Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Valentina
Avoid Falling for the Player
The helicopter hums softly now, and I’m finally calm. My breathing has evened out, and I’m no longer clutching Kaden’s hand like a lifeline. The fear has faded, replaced by something just as dangerous. The heat simmering under my skin, the one that had me picturing all sorts of inappropriate things during takeoff, hasn’t left—it’s just shifted.
God, I need to get a grip. But it’s impossible when the memory of his lips crashing into mine lingers, teasing me every time I close my eyes. And then there’s his hand, the same one I was squeezing like my life depended on it, resting casually on his thigh now, his fingers long, strong, and capable. Too capable.
Okay, no. Stop it, Valentina. But my brain has already gone there. Fucking traitor. It’s not just his hand I’m thinking about—it’s those long, strong fingers. I can already imagine them curling inside me, stroking my pussy just right, hitting that perfect spot until I’m trembling and begging for more.
And his mouth—God, his mouth. The thought of his tongue lapping at my cunt, slow and deliberate, licking every inch of me until I’m coming apart? It sends a shiver racing down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly.
I bite my lip, pretending to scroll through my phone like that’s somehow going to stop the vivid, dirty images flooding my mind. But it doesn’t. The mental picture sharpens. His rough palms gripping my thighs, holding me steady as his tongue glides over me, his low, gravelly voice whispering filthy promises against my skin. His dark eyes would be locked on mine, watching me unravel as he pushes me to the edge and makes me beg for more.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is Kaden Crawford. My client. The same grumpy, insufferable hockey player who growls when things don’t go his way. And yet, I can’t stop picturing him on his knees, his lips everywhere, his body pressed against mine, demanding every last shred of control I have left.
I shift in my seat, clenching my thighs together in a futile attempt to ignore the ache building there. Nope. Not working. I glance at Kaden, who’s now leaning back with his eyes closed, looking so ridiculously relaxed that it only pisses me off more. How is he not affected by any of this? How is he not even slightly fazed?
It’s infuriating. It’s unfair. And it’s not helping me one damn bit.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus on something—anything—else. My phone, right. Work. The job. The actual reason I’m here. I open my inbox and start scanning emails, desperate for a distraction.
That’s when I see Jacob’s message pop up, and finally—finally—my brain latches onto something useful. Noelle is inviting Kaden to coach kids in Harbor Ridge Community Center
The email explains that Harbor Ridge, a community center in Boston’s South End that focuses on providing after-school activities for at-risk youth. Coaching a hockey clinic for teenagers sounds like something that would be perfect for him.
My heart races as I scroll through the details. The clinic would include kids who’ve never had the resources to play on a proper team, kids who idolize players like Kaden but have never had access to the sport.
This is perfect. This is exactly what we need.
“Kaden.”
“What?” he grumbles.
“Look at this.” I thrust my phone toward him. “Harbor Ridge is inviting you to coach a hockey clinic for teens. This is huge.”
He squints at the screen, his brow furrowing as he scans the email. Then he groans and leans back.
“What’s the big deal? I’ve done this before.”
I gape at him. “The big deal? Kaden, this is our chance to show people who you really are.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he sits up. “I’m not using my volunteer time as a publicity stunt.”
“It’s not a stunt,” I shoot back, frustration bubbling up. “It’s the truth. You care about this stuff. Why not let people see that?”
“I don’t give a fuck what people think,” he snaps, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
“Well, you should,” I say, my voice blunt and unflinching. “Because right now, people think you’re an arrogant asshole who’s impossible to work with. My job is to change that image and I can’t do it if you don’t help me.”
His brow furrows, and I press on before he can cut me off.
“This isn’t about spinning some fake narrative. It’s about showing the side of you that I’ve seen. The guy who’s competitive but loves his family. The guy who actually gives a shit about something other than himself. You do care, Kaden. This is just a chance to let people see it.”
He stares at me, his dark brown eyes unflinching, like he’s trying to decide if I’m being honest or just manipulating him.
I meet his gaze without flinching. “Do you really want people to think you’re just some guy who scores goals and pisses everyone off? Or do you want them to see the real you?”
“That’s the thing, I don’t care,” he says.
“But you have to give some fucks,” I argue.
For a moment, the helicopter is quiet except for the low thrum of the blades. Then he exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll do it. But only because it’s for Noelle’s nonprofit—not because I give a shit about public opinion.”
