabbed the button.

My phone buzzed before the doors slid open. The vibration rattled through my pocket like a trapped insect.

We should talk. You’re overreacting.

My son, overreacting. The word scraped across my chest. I stared at the message until the letters blurred, then flicked the screen dark and hit airplane mode.

The elevator opened with a tired sigh. Inside, the smell of disinfectant burned my nose — clean, empty, merciful. I leaned against the metal railing, thumb hovering over the photo gallery. I hesitated just long enough to hate the hesitation.

Then I started deleting. Us at Coney Island, wind whipping my hair. Him grinning, sun-cut across his jaw. Our hands — always his idea to take those stupid hand pictures. Gone. One thumb press after another.

The ride groaned downward, floor by floor. My reflection grew sharper in the mirrored panel — just me now. No arm slung around my shoulder, no face leaning into mine. Every ping of deletion felt like a pulse finally syncing with itself.

By the time the elevator reached the lobby, my camera roll looked bare, like someone else’s life wiped clean.

I stepped out into the sharp night air. The city roared — traffic, sirens, laughter from the corner bar — all of it louder than the silence he’d left behind. I let the noise swallow me whole and kept walking.

Hannah opened the door before I even knocked, hair pulled into a messy knot, hoodie swallowing her frame. Behind her, the living room glowed soft with string lights and the faint hum of a kettle. The sight of her—safe, familiar—split something in my chest.

I barely got her name out before my knees gave. She caught me, arms wrapping tight as my chest collapsed into ragged sobs. The sound scraped raw from somewhere deep, all the words I hadn’t said to Nate pouring out in broken gasps.

She eased me inside, shutting the door with her foot.

I tried to speak through the mess of tears. “I walked in on him—with someone else.”

She didn’t answer, just guided me to the couch, pressed a mug into my hands. Her apartment smelled like mint tea and detergent. The silence around me felt heavy, safer than words.

When I could finally breathe, I rubbed at my face. My fingers came away wet and trembling. “I wasted a year on him.” The words landed flat. “A whole damn year.”

Hannah leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes sharp.

“I was never more than his plus-one,” I kept going. “Every time I walked in a room, I was ‘Nate Ransom’s girlfriend,’ not Billie Donovan, not—anything.”

“Billie, don’t—”

“No one even knew I played, Hannah,” I cut her off. My voice cracked. “He’d nod when people talked about my stats, but he never shared them. I sat in interview stands, smiling, clapping, pretending that was enough.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Guess all I was good for was filling a seat.”

She tightened her jaw but didn’t interrupt.

I stared at the tea cooling in my hands.

The reflection of the ceiling lights quivered on the surface.

“He told me he liked how calm I was,” I whispered.

“Not fiery. Not competitive.” I swallowed hard.

“He loved that I didn’t chase the spotlight.

And I believed him. I thought that meant he saw me.

Turns out he just wanted someone smaller than him. ”

Hannah’s hand closed over mine. Her nails pressed firm into my skin, anchoring me. “Listen to me,” she said, voice low but steady. “You are Billie fucking Donovan.”

I looked up.

“You are not an accessory. You are a weapon on the ice, and he was holding you back.”

Something in her tone cracked open the shell I’d built around myself. My throat tightened all over again.

She didn’t stop. “You used to come over talking stats—your shot accuracy, your penalty kills, every stupid detail. You went on about the league draft board, about making the national team.” Her eyes locked on mine. “That girl—the one who lived and breathed the game—she’s still here.”

I shook my head. “I haven’t been focused on the team. I should have done more off-ice prep, especially with a new coach coming tomorrow—"

“Don't worry about that now,” she shot back. “You think Nate’s the reason you mattered? You were outscoring half your line before he even noticed you.”

Her words hit like cold air after a long dive. My chest hurt, but not from crying anymore.

The hum of the kettle stopped. Steam drifted between us. I wiped at my face again, breath uneven. Hannah leaned back, watching me, waiting for something to shift.

I couldn’t find words big enough. Only the truth that still stung in my ribs.

“I forgot what it felt like,” I murmured. “Playing for me.”

Hannah smiled, small but fierce. “Then it’s time to remember.” She tossed the damp tea towel over her shoulder like a warning flag. “You’re not staying in here all night smelling like heartbreak and mint leaves,” she said. “We’re going out. Fresh air, new makeup, no exes in sight.”