Chapter 18
BENNETT
Istep into the white lights of the arena, the cold air punching into my lungs. The scent of fresh popcorn filters down from concessions, mixing with the crisp scent of freshly plowed ice. The whole place hums like it always does on game night. The crowd, the blaring music, bright lights and energy.
Shoulders squared, jaw tense, every cell in my body’s alive.
Electric. Charged.
I walk toward the locker room, head held high.
I’m back.
The media’s already camped out in the mixed zone area, the dark blue Coastal Crushers backdrop covering the cinder block wall. A strip of black masking tape cuts across the concrete floor, cameras set up behind the tape. There’s a row of folding chairs, reporters ready and waiting.
Prince is there, standing behind the cameras. Harbor’s assistant, Julianne, holds a clipboard and chats with a blonde woman holding a microphone.
And there’s Tori. Standing off to the side, her dark hair pulled up in some kind of fancy twist. She’s in that same tight black pencil skirt, with a white gauzy blouse and heels.
My chest does something complicated.
She glances up at me and our eyes lock for a quick second before she ducks her head, checking her phone.
There it is.
I bite back a grin. Tori’s rattled — and it’s game time in more ways than one.
I step into the area and reporters jump up, the cameras blinking red.
Show time.
“Bennett will take questions for two minutes.” Julianne holds up two fingers. “Then he has to get ready for warm-ups.” She steps aside and I face the reporters, rolling my right shirt sleeve up to the elbow to match the left. Perfect symmetry.
Control.
“Evening.” I tip my chin at the crowd, expression neutral.
“Bennett,” the blonde reporter waves at me. “Back in the lineup tonight.”
I flash a quick smile. “That’s the plan.”
“You’re eligible to play after coming off league probation. Do you regret what happened?” She shoves the microphone at me and I try not to flinch.
“I regret that it escalated. I’ve taken responsibility for my actions. I respect the league’s process and I’m focused on my team.”
I add nothing, spit out the lines like we rehearsed.
“Some fans are calling you a hero. Others are calling you reckless.” Another reporter jumps in. “What do you say to that?”
My jaw tightens, but my tone stays even. “I mean — obviously I prefer hero. But I’m not discussing a private situation. I’m here to play hockey.”
Shit.
Off-script. Prince bristles behind the reporter, scowling.
“What did you learn from probation?” A short, balding dude throws out the question.
I recite the exact words I practiced with Tori. “Accountability. Discipline.”
Then, because I’m an idiot and can’t help myself, I add, “Control.”
It’s the truest thing I’ve said this entire interview.
Tori’s fingers slide back and forth along her gold chain.
Once. Twice.
She doesn’t dare catch my eye.
Julianne flashes her fingers at me, signaling the two-minute mark.
The short dude keeps going, ignoring the time restraint. “Are you worried something like that might happen again?”
“No. I’m locked in.”
Julianne steps forward, shutting down the interview. “That’s all the time we have.”
The cameras go dark. Prince glares at me from behind the reporters, a silent warning.
Julianne ushers me away, her hand on my shoulder. I stride down the hallway toward the locker room. I move past Tori, her posture perfect.
“Under control,” I murmur as I pass, low enough that only she can hear.
She bristles slightly. A micro movement, her only tell.
I hustle away before I do something that proves I’m lying.
The locker room’s loud, reeking of sweat and disinfectant, rock music bouncing off the tile walls. The boys are already halfway dressed as I hustle over to my locker to get ready.
Weston elbows me as I punch in the code. “Look at you — the new media darling.”
“What can I say? The cameras love me.” I toss my gear into the locker and unbutton my shirt.
“Happy you’re back. We’re gonna go out there and kick some ass tonight.”
“Absolutely.” I hang my shirt and jacket on a hook, shove my dress pants into the locker.
“The boys are back together again.” Callum slaps me on the back, grinning.
“About fucking time.” I throw my jersey over my head, adrenaline pumping through me. “Probation was boring as shit.”
Not totally true.
I flash back to movie night with Tori, the elevator.
A sharp clap jolts me back to reality. “Team huddle. Now.”
Coach Keller’s voice cuts through the noise and someone turns the music down. We all close our lockers, get quiet.
“I expect us to go out there and win. Denver’s tough, but we’re tougher. We have the entire lineup here—” He cuts his eyes at me. “So I know we’ll do great things. No hero shit. We play—and win—as a team.”
