Chapter 17
TORI
Oh my god.
I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, the columns of data on the spreadsheet a blur.
I kissed Bennett Steele in the elevator at the arena.
Where he works.
Where my father works.
I’m losing control—of myself, the situation.
Of my whole damn life.
My pulse ticks in my throat like a warning light. I force my fingers back to the keyboard. Inputs. Outputs.
Anything that isn’t his mouth on mine.
It can’t happen again.
I have to pull myself together.
I’ll blame it on the Florida heat. It’s made me feral or something.
I was understandably upset about my job. Bennett—and his large, beautiful muscles—was there. He was so close to me, there was so much heat between us.
I couldn’t resist.
But it was a one-time slip up. An oopsie that won’t happen again.
Besides, he went ice-cold on me afterwards. Probably wouldn’t have checked in if I hadn’t texted him. And he’s been silent for the past three days.
Which makes my chest ache a little, if I’m being honest. I kinda got used to the guy being around, tormenting me with his stupid GIFs, the obnoxiously loud rock music and sarcastic jabs.
I miss him.
No.
I shut down this line of thinking and get back to my spreadsheet. I need to stay focused on work. My real work, not the ridiculous babysitting gig my father foisted on me.
I’ll stick around for the next week or two. Make sure Bennett’s behaving himself. Then I’ll jet back to Manhattan and forget all about this.
About him.
A sharp pang radiates through me and I hate myself for it.
Don’t get attached. Nothing good comes from it.
My phone buzzes on the desk and I scoop it up.
Daddy: Local media wants a two-minute spot with Bennett before the game tonight
Daddy: I need you on that. Harbor’s not the right person for the job, given her involvement
Fuck my life.
So much for keeping my distance.
Tori: Fine. Has PR prepped him at all?
Daddy: Yes. But be there for optics. Coach Keller and I will also join
Wonderful.
I’m going to have an audience, too.
Tori: Got it
I toss the phone down on the desk, nerves already humming. So much for keeping my distance. All I need to do is limit liability, make sure he doesn’t go off-script and say anything to hurt the team—or himself.
Taking a deep breath, I text Bennett.
Tori: You have a 2-min media spot before game tonight. We need to prep
I hit send and wait, my heart hammering.
Bennett: I went over my statement with Harbor
Tori: Good. But we should still run through it
Bennett: Is this a request? Or a demand?
Tori: Which do you prefer?
Bennett: Request
Tori: Fine. It’s a request
Bennett: When? I’m heading to arena in an hour
I hesitate. Meeting at the arena would be safer. The smarter move.
Tori: Now’s fine with me
Bennett: You know where I live
Okay. I guess we’re doing this right now.
I hit save on my document and shut my laptop. Smoothing my skirt, my stomach flutters.
Calm down.
This is a professional visit, nothing more.
Knox stands watch outside Bennett’s condo. He tips his chin in acknowledgement but says nothing.
I knock on the door and wait, heat blooming in my chest, heart racing.
Bennett cracks the door open and walks away without a word.
Three days and he looks exactly the same. Impossibly tall, light scruff, soft curls flopping over his forehead. Dress pants and a tight white T-shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the veins popping in his forearms.
With a quick breath, I shove inside, trying to remain calm and professional. He avoids my gaze.
Unlike the other night, his place is tidy. No dishes in the sink or half-drunk protein shakes on the counter. His gear’s stacked neatly by the door, ready to go. Sunlight’s streaming through the open windows and classical music drifts through the air.
“You look ready.”
“I’m fine. Going through my pre-game routine.”
“I didn’t take you for a classical music guy.”
“Calms the nerves. Helps me loosen up.”
“Right.”
He folds his arms over his broad chest. “What do you want to practice?”
My mind jolts back to the elevator. His arms flexing against me, his smell invading my senses. Those full lips moving on mine.
A hot blush stains my cheeks and I fiddle with my necklace.
“I…um…the press. What did Harbor tell you to say?”
He shrugs. “The bare minimum. I took responsibility for my actions. I’m focused on hockey and my teammates. I respect the league’s process. Shit like that.”
“Great. That all works.” I swipe my clammy hands on my skirt and try not to stare at his mouth.
It’s damn hard.
Especially now that I know what that mouth tastes like, feels like.
Heat pulses between my legs and I glance away. I’m in dangerous territory right now, scrambling to maintain professionalism.
I clear my throat. “How do you feel?”
“Locked in.”
“Good. Let’s do one run-through. No freelancing.”
