Chapter 22
Jefferson
I give Coach a wave of thanks and get her inside. The house is blessedly quiet. I notice she’s still trembling, and my gut twists. I don’t know if it’s from the mob or from me. From what I did back there.
Because yeah, I’ve shoved guys around before.
Dropped gloves, thrown fists. It’s what hockey demands–what’s expected.
But the way I went at that guy when he grabbed her?
That wasn’t hockey. That was raw, ugly fury.
And if she saw it–really saw it–then maybe she’s shaking because she realizes what I can do.
“Ingrid,” I start, searching for the words. I’m not sorry. I’m fucking not, but also… “Tell me what you need.”
“I’m fine. I told you that.”
I look down at her. She’s shivering, face pale. Her arms are wrapped around her body. My gaze drops to where her shirt was torn and another wave of anger rolls over me. “You’re not fine. None of this is fine.”
What if that asshole hurt her? What if he got any closer? What if I hadn’t been there? Jesus Christ.
I touch her cheek. “You’re freezing.”
“I can’t get warm.”
“Then let’s fix that.” I guide her upstairs, into the bathroom, and crank on the shower until steam curls through the air.
There’s a tension between us. Something fragile and pulled tight.
I can’t take it and I clear my throat. “Are you… are you scared of me? After what happened out there? I know hockey players have a reputation for being violent, but normally, off the ice, I’d never hurt anyone. ”
Her eyes snap up to mine, wide and sure. “No. God no, Jefferson.” Her eyes shine. “I’m not scared of you. No one who wasn’t on the payroll has ever defended me like that.”
Relief floods me so fast it makes me dizzy. I cup her face, my thumb stroking her cheek, damp from the steam. “I thought maybe I crossed a line.”
“I’m not scared of you, but I hate that I brought you into this.” She frowns. “There’s probably going to be a huge stink about it, and that guy could even press charges…”
“Hey,” I stop her. “I’m not worried about it or scared of him.”
“It could affect your contract.”
“Angel,” I force her to look at me. “I’ll deal with it. We’ll deal with it. This is part of your life and something I’m willing to take on.”
She nods, tension easing slightly out of her shoulders. The room warms around us, steam filling the gaps. There’s a long beat, then she asks, “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” I search her face.
“When you called me your girl?”
The words lodge in my throat, but I nod. “Yeah. I meant it.”
It shouldn’t be a big deal, the declaration that I’m into this girl, that I want her to be mine and for everyone to know it. But it feels big and when she says, “Stay with me,” softly, my heart hammers in my chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, stepping closer, helping her out of her clothes.
Her torn shirt comes off first, then her leggings.
I push her panties down her thighs and unhook her bra with careful hands, stripping her slowly, reverently, until she’s bare in front of me.
She’s gorgeous–always is–but right now she looks fragile too, and all I want is to keep her safe.
Something soft flickers in her eyes before she steps into the shower, tilting her face into the spray. I strip fast, tugging off my clothes and letting them fall in a heap, then follow her in.
The heat hits us both, water sliding over her skin, washing away the last traces of the outside world.
I take the soap and work it over her shoulders, her arms, down to her fingers, lingering there until they’re pink and warm again.
She exhales, a little sigh that tells me she’s starting to come back.
I kiss her, gentle at first, just the press of my mouth against hers under the steady stream of water.
She kisses me back, her lips parting, her hands fisting in my wet hair like she needs me closer.
I press her against the tile, but carefully, keeping my body shielding hers.
My hands skim her sides, her hips, the curve of her ass.
Her skin is slick, soft, impossibly perfect under my palms.
“You feel so good,” she whispers, arching into me.
I slide a hand between us, stroking her slowly, until she’s ready for me to slide a finger inside, then another.
She sets the pace, hips rocking into me, forehead pressed against my sternum.
Every sound she makes goes straight to my chest, not just my cock, because it’s not about taking her–it’s about giving her back something steady when the whole world outside tried to strip it away.
“I want to come with you in me,” she whimpers, the orgasm close. I pull out, then align myself with her slippery pussy and sink into her, it’s slow, careful, like she’s porcelain in my arms. Her leg hooks around my hip, and I pound into her as she clings to my body.
The hot water sprays over us both, steam fogging up the room. I kiss her temple, her jaw, her mouth, murmuring against her lips, “I’ve got you. Do you understand that?”
She nods, eyes closed, and the orgasm lets loose, the muscles clenching around me, holding onto me until I grunt low and come, spilling inside.
The tremors wracking through her body are no longer about fear.
They’re from the release of knowing she’s not alone in all of this.
She’s got me and fucking hell, that’s not even the best part of it.
I’ve got her.
“Don’t move.” Ingrid’s sitting in the middle of my bed with damp hair wearing my Wittmore Hockey hoodie and a pair of panties. I grab my phone and snap a picture. “Perfect.”
“Seriously?” she asks, looking down at the ratty hoodie. I got it in high school, when I was recruited and signed to play on the team. It’s soft and broken in and the band around the wrist is fraying, but Jesus Christ, she looks so fucking good in it.
“Angel, this encapsulates every teenage fantasy I’ve ever had.”
I place my hands on the bed and kiss her, sliding my tongue into her open mouth.
Even though we just had sex, I’m hard again, unable to get enough of this woman.
Her hand curls around my neck and I get the feeling she’s the same about me, and I’m thinking maybe we should just get naked again when her phone rings.