Heard.
“Run the plays we practiced. If we play the game we practice, we win.”
“Yes, Coach.” The locker room murmurs in unison, Callum’s eyes shifting to mine.
Like he knows I might not follow directives.
Control.
“Alright, let’s get out there and win.” Coach breaks the huddle and we file out of the locker room in a cloud of testosterone and nerves.
I’m almost to the ice when I spot her.
She’s at the end of the tunnel, tapping away on her phone.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I walk by, pretending not to notice her.
She glances up. I shouldn’t look.
So of course I do.
Her gaze snags on mine for half a second, the tip of her tongue flicking over her bottom lip. She swallows hard, eyes dropping back down to her phone like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Fuck me.
I roll my shoulders and hop the gate. My stick’s light in my hands, blades gliding over the ice.
Warm-ups are a blur of laps, shots, and noise.
Muscle memory kicks in as I skate, cold air filling my lungs.
I’m loose as I slap the puck into the net, the crowd loud behind me.
I scan the owner’s suite once. Find her. Eyes back on the ice.
Then the lights dip, the anthem plays, and everything gets sharp.
It’s go time.
The puck drops and I’m laser focused. It comes my way, the vibration traveling up the stick as I make contact and send it to Morrison, slicing across the ice. The lights and the crowd fade into the background and it’s just my stick, the puck, and my teammates.
We go back and forth, cycling it to Weston. I’m moving toward the net, locked in, total tunnel vision.
Weston snaps a shot and the lights flash blue and white.
Goal.
My chest explodes, all the built-up tension from the last few weeks escaping.
We score within the first two minutes and I grin all the way to the bench.
I’m back, baby.
Second period and Denver’s getting desperate. One of their forwards shoves me after the whistle, chirping in my ear. Anger surges through me and my knuckles flex—old habits. I want to throw an elbow, maybe a punch.
No hero shit.
Tamping down my instinct, I push him off and skate away. Swallow down the insult and focus on winning the game.
Next shift, the puck rifles toward me. I stickhandle, gliding down the ice with Morrison covering high. A defender steps up, but I take the shot.
The puck slides into the net, beating the goalie.
The crowd’s roar vibrates in my bones.
Score.
Weston and Morrison chest bump me and I pump my fist in the air, victorious.
Third period. Denver’s frustrated and it shows. A guy takes a run at Weston along the boards and everything goes sideways — sticks jabbing, gloves grabbing jerseys. I’ve rarely seen my brother so keyed up, nostrils flaring and face red.
I’m there in two strides, chest heaving, ready to defend. Hands itching to do what they usually do — make contact.
My eyes flick to the tunnel. And there she is. Calm, controlled.
Not panicked, not pleading.
Watching.
Under control.
I grab Weston’s shoulder and pull him back. Then skate away before the refs decide I’m part of the problem.
After that, we lock it down. Denver presses, throwing everything at the net.
Shot after shot gets sent, absolute chaos in front of Callum.
I take a puck off the shin pad and hot pain flares.
I ignore it, cycling the puck back to Weston, and we survive the last frantic minutes.
Holding them off, the clock ticks down one second at a time.
When the final horn sounds, the entire bench explodes.
Win in regulation.
I’m back where I belong. Breath coming hard, adrenaline coursing through me. Buzzing like a damn live wire.
I step off the ice and head toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd echoing in my ears. All I can think about is finding her before the win burns off.
And there she is. Standing in the hallway, calm, controlled.
But with a smile on her beautiful face that hits harder than the win.
“Nice game, Steele.” Quiet, matter-of-fact.
I step closer to her, fingers itching to touch her.
“Thanks. Told you — under control.”
Pink stains her cheeks, one hand flying up to her necklace.
Several teammates push by, their voices loud. Interrupting the moment.
“Post-game meeting.” I nod my head in the direction of the locker room. “I gotta go.”
“Right.” She smooths her skirt down. “I’ll see you later then.”
I’m dying to lean in and kiss her, right here in the tunnel.
Control.
No fucking way.
“Yeah. Later.”
Before I do anything reckless, I tip my chin at her and duck into the locker room to shower and change.
The locker room’s loud and rowdy, alive with the charged energy of a win. I hit the showers and wash off the sweat, the warm water kneading my tight muscles.
I towel off and throw on my post-game uniform sweats, still amped.
“Great game tonight, bro.” Weston slugs me in the biceps. “Thanks for the assist. Number twenty-two was a real asshat.”
