34. Spring Break My Heart
34
SPRING brEAK MY HEART
SOPHIE
“ T ell me you didn’t.” I stare at my phone in horror as the dating app notification pops up. “Jenna Marie Roberts, tell me you did not just create a Hinge profile for me.”
“What?” Jenna doesn’t even look up from where she’s meticulously organizing her vacation outfits by occasion. Beach Day. Pool Party. Club Night. Walk of Shame. “You’ll thank me when you’re having a hot Miami fling with a Latin lover named Diego.”
“Diego?” I chuck a bikini at her head.
“Fine. Chad the investment banker who has a yacht.” She catches the bikini and adds it to her ‘maybe’ pile. “Though personally, I’m rooting for Diego.”
We’re sitting on my dorm room floor, surrounded by enough swimwear to stock a boutique and the remains of our sad attempt at getting a head start on packing for Saturday’s Miami trip. ESPN drones in the background, the commentators dissecting tomorrow night’s historic game potential.
“The New York Defenders could set a franchise record for most wins in a season,” the anchor announces, “led by Captain Liam O’Connor’s incredible performance these past few weeks...”
I aggressively fold a sundress, definitely not thinking about how good Liam looks in his pre-game interviews. Or how his voice gets all gravelly when he’s tired. Or how he?—
“Stop torturing yourself and look at this.” Jenna shoves her phone in my face. “Your profile’s getting hits already. Ooh, this one’s cute! He’s a resident at Mount Sinai.”
“I don’t need a dating profile.” I groan, flopping onto my back. “I need to focus on med school. And this trip. And?—”
“And forgetting about Liam?” Jenna raises an eyebrow. “That’s exactly why you need this profile. And this.” She holds up the black bikini that barely qualifies as clothing.
Desperate to deflect, I grab my laptop. “When are you going to stop torturing yourself and accept Harvard already?”
“But now that I miraculously got off the waitlist at Stanford,” she pouts, abandoning her meticulous packing system to flop beside me, “we could be together. Living that California dream.”
“Where’s Marc going?”
“Cornell. So maybe I should still pick Harvard?”
I shrug. “Maybe. What does your gut tell you?”
On screen, they’re showing highlights from Liam’s latest practice. He looks exhausted but focused, that intensity that first drew me in radiating through the footage.
Stop it, Sophie.
“Fine,” I say, maybe a bit too loudly. “Show me this dating profile you’ve created for my sexual awakening in Miami.”
“That’s the spirit!” Jenna bounces up, grabbing her phone. “Now I may have taken some creative liberties with your bio.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing bad! Just spiced it up a little. Instead of ‘pre-med student seeking intellectual stimulation,’ I went with ‘future doctor seeking anatomy lessons.’”
“You did not!”
“Kidding! But your face...” She dissolves into giggles. “Though that would probably get more matches than ‘must love color-coded study guides.’”
“I’m deleting this app,” I announce, reaching for her phone.
“No, you’re not.” She holds it out of reach. “You’re going to Miami, wearing this tiny excuse for a bikini, and having the spring break you deserve. And if you happen to meet someone who makes you forget all about?—”
The ESPN anchor cuts in. “Sources say Coach Novak has implemented an intensified training regimen...”
I let Jenna’s chatter wash over me, grateful for the distraction. In less than forty-eight hours, we’ll be on a beach, surrounded by sun and sand, sipping on a cocktail.
“brEAKING NEWS!” The ESPN anchor’s voice jolts through our Miami planning haze. “We’re interrupting our regular coverage with a major development in the New York Defenders PEDs scandal...”
Jenna fumbles for the remote, cranking up the volume.
“Sources confirm the arrest of Alexei Volkov,” the anchor’s voice trembles with barely contained excitement, “one of the most notorious figures in organized crime. For our viewers just tuning in, the FBI and NYPD have been building a case against Volkov for years.”
“But here’s where it gets incredible, John,” the second anchor cuts in. “In what can only be described as an act of extraordinary courage, Defenders captain Liam O’Connor and defenseman Dmitri Sokolov volunteered to wear wires into Volkov’s club. A move that could have—and I cannot stress this enough—cost them their lives.”
“That’s right, Sarah. We’re learning that this breakthrough came courtesy of an unexpected source: Andrei Volkov, the suspect’s own son and, apparently, a lifelong Defenders fan. Sources say the younger Volkov had been secretly gathering evidence against his father’s operation for months.”
“A father-son rivalry that might have saved the sport, John. The FBI confirms they’ve been trying to infiltrate Volkov’s organization, with multiple informants disappearing without a trace. The fact that O’Connor and Sokolov walked out of there alive is nothing short of miraculous.”
My phone explodes with notifications. The family chat lights up:
[Mom]: Are you watching this coverage? I can’t believe it.
[Jessica]: Holy shit this is huge.
[Adam]: The balls to wear a wire into THAT place...
[Dad]: Language, both of you. But yes, incredibly brave. Incredibly stupid, but brave.
[Jessica]: Did you see the part about his son helping them?
[Mom]: I suppose hockey brings out the best in people
[Adam]: Or the worst. Depends which Volkov we’re talking about
[Jessica]: Sophie? You there?
I stare at the messages, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What do you say when you find out the guy who broke your heart has taken down the NYC Russian Bratva?
