Chapter 15
CAYDEN
The heavy cork comes out with a deep, satisfying pop. I pour the ruby-red Bordeaux into two large wine glasses, ignoring the fact that I usually despise anything that doesn't taste like Scottish peat and scorched oak barrels. Tonight, I need a different flavor on my tongue.
The fire casts restless shadows across the library’s bookshelves. Jade enters, her steps on the parquet noticeably more hesitant than they were at the rink. Her eyelids are slightly puffy—if I didn't know better, I’d think she’d been crying her eyes out.
But do I know better? What do I know about her at all? We haven't seen each other in twelve years. Honestly, not since the night of our title win, when we loved each other so passionately in my hotel room.
I’d be lying if I said I never think back to that night. I’d also be lying if I said I haven't been in bed with countless other women since. And yet, there’s something about Jade that none of them have.
She pulls her chunky cardigan tighter around her shoulders, sinks into the leather sofa across from me, and crosses her legs.
I slide the glass to her across the low wooden table. She stares at the deep red liquid as if I’d just offered her poison.
“Parker’s asleep,” she says, her voice slightly scratchy. She flips open her battered notebook, pulls the pen from the spiral, and retreats immediately behind her professional shield. “Let’s continue, Mr. Miller. The profile won’t write itself.”
I take my glass, lean deep into the armchair, and take a generous swallow.
“Your questions, Miss Sterling.”
She clears her throat. “The early years as a pro. The first multi-million dollar contract. You were a teenager with a bank account that looked like a mid-sized company’s annual balance sheet. What does sudden wealth do to a young man?”
“It makes you an idiot,” I answer bluntly, swirling the glass.
“You go into a dealership on a Tuesday morning and point at three sports cars just because you like the colors. You buy watches so heavy they ruin your wrist. Everyone claps you on the shoulder. Everyone laughs at your bad jokes. You really start to believe the sun only rises because you opened your eyes.”
Jade scribbles, her pen flying. “Sponsors were lining up. You were the face of expensive colognes, tailored suits, cars. The world was at your feet.”
“The world only wants to carry you so it can drop you from a great height to see how hard you hit the pavement.”
She looks up. The sharp journalistic focus in her eyes is mixed with an honest, raw curiosity. “You were eventually nominated for the national team. The youngest player in the squad. The face of a nation.”
“That was the peak,” I growl softly. “The air up there was so thin you inevitably lose your mind. You stop seeing people as people. They become props in your own over-the-top movie.”
“And then came the training camp in the mountains, in that little town, Banff,” she probes further, her voice softening a fraction. “The break. The day when...”
“We’re striking that particular trip from the record,” I cut her off sharply. My pulse quickens instantly. “That place doesn't exist tonight. Ask something else.”
Jade holds the pen still. She studies me. “It’s part of your history. Your development...”
“My story, my rules,” I interrupt again. The edge in my tone brooks no argument. I gesture with my chin toward the table. “Drink your wine, Jade.”
She blinks, irritated by the sudden shift back to the familiar ‘you,’ but she actually reaches for the glass. She takes a large, reckless swallow. A small cough escapes her as the heavy alcohol burns down her throat, but a warm flush immediately rises to her cheeks.
“You were insufferably arrogant back then,” she says, her formal distance crumbling as the wine level drops. She sets the pen beside the notebook. “Remember when you showed up in Thunder Bay in that ridiculous red sports car and nearly took out Mr. Canterbury’s garden fence while parking?”
An honest, deep laugh breaks from my chest, surprising even me. “The brake caliper was sticking. At least, that’s what I swore to my father before he took my keys away for an entire week.”
Jade laughs softly. The sound is incredibly warm—a bright, unburdened sound that makes the massive walls of this library vanish for a moment. “Your father was fuming. He stood in the driveway yelling that you might make millions, but you still didn't know how to check your blind spot.”
“He was right,” I admit, taking another sip. The wine is doing its job, loosening the tight muscles in my neck.
We keep talking. About the stupid commercials where I had to recite lines written by PR agencies from hell.
About the terrible suits I wore in my first years.
The weight of the day falls away layer by layer.
Jade pulls her knees up on the sofa, cradling the wine glass with both hands, watching me.
The hard glint in her eyes is gone, replaced by a soft, almost wistful shimmer.
The omnipresent distance between us shrinks in a way that feels entirely unnatural, even though neither of us has moved.
“You’re incredibly tired of fighting, Jade,” I say into the crackling silence.
She lowers her gaze. Her fingers grip the stem of the glass. “We’re all fighting, Cayden. Some are just better at faking it.”
I set my glass on the table, lean forward with my elbows on my knees. Her intoxicating perfume, mixed with the heavy note of the wine, pulls at me.
“Then take off the mask for a minute,” I whisper.
I reach across the table. My fingertips brush the leather of her notepad before I gently pull it from under her hand and let it drop onto the wood. She doesn't pull back.
I stand slowly, walk around the table, and sit close to her on the sofa.
The heat radiating from