22. Wyatt
Wyatt
The puck dropped. Everything else fell away. The crowd. The cameras. The arrangement with Chastity that twisted tighter around my chest every day. The revenge plan that had started to taste like ash in my mouth.
None of it mattered.
I became what I'd always been on the ice: The Bounty Hunter. Not the man who held her hair back while she was sick. Not the man who'd kissed her in the parking lot with cameras flashing. Not the man who'd felt his world tilt when she'd pressed her lips to his cheek in the kitchen.
This version? Pure brutality. Earned over years of punishment and pain.
The opposing center tried to push through our defensive line. I caught him mid-stride, shoulder driving into his chest, crushing him against the boards with enough force to shake the glass. The impact reverberated through my bones, through the arena, through everything.
The crowd roared.
I skated away without looking back.
"Nice hit, old man!" Ryker shouted, grinning as he glided past.
I grunted, eyes already tracking the next play.
Second period, their left wing—kid with too much confidence and not enough sense—skated close during a faceoff. His voice was low enough the refs wouldn't hear.
"Heard your little college girlfriend's real sweet. Bet she doesn't know what she's gotten into."
My blood went cold. Then hot.
I didn't respond. Didn't acknowledge. Just filed it away.
Three minutes later, the puck came loose near center ice. The kid went for it.
So did I.
I hit him clean—perfectly legal, perfectly timed—but with every ounce of controlled violence I'd been storing. He went down hard, skidding across the ice like a rag doll.
The whistle blew, but no penalty. Clean check.
I skated away without even glancing at him sprawled on the ice, gasping.
Don't talk about what's mine.
The thought hit before I could stop it, dangerous and possessive and absolutely unwanted.
She wasn't mine. Couldn't be mine. This whole thing was performance, leverage, revenge. Except it didn't feel like any of those things when her face flashed through my mind.
Third period. Game tied. Thirty seconds left.
The puck deflected off a defender's stick, spinning loose near the blue line. I caught it, pivoted, and saw the opening—narrow, closing fast, defended by their goalie who'd been playing lights-out all night.
I wound up for the slapshot. The impact of stick meeting puck cracked through the arena like thunder. The rubber disc flew—a black blur that looked like it could shatter bone—and punched past the goalie's glove into the top corner of the net.
Goal.
The arena exploded.
Sound crashed over me—horns, screams, music, my teammates swarming. Ryker crashed into me first, followed by Jared, both of them shouting something I couldn't hear over the roar.
I lifted my stick, automatic response drilled into muscle memory after hundreds of goals over the years.
But my eyes weren't on my teammates.
They weren't on the crowd.
They tracked instinctively—dangerously—toward the VIP suite.
And there she was.
Chastity. Standing at the glass, hands pressed against it, smiling so wide it lit her entire face. Cheering. Proud.
Proud of me.
Something in my chest twisted, tightened, pulled in a direction I had no business going.
I hated the feeling. But I liked it. But I hated that I liked it.
She waved, small and uncertain, like she wasn't sure I'd see her in the chaos.
I saw her. I always saw her.
And that was the problem.
The cameras clicked like insect wings—constant, invasive, hungry.
I sat in the chair they'd dragged me to, jersey half-peeled to my waist, shoulders still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Sweat cooled against my skin. My hair dripped. Every muscle in my body screamed from three periods of controlled violence.
But I forced myself still. Composed. The predator at rest.
The first reporter didn't waste time. "Wyatt, any comments on the rumors you're dating your ex-wife's company's executive's daughter?"
I let the silence stretch. Long enough they shifted uncomfortably. Long enough the cameras zoomed in tighter.
Then I smiled. Slow. Rude. Deadly charming. "You make it sound complicated. I like her. She likes me. Adults date."
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the room.
Another reporter—younger, hungrier—leaned forward. "But isn't she connected to your ex-wife's merger—?"
I leaned into the microphone, cutting through whatever narrative they were trying to spin. "You're asking the wrong guy. I barely understand my own taxes."
Laughter erupted. Genuine this time. Even a few of the cameramen grinned.
I didn't.
A third reporter tried, voice sharp with that particular brand of accusatory journalism that thought it was clever. "Wyatt, some say the relationship is good PR—"
I cut her off with a look that could break granite.