“Dammit,” I mutter, nipping at her bottom lip.
She grins and says, “That’s Madison. I’m going to have to take it.”
“I’ll grab some food downstairs,” I tell her, letting them have some privacy. There’s no doubt what she’s calling about. Everyone on her team has surely heard about the incident at the arena by now. Fuck, depending on social media, the whole world may know.
There’s not much to eat in the refrigerator, but I manage to cobble together a few sandwiches and a bag of unopened chips tucked in the back of the pantry. I’m halfway to the bedroom when I stop at the sound of Ingrid’s voice, sharp with frustration. Madison’s on speaker.
“You know how this looks?” Madison’s voice is cool, clipped, the tone of someone already spinning damage control. “He hit a member of the press.”
“He shoved him.” Ingrid fires back. I can hear the shake in her voice, anger and maybe a little fear. “While defending me from being attacked.”
Ignoring the specifics, Madison says, “You never should have been in that position in the first place.”
“I’m not living in a box anymore, Madison. I want to live my life.”
“That includes living it in real time, all over the internet, with zero privacy?” There’s a pause, then Madison adds, “Someone put this on blast online. Are you sure it wasn’t him?”
My grip tightens on the plate, jaw clenching.
“You’re kidding, right?” Ingrid’s laugh is brittle.
“It just seems like there are a lot of leaks lately. A lot of publicity. Much of it is about him–and more and more of it is about who he is, his upcoming career. It’s building hype.”
“I’m not even entertaining this,” Ingrid snaps. “It’s ridiculous. We were with one another the whole time.”
Fucking in the shower, I want to shout, letting Madison know exactly how close we were, but I swallow it back.
“What’s ridiculous is not covering every angle.” Madison pauses, then her voice softens with authority, “I think it would be best if we started toward New York today instead of tomorrow.”
“You want me to leave early?” Ingrid asks, incredulous. “Miss my last night with Jefferson?”
“How long do you think it’ll be before the fans and press show up outside his house?” Madison presses. “You and I both know it’s not secure. This is your safety we’re talking about.”
“I’m not leaving.” Ingrid’s tone hardens. “I’m not changing my plans. I’m not letting the fans win.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “You’re being foolish.”
“I’m being human,” Ingrid bites back.
“No, you’re dickmatized, and it’s going to destroy everything you’ve worked for.
” Her voice turns harsh. “I can figure out a way to spin this and make sure it stays in control. I’ll have legal reach out to the guy he pushed, but I thought you’d learned your lesson about allowing men to control your life. Obviously, I was wrong.”
The call ends with a sharp beep.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I push the door open with my shoulder, setting the food on the bed with more force than I mean to. Her eyes fly to mine, wide and guilty.
“You heard…”
“Yeah, I heard.” I drag a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends like it’ll bleed off some of the frustration coiled in my chest. “Does she really think I’d do that? Put you at risk for a little publicity?”
“She’s just paranoid,” Ingrid says softly. Her voice is tired, worn around the edges. “We’ve been through a lot over the years, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and I know she wants the best for me.”
“And she doesn’t think I’m the best thing for you.” I don’t phrase it as a question.
Ingrid’s eyes flicker. “She’s protective.”
“You’ve got a lot of excuses for her.”
She sighs, shoulders folding inward. “It’s hard when someone comes into my life. I haven’t always made the best decisions, especially when it comes to men, and to be fair, she’s the one who has to pick up the pieces.”
I sit down beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight. My thigh presses against hers, grounding her, grounding me. “I’m not going to drop you, Ingrid.”
“I know.” The hesitation in her voice is so small most people wouldn’t catch it. But I do. I hate the sound of it. Then she adds, “She’s right about security, though.”
“Then call Marv,” I say immediately. “Let him sit outside the bedroom door if it makes you feel better.”
A weak smile tugs at her mouth. But it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. It’s the kind that says she’s already made up her mind.
“This isn’t about you,” she promises, her tone low, steady, like she’s trying to make me believe it. “It’s about the reality of who I am and the life I lead. I can’t put you, or the rest of your house, at risk. I can’t open your neighborhood up to the well-meaning but often misguided Flock.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But I fucking hate it.
“You promise this isn’t about me?” I take her hand in mine, pressing a kiss to the back of it, lingering there. “Because I would never do anything to jeopardize your safety.”
“I know.”
For a moment, it’s just us, her hand in mine, the smell of shower steam still clinging to her hair, the warmth of her thigh against me. But the bubble we built tonight is already thinning, stretching too tight. And deep down, I know it’s about to burst.
“If you’re leaving,” I murmur, sliding the tray of food out of the way, “then I’m spending every minute until you walk out that door worshipping you.”
Her lips part, and before she can answer, I’m on her, pressing her back into the pillows, kissing her like it’s the last oxygen I’ll ever get. She clings to me, nails dragging over my shoulders, pulling me closer, closer still, until there’s no space left between us.
It isn’t slow this time. It isn’t careful.
It’s frantic–mouths colliding, hands tangling, teeth catching on lips like we’re both trying to memorize the taste of each other before it’s taken away.
She gasps my name into the kiss, and I swallow it whole, my palms sliding down her sides, hers fisting in my shirt like she’ll never let go.
And she feels it too. I know she does. The urgency. The fear that every second is already slipping through our fingers. Because even as I kiss my way down her body, tasting, savoring, memorizing, I already feel it: that ache of missing her before she’s even gone.