Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Silas
Iwake before the sun slips up from the horizon. The world is still. It’s the only time life makes sense to me. I feel like I can breathe without feeling like something's pressing on my chest.
The silence fills my whole body with peace.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. I look at First National, my investment portfolio, and my money market account. Same ritual every morning, same ritual every night. All the numbers sit exactly where I left them.
As long as my numbers are a few pennies more than the last time I check, I can convince myself that everything is fine. Most people would call this paranoid. I call it necessary when your own mother tried to steal everything you earned.
I start my morning by dropping to the floor beside my bed.
Pushups until my arms shake. Sit-ups until my ribs burn.
Pull-ups on the bar mounted in my doorframe until my grip starts to fail.
The old injury in my right shoulder, a consequence of a run-in with an opposing enforcer, flares hot and angry. But I don't listen.
The pain doesn't get a vote. It never has.
My condo looks like a locker room. Everything is in its place. Protein shake bottles line the counter in perfect rows. Meal prep containers stack in the fridge. Chicken, rice, broccoli. Same thing every day. The knives in the block all face the same direction. My shoes sit squared by the door.
I eat my prepared meal, heated in the microwave, while I'm standing at the kitchen counter.
It's the same meal I eat every day, so I don't think about it, don't even taste it really.
Instead, I work on a Sudoku puzzle on my phone.
Dropping numbers into their allotted spaces, neat and predictable. True.
Numbers never look at me with soft green eyes and ask for parts of myself I don't know how to give. Scout Nash slips into my head anyway.
I add a 9 to my Sudoku puzzle, determined to pay attention. But I quickly realize that I haven't gotten the last few numbers in this row right. Does the 9 go at the end of the row or in the middle? Damn it.
It's ridiculous. It's all Scout's fault, really.
I tell myself I'm not thinking about her, but there she is.
Arms full of schedules and coffee cups, dark braid slipping loose, smile too bright for six in the morning.
She's always running somewhere, always helping someone, always making herself useful.
I remember the time she asked me out. Eight years ago, back when she and I were both U of W students.
She approached me in the parking lot after practice, cheeks flushed, words tumbling out fast. She was gorgeous, even though she was dressed down in a pair of stretchy black yoga leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that said Juicy.
Not a hint of makeup, her voluptuous curves calling to me.
She looked like a ripe peach, begging to be plucked from a tree and devoured whole. And she was offering me the first bite.
Like a complete idiot, I told her no. I had reasons, of course. Hockey came first. Focus. No distractions. No complications.
They all sound like excuses now, standing here alone in my silent kitchen, eating nuked chicken at five in the morning.
I'm a coward. Scout figured that out back then.
Soon after, she did a disappearing act, dropping out of school.
I told myself it was fine, because Scout has been nothing but icy to me ever since I turned her down.
But last night, when I saw her photo on Twinge, I had to swipe right. Because, what if...?
Pretty curls, grippable hips, those tight black yoga pants and tantalizing crop tops. Scout’s my fantasy, come to life. Always has been.
To my surprise, she swiped right on me too, even though my profile is just a shot of my abs and a couple of lines of bio designed to keep me anonymous.
Yoga4Lyfe. How fitting that she would call herself that. We exchanged a few lines of meaningless chatter before she stopped answering. And I spent the next few hours gripping my dick in one hand and my phone in the other, flipping through the photos she posted while I jerked off, over and over.
God, I'm such a fucking creep.
The morning air is brittle, cold and damp and relentless.
January in Seattle feels like being inside a freezer while you're soaking wet.
Though I'm used to it, I still have the yearning for sunlight like all Pacific Northwesterners.
By February, I'll actually look forward to flying into Phoenix and Houston just for the sunny winter skies. It's always so gray and drizzly here.
The practice facility smells like cold metal and rubber when I walk in. The scent hits me first, then the quiet. I'm always the first one here. I like it that way. No voices or expectations. Just the hush of the ice and the hum of the building settling around me.
I head straight to my stall in the locker room.
My sticks lean against the wall in perfect order, tape spiraled on each one.
I check my laces, pulling them tight the same way I have since I was fourteen.