Bennett’s lips twitch. “You gonna play reporter?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask.” He moves past me, grabbing his stick from the pile of gear by the door. He rifles through his duffel bag, pulls out a roll of tape. Saunters over to the kitchen island and leans his stick against the counter.
“Bennett Steele—” I make my voice lower and serious. Reporter-style. “You’re eligible to play tonight after serving a league probation. Do you regret what happened at your house party?”
He picks at the tape, unwinding a long piece. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s got all day.
I try to focus on the task, but my gaze drifts to his hands.
Strong. Powerful.
“I regret that it escalated.” His tone is calm, like he’s practiced. “I’ve taken responsibility for my actions. I respect the league’s process, and I’m focused on my team.”
“Good.” I play with my necklace, still focused on the calculated motions of his hands as they make a clean spiral down the shaft. “Don’t add anything.”
He leans the stick against the island, tape stretched between his hands. Then he dips his head, catches the tape between his teeth, and yanks. The tape tears with a sharp snap and my stomach drops.
“Next question.” My voice wobbles, flustered, as he smooths the edge of the tape down and begins the process all over again.
“Ask.”
“Some fans are calling you a hero. Others are calling you reckless. What do you say to that?”
The corner of his lip tips up. The tape stretches, then gives, and he pulls it taut around the top of the stick.
“I’m not discussing a private situation. I’m here to play hockey.” His voice is even and neutral.
“Perfect.” A rush of relief washes over me. “If they keep pushing for details—”
“I repeat myself. Got it.” He tugs the tape with his teeth again and I’m flushed all over.
“Good. What did you learn while on probation?”
He finally glances up at me. His eyes hold mine—sharp and steady—and for a long second I can’t breathe.
“Accountability. Discipline.” He repeats the words as if he’s reading a cue card.
“Great.”
His mouth twitches. “And I learned that I don’t like being supervised.”
“You can’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “You give the reporters two minutes. Stay safe. Stay boring. Then you’re done.”
He sets his stick down, stepping around the island toward me. “You’re really into control, you know that?” His pupils are dark in the blue pools of his eyes, his body dangerously close to mine.
Heat flashes through me, chill bumps breaking out on my arms. “I’m not letting you tank this on camera.”
“I’m not tanking anything.” He picks the tape back up, tosses it in the air. “You’re the one in my condo, staring at my hands like you forgot how to blink.”
My pulse hammers hard. “I’m not staring.”
His gaze flicks to the gold chain around my neck, caught between my fingers. “Sure.”
I drop the necklace like it burned me. “Ask the question again.”
“I thought you were the reporter.” His voice is teasing.
“I am. And reporters don’t go off-script, get distracted.”
“You sure about that?” He smirks at me and I’m off kilter.
My phone buzzes and I snatch it off the counter, grateful for the interruption. The photo of my father flashes on the screen.
“Daddy?” I answer quickly, my voice bright.
“You with him?”
“Yes.”
Bennett tilts his head toward me and my stomach swoops.
“Good. Coach Keller’s running late. I’ll meet you at the arena. Make sure he sticks to the script.”
“Understood.” I nod, Bennett arching a brow in amusement.
“And Tori?” His tone is sharp, commanding.
“Yes?”
“This is about optics.”
My stomach knots. “Got it.”
Bennett steps closer, his clean scent hitting me and stealing my breath. Standing just close enough that I feel his heat.
“Tell him—” Bennett leans in, his warm breath skating over my skin. “That I’m under control.”
“He’s under control.” My voice comes out strangled, a persistent throb between my thighs.
Bennett’s lips twitch, smirking, and I tighten my grip on the phone.
“Great. See you soon.”
I hang up, setting my phone down with shaky hands.
Bennett doesn’t step back, the classical music still playing in the background. Like nothing’s shifted.
“Optics.” His voice is low, eyes pinned on my mouth. “Right?”
My breath catches and I’m sure he hears it. Giving me away.
“Back up.” The words come out sharper than I intended.
He lifts his hands and takes two steps back.
“Better?”
I nod, heart still racing.
It’s a lie.
It should be better. But it isn’t.
I swallow, straightening my spine and standing tall.
“Stick to the script.”
“I am.” His gaze darkens, landing on mine, and I force air into my lungs.
“Good. I’ll see you at the arena.” With every ounce of energy I have, I hurry to the door.
“Try not to think about the elevator.” His words hit me hard as I open the door.
Heat stabs low in my belly, and the room spins.
“You’re good at optics.” His voice is low and I freeze. “Not as good at lying.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. I step into the hall and slam the door behind me — hating that he’s right.