“They’re saying Volkov threatened his family,” Jenna reads off her screen, voice rising with each word. “Broke into his mom’s apartment.”
A clip starts playing—Liam arriving at practice this morning. He looks exhausted, shoulders heavy, but there’s something lighter about him.
The room spins a little. On screen, they’re showing security footage of what looks like a SWAT team storming a fancy club.
“O’Connor wore a wire into Volkov’s establishment,” the commentator explains, voice practically vibrating with excitement, “risking his own safety to protect the integrity of the sport...”
Three sharp knocks at the door interrupt our daze.
“That must be our takeout.” I jump up and run to the entrance.
But when I open it, my heart stops. Liam fills the doorframe, all six-foot-four of pure perfection. His dress shirt stretches across those ridiculous shoulders, dark hair perfectly messed up like he’s been running his hands through it, jaw shadowed with stubble. But it’s his eyes that get me—that intense blue that somehow manages to be both ice and fire.
“Did our food arrive?” Jenna appears in the doorway to my room, holding mismatched bikinis. “Oh,” she stammers as she spots Liam. “I’ll just give you guys a minute.”
Liam watches Jenna quickly scamper into her room and close the door behind her, then turns to me, locking his eyes on mine. “Angel.”
His voice is rough velvet. Damn him for still having this effect on me.
I grip the door, ready to slam it. “I’m busy.”
“Five minutes.” He braces his hand on the doorframe. “That’s all I’m asking. ”
“I’m packing.”
His eyes flick to the pile of swimsuits scattered on the floor of my room behind me, something dangerous flashing from their depths. “Going somewhere?”
“Miami. Spring break with my friends.” I lift my chin. “Now if you’ll excuse me?—”
“You’re running away.” It’s not a question.
“Running toward something, actually. Sun, sand, cute guys who won’t ghost me after they’ve fucked me a few times?—”
“I had to protect you.” He moves closer, and I hate how my body automatically leans in. “They broke into my mom’s place, Sophie. Left warnings. If anything happened to you?—”
“I understand. Taking down the Russian Bratva? Very impressive. The Olivia Carrington shots were a nice touch too.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know how hard it was staying away from you? Knowing I hurt you?”
“That was your choice,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“I could keep you safe, or I could keep you.” He moves forward again. “I’d do it again.”
“This wasn’t your choice to make.”
“No?” His thumb traces my jaw, and my traitorous heart skips. “Tell me you wouldn’t have tried to help. Tell me you wouldn’t have put yourself in danger.”
I stay silent, because we both know the answer.
“I love you.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket. “I’ve loved you since that first day I saw you, watching you rescue that poor barista from your complicated cappuccino order. Everything else—the Bratva, the press, all of it—was just noise. You’re what matters. ”
My breath catches, and my laugh comes out jagged. “You pursued me for weeks, made me fall for you, then dropped me like yesterday’s news. And now you show up with a love declarationand those eyes and—” I cut myself off, hands curling into fists. “You don’t get to do this.”
“Angel—”
“Don’t call me that.” I try to close the door on him, but his palm slams against it. “I’m going to Miami. I’m going to lie on the beach, drink cocktails, and hook up with a cute guy who’ll know how to worship me.”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Sophie?—”
“You lost the right to have an opinion about my life when you chose to push me away instead of trust me.”
In one fluid motion, he crowds me against the doorframe, his body caging mine. His palm cups my jaw, thumb tracing my bottom lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, and the raw need in his voice steals my air.
Before I can protest, his lips crash into mine. The kiss is pure fire—desperate and demanding and so achingly familiar that my knees give out. His arm snakes around my waist, holding me up as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. He tastes like mint and memories and everything I’ve been trying to forget.
My hands betray me, sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. A groan rumbles through him as I tug, and suddenly he’s pressing closer, his thigh sliding between mine. Every point of contact blazes like a brand.
“Mine,” he rumbles against my lips, and God help me, my body screams yes . His teeth graze my bottom lip, then he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck. “No one else can worship you this way. No one else can make you feel this way.”
My head falls back, giving him better access as my brain short-circuits. His hand spans my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and I whimper.
“Come back to me, angel,” he murmurs into my skin. “You are the girl for me.”
The words act like a splash of cold water.
I plant my hands on his chest and shove with all the force I have in me. “No.”
His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire. “Sophie?—”
“Don’t.” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the pieces he’s cracking. “You don’t get to kiss me like that anymore. “
“Come watch me play tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t send flowers or show up at my door.” My voice breaks on the words, but I force them out. “We’re done.”
When I close the door, my legs give out, and I slide down to the floor. His taste is still on my lips, his scent clinging to my skin. The door vibrates as he rests against it from the other side. For a moment, we breathe together, separated by two inches of wood and an ocean of hurt.
“I meant what I said, angel,” his voice comes through, low and rough. “I love you.”
I press my palm against the door, hating how my hand trembles. Hating how much I want to throw it open and let him catch me again.
“Goodbye, Liam.”
His silence stretches long, and I think he’s gone. Then, so quiet I barely hear it, “I’ll fight for you. Even if you don’t want me to. ”
Footsteps fade down the hallway. Only when they disappear completely do I let out the sob I’ve been holding back.