My helmet visor gets polished with the microfiber cloth I keep in my bag.
My phone goes face down on the shelf in my locker so the screen can't light up and distract me.
The room fills one by one.
Jett shows up first, all broad shoulders and movie-star grin, chirping at a rookie like he's already in mid-conversation. His hair looks like he just ran a hand through it and called it styling. Beck Tate walks in next. He’s sharper, his jaw set as he mutters about traffic and curses when his skate lace won't stay flat.
My brother Hunter prowls through after him, all dark intensity and tightly wound muscle, eyes flicking like he's waiting for someone to start something.
And then there's Grayson Reed, leaning against his stall with careless grace, curls messy, tan coat hanging open, smirking at whatever's on his phone.
The noise swells and fades around me, but I stay quiet. I absorb it without giving anything back. That's what I do. I watch. I listen. Filing everything away in the organized drawers of my mind.
Then Enzo Morelli walks in. I stifle a groan.
The guy might be my agent, but he's not particularly likeable. Wearing a pin-neat blue suit and tie, his dark hair is slicked back, his smile as sharp as razor wire. For a former hockey player, he's awfully pretty. Too good-looking for me to trust him, that's for sure.
When Hunter took him on as an agent, Jett and I did, too.
But I have always felt this hostility toward him.
After I turned Scout down, he swept her off her feet and married her within a few months.
I was forced to watch them together, especially after their relationship had lost its shine.
Enzo made me a lot of money, but my stomach turned every time I saw him slipping a pretty girl his phone number or hiding lipstick stains on his collars.
Not only did he take someone I wanted, but he didn’t treat her right. It was sickening to watch.
I sigh as Enzo slips in, late as usual. Enzo’s suit fits like it was painted on. His laugh carries across the locker room, too loud, too practiced. He shakes hands with one of the assistant coaches, then slaps backs with a sponsor who's touring the facility. He's all performance and charm.
He’s back in his old stomping grounds, doing deals and putting his greasy palms all over any player who will look his way. The motherfucker.
It makes him an ideal agent. Enzo has made me a lot of money since he signed me in college. He scores big deals and those deals come with fat checks. Doesn't mean I have to like the guy, though.
Just outside the doorway, I see a flash of curly hair and hear a melodic laugh, the sound sliding down my spine like a thousand tiny bells rung in harmony.
Enzo’s head jerks because he hears Scout as I do. He smiles as he starts moving toward the staff station where Scout is working. And I follow him.
Damn if I'm going to let him mess with her. I don't give a fuck who he is. He's been coming around the arena more since Scout officially divorced him. I think he's here to keep tabs on her, not monitor the hockey players who he's supposed to be worried about.
Fucking asshole.
"Hey, Silas," Coach Ryan calls. "Can we talk about the Buffalo game?"
He comes up and pulls my attention. Scout moves away, Enzo slipping out the door toward her. In a second, they are both out of sight.
"One sec. I'll be right back," I promise. "I just have to grab something."
Or kill someone, I think.
I brush past the doorway, pausing, cocking my head. There are low voices coming from the narrow corridor behind the training room. Following the sound, I steel myself for a confrontation.
Scout's pressed against an equipment cart, juggling a clipboard and a bundle of lanyards. Enzo leans on the edge of the cart like it belongs to him. His voice pitches low, intimate in a way that makes my jaw lock.
"You should quit while you're ahead, bella. This place isn't for you. You look like a volunteer who wandered in and got lost."
Scout's smile stays fixed on her face, but I see her knuckles go white on the clipboard. The plastic creaks under her grip. She doesn't answer him. It's the silence that gets me. The way she just takes it.
I want her to fight back. Or maybe I want to pound my agent into the ground so she never has to fight with him again. Either way would be fine by me.
Enzo’s back is toward me, so he doesn't see me as he leans in. "I want you gone."
Scout's lips part but no sound comes out. Her eyes are wide, her breathing too fast. She's scared of him. My hands tense, forming fists.
"Why are you here, Enzo?" My voice comes out flat and cold. Enzo straightens and turns, that billboard smile spreading across his face. There's no evidence that I startled him, but Enzo doesn't ever show much of anything on the surface.