“Deal.” I sit back, letting a triumphant smile spread across my face. “But don’t be surprised when people start calling you Boston’s favorite care bear.”
“I’m not a fucking care bear. Though, I do care if you go bare, baby,” he says, his tone calm but loaded with intent.
“You’re impossible,” I state. “I’m going to make sure you come out as a hero,” I state.
“Don’t push it, Holiday,” he growls, though there’s the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t expect me to like the publicity.”
The rest of the helicopter ride, I rack my brain for ideas to fix Kaden’s image—something authentic, something real. The man might be an unrepentant grump, but he’s got layers, and if the world could see even a fraction of what I’ve glimpsed, his reputation might shift. By the time we land, I feel no closer to a solution than when we took off.
The helicopter door opens, and my stomach twists. Paparazzi swarm the private terminal, cameras flashing relentlessly, voices overlapping as they shout their questions.
“Kaden, is it true you’re fighting your teammates?”
“Round two of the brawl?”
“Is it true you’re being transferred again?”
“Who’s the woman? Is she your side piece?”
“Why was she hiding all this time?”
Kaden’s jaw tightens as he steps out, his body tense, his scowl so intense it practically warns everyone to back the hell off. He places a firm hand on my lower back, guiding me forward with a grip that says, Stay close.
“Don’t stray,” he mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough, the command unmistakable.
His broad shoulders act as a barrier, shielding me from the relentless cameras and the shouted questions. The warmth of his hand against me sends a surprising thread of reassurance through the noise.
I glance up at him and realize what needs to happen. Before I can second-guess myself, I step in front of him, reaching up like I’m adjusting his collar.
“Time for the show,” I whisper.
“What are you—” The rest of his question is cut off as I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his.
It’s not a soft kiss, not a tentative gesture. It’s big, bold, and unmistakably passionate. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s holding its breath. Then the cameras erupt in a frenzy, the flashing lights brighter than ever, and the voices escalate to near hysteria.
Kaden doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer with an intensity that takes my breath away. The kiss deepens, his mouth moving against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I forget, just for a second, that this isn’t real.
When we finally break apart, his hand stays on my waist as he steers us through the crowd. The reporters shout louder, desperate for answers, but Kaden keeps us moving, his gaze forward, unyielding.
“That’s . . . unexpected,” he says dumbfounded.
I glance at him, my cheeks flushed and my heart racing, but he’s already scanning the crowd, his expression unreadable. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the kiss or this entire charade, but suddenly, I’m certain I’ve underestimated my assignment.
By the time we reach the waiting car, my thoughts are tangled in a way I can’t unravel. Kaden slides into the seat beside me and tells the driver to take us to his penthouse in Back Bay.
“We’re heading home,” he says.
“Maybe drop me at the coffee shop where you picked me up to go to your parents’ estate. I can drive myself from there,” I suggest.
“Nope. I’m taking you with me. You can’t go to Jacob’s,” he says, his tone flat. “Last thing we need is cameras camped out at his place.”
“So it’s your place then?” I repeat, unable to hide my surprise.
He gives me a sidelong glance, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of annoyance and something else I can’t place. “Unless you’ve got a better idea, that’s the plan.”
The ride is quiet except for the low hum of the car’s engine. When we arrive, the sight of the stately brownstone leaves me momentarily speechless. Its 1800s charm is undeniable, with a weathered brick facade, wrought-iron railings, and tall, arched windows that seem to hold a century’s worth of stories. The craftsmanship is timeless, a testament to Boston’s history and elegance.
Kaden steps out and opens the door with the casual confidence of someone completely at home in this kind of luxury.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, his sarcasm as dry as ever as he gestures toward the door.
Inside, the space is a stark contrast to the exterior’s classic charm. High ceilings stretch above, and clean lines dominate the design. The modern furnishings, all sharp angles and rich textures, make the space feel both refined and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the interior with light, offering a stunning view of the Boston skyline.
This place isn’t just incredible—it’s a masterpiece of old-meets-new, the kind of home that screams money.
“Guest room’s upstairs,” he says, nodding toward the staircase. “First door on the right. I’ll grab you something to drink.”
“Water is fine, thank you,” I mutter, still absorbing my surroundings.
The space is undeniably his—sophisticated, understated, but with just enough edge to remind me that Kaden Crawford is anything but ordinary. And as he returns with a bottle of water, his frown is firmly intact, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve gotten myself in over my head.