“No prob. I wasn’t letting that guy get the best of us.”
Callum slides up, crashing down onto the bench. “Dude, it’s like you’re evolving or something.” His lips tip into a smirk and I resist the urge to pummel him.
“Fuck off, Goalie Boy.”
He shrugs. “Just sayin’. Probation must have really worked. Or maybe it was something — or someone — else?” He arches a brow at me, then flicks his eyes to Weston. Like they’ve been talking about this.
“Like I said — fuck off.”
Coach Keller flashes the locker room lights, interrupting the grilling. I’m safe — for now.
“Good win, boys. Two points. We close it out like that every night. Steele — welcome back. Good goal. Stayed under control.” He pins his eyes on me from across the bench. “Keep it that way.”
I nod, my chest tight. Like I’m in a pressure cooker or something.
“Don’t party too hard tonight. Early practice tomorrow.” Coach drops his warning, then leaves as the volume picks up again.
“You coming out?” Callum adjusts his ball cap, picks up his duffel. “Now that you’re out of jail, figure you’re itching to party.”
Weston and Callum both stare at me, waiting.
But the image of Tori pops into my head. Cheeks flushed, those dark red lips begging to be kissed.
I shrug. “Nah. Prince and Coach are still keeping tabs on me. I’m gonna keep it tight for a minute or two. Don’t want them to have anything on me.”
Weston arches a brow high but doesn’t comment. Callum shoves a hand into his hoodie pocket.
“Suit yourself.” He and Weston take off and I grab my bag, heading to the employee parking garage.
Most of the lot’s empty, the arena staff cleared out for the night. Car doors bang shut as my teammates take off for food and beers to celebrate the win. I unlock my Bronco and toss my bag into the back.
“Hey.” Tori’s voice is quiet, echoing off the pavement. I wheel around to face her, my palm resting on the open door.
“Hey. Thought you’d be gone by now.”
She closes the distance between us, her heels clicking softly in the vacant garage. There’s only one other vehicle in the area and it’s hers.
“I had some business to take care of.”
“Where are the babysitters?” I do a quick survey of the area. Knox and Bishop are nowhere to be seen.
“Back at the condo. I told them I’ve got it.”
She’s been waiting in the dark parking garage alone.
Something tightens in my chest and it has nothing to do with the game.
“Hmm.” I lean back on my SUV, one foot propped on the running board, acting way more casual than I feel with her body only inches away.
“You looked good out there tonight.” She flicks her eyes up to mine. “Under control.”
The way she says those words, low and sultry, has me untethering on the inside. I fight the urge to reach out and grip her hips, pull her to me.
“Told you I was locked in.”
“You proved it.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and I shove off the SUV, straightening up and putting less distance between us. Her pulse ticks in her delicate neck, that freckle taunting me.
I should leave it alone. Get in the car, drive home. Let it be what she said it was.
“Listen—” I inch closer to her, heart hammering against my ribcage. “I don’t know what we’re doing here.”
She’s quiet for a beat, the low thrum from a distant industrial fan the only sound in the garage. Her eyes drop down to my chest, then back up. Like she’s weighing something.
She bites at her lip, making tiny indents with her teeth. “I know I said nothing happened…” Her breath hitches and I hold mine, waiting. “But that was a lie.”
I lean forward, my face inches from hers, her long lashes fluttering.
“Say the word and I’ll stop.” My voice is husky with need as her lips part on a shaky breath.
She nods and I drop one hand to her waist, yanking her flush against me. My other hand finds her jaw, tilting her face up. Her palms press flat against my chest, like she’s not sure if she should pull me closer or push me away.
Then I kiss Tori Prince like my life fucking depends on it.
Hard, deep.
Risky as hell.
She moves her lips against mine. Soft, until they’re not. Her hand fists in my shirt and she kisses me back for one long second before pulling away.
“Not here. Cameras.” Her gaze flicks to the corner of the parking garage, the ever-present red glowing eye mounted on the wall.
Spinning on her heel, she walks to her Rover, hips swaying side to side.
I don’t move.
Just stand there frozen, blood roaring in my ears, watching her slip into her car.
Like a damn idiot.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out.
Sunshine: My place in 10
My night got a whole helluva lot more interesting.
I slide behind the wheel, one hand stretched across the seat, and ram the Bronco into reverse.
I can’t get home fast enough.