The room went silent.
"If this were PR, I'd have shaved, and she'd be here looking bored." I paused, let them hang on every word. "But she's not bored with me. Trust me."
Gasps. Scandalized giggles. Someone in the back muttered "holy shit" loud enough I heard it.
I stood, every inch of six-foot-three towering over the podium.
"Next question." Beat. "Actually, never mind. I'm done."
I walked out to reporters shouting after me, questions overlapping into white noise I didn't bother processing.
The locker room door shut behind me with a heavy slam.
Silence. Finally.
I stripped off the rest of my gear mechanically—shoulder pads, shin guards, skates. Every movement automatic after years of routine. But my mind wasn't on the game.
It was on her face pressed against the suite glass. On the way she'd defended me to Barbara. On the kiss she'd pressed to my cheek that still burned like a brand.
I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, head down.
Trust me.
I'd said it to deflect. To charm. To control the narrative. But the truth underneath those words? She did trust me. More than she should. More than was safe. And I was starting to trust her back.
That was going to destroy us both.
I pulled on jeans, still warm from sitting in my bag. Then the hoodie—soft, dark, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and the faint musk of arena sweat that never quite washed out. Coat last, leather worn smooth from years of use.
Hair still damp, dripping cold trails down my neck. Scruff perfect—or close enough. I didn't give a damn either way.
I grabbed my gear bag, shouldered it, and pushed through the locker room door.
The hallway stretched ahead, concrete and fluorescent lights humming overhead. Post-game quiet settling in, just staff and stragglers now. My teammates had scattered already—Ryker dragged off by his girl, Jared hitting up some bar with his girl, Nikolai disappearing like smoke to find his girl.
I replayed the game in my head. Automatic. Always did after wins. The fight. Clean, brutal, necessary. The goal. Upper corner. Textbook.
Her cheering—
Her face pressed to the glass—
The way she'd looked at me like I'd hung the moon instead of just buried a puck in a net—
I shook my head, tried to dislodge the image. Didn't work. Never worked anymore.
I turned the corner toward the exit, boots echoing on concrete. And stopped.
She stood near the player's entrance, arms wrapped around herself against the cold seeping in from outside. That oversized Serpents sweater drowning her frame. Hair slightly mussed from where she'd been pressed against the suite glass. Cheeks flushed—cold or nerves, hard to say.
She saw me. Her eyes went wide. Nervous. Bright.
My chest did something I refused to name. "Hey," she said, voice soft over the hum of overhead lights.
I didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't give a damn who was watching or what cameras might catch it or how many headlines would scream about it tomorrow.
I closed the distance between us in three strides, dropped my gear bag, and grabbed her waist.
She gasped—soft, surprised—and then I pulled her in. Close. Against me. No space. No air. No escape. And I kissed her. Not the careful, calculated kiss outside the charity event with cameras flashing. Not the performative press of lips designed to sell a story.
This?
This was claiming. Possession. Truth I'd been burying under layers of control and revenge and self-preservation.
My mouth moved against hers, demanding, insistent. Her lips parted on a breathless sound that shot straight through my chest, and I deepened the kiss, tasting her—sweetness and shock and something that felt dangerously like surrender.
Her hands fisted in my coat, pulling me closer instead of pushing away. Her body curved into mine like she'd been made to fit there, soft where I was hard, yielding where I was unyielding.
I felt her breath warm against my mouth, felt the tremor that ran through her entire frame, felt every single moment she stopped resisting and just melted.
Heat flooded my system—not just desire, though God knew that was there. But something deeper. Something that terrified me more than any fight I'd ever been in.
Mine.
The word roared through my head, primal and possessive and absolutely unacceptable.
I forced myself to pull back before I lost control completely. Before I backed her against the concrete wall and showed her exactly how far past performance this had gone.
We stared at each other, both breathing too hard.
Her eyes were wide, stunned, searching mine for answers I didn't have. Her lips were swollen from the kiss, her cheeks flushed pink, her fingers still gripping my coat like she wasn't entirely sure her legs would hold her.
I didn't let go of her waist. Couldn't.
She whispered, voice shaking, "Wyatt—"
"Don't." The word came out rougher than I intended. "Don't ask me what that was."
Because I didn't have an answer.
Or I did, and it was one neither of us could afford.
I shifted her bag onto my shoulder, the weight settling familiar and right. My hand found the small of her back—automatic now, instinctive—guiding her through the players' lot toward the rows of vehicles gleaming under the overhead lights.
Behind us, someone wolf-whistled. Calder, probably. Maybe Rowan. Didn't matter.
I ignored them. Always had. Always would.
The cold bit at my face, sharp and clean after the heat of the kiss still burning through my system. Chastity walked beside me, close enough I felt the brush of her arm against mine, her breathing still unsteady.
She fumbled with her keys, the metallic jingle loud in the quiet parking lot. "You played amazing tonight."
Her voice was soft, almost shy. Like she wasn't sure she had the right to say it.
My chest tightened—pulled taut like a string wound too tight, ready to snap. "You being there helped."
The words came out before I could stop them. Truth I hadn't meant to give her. Truth that made me vulnerable in ways I'd spent years learning to avoid.
Her cheeks flushed pink in the lamplight. She ducked her head, but I caught the small smile tugging at her lips.
We reached her car—modest sedan, practical, nothing flashy. Exactly what I'd expect from someone who tried to cook dinner as a thank-you instead of just saying the words.
I opened her door, held it while she turned to face me. "I'll meet you at home."
Home.
The word sat wrong and right all at once. It wasn't my home anymore. Hadn't been for weeks. Not since she'd walked through the door with that damn suitcase and turned everything I thought I knew upside down.
Her eyes flickered with something warm—something that made every warning bell in my head scream at me to back off, walk away, put distance between us before this got any messier.
"Okay."
She moved to step into the car.
I grabbed her wrist gently. She turned back, eyes wide, questioning.
And I kissed her again. Not like before—not the claiming, possessive press of mouth on mouth that had left us both breathless and shaken.
Softer.
Slower.
Almost tender.
My lips brushed hers like a question instead of a demand, like maybe I was asking permission for something I'd already taken. Her breath caught, fingers curling against my chest, and I felt her melt into it—into me—with a trust that gutted me completely.
I pulled back before I couldn't. Before I backed her against the car and showed her exactly how far past fake this had gone.
Her eyes were dazed, unfocused, her lungs working like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
My voice came out low, strained, rough with want I couldn't quite bury. "Get in the car, Chastity. Before I do something stupid."
She nodded, still breathless, still looking at me like I'd rearranged her entire world. "Okay."
She slipped inside, movements shaky and uncertain.
I shut the door carefully, stepped back onto the curb, hands shoved deep in my coat pockets to keep from reaching for her again.
Watched her start the engine. Watched her pull out of the parking space.
Watched her taillights disappear into the night like a man trying desperately not to unravel completely.
The cold settled around me—sharp, biting, real. But it didn't touch the heat still burning in my chest where she'd pressed against me, where her trust had wrapped around me like a noose I'd tied myself.
I stood there long after she'd gone, breathing hard, trying to remember why revenge had ever seemed more important than this. Trying to remember what the hell I was supposed to do now that I'd kissed her like I meant it.
Because I had. And that changed everything.
I stood in the empty parking lot long after her taillights disappeared, hands shoved deep in my pockets, breath fogging in the cold air that bit at my face and did nothing to cool the heat still burning through my chest.
The arena lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. The night settled around me—quiet, dark, unforgiving.
I pressed my tongue against my teeth, jaw tight enough to ache.
This was supposed to be revenge.
Simple. Clean. Surgical.
Destroy Harrington's reputation. Use his daughter as leverage. Watch him squirm while the merger collapsed around him. Walk away with the satisfaction of finally making him pay for what he'd taken from me.
That was the plan.
That had been the plan.
But standing here alone, I could still taste her on my lips. Still felt the way she'd gripped my coat like she needed me to keep her standing. Still heard the soft, breathless sound she'd made when I'd pulled her close.
Not performance.
Not strategy.
Not revenge.
Real.
Too real.
My breath came harder, clouding white in front of my face. I stared at the spot where her car had been, the empty parking space mocking me with what I'd just done.
What I kept doing.
What I couldn't seem to stop doing.
My hands curled into fists inside my pockets.
I was just falling for his daughter.
And I had no idea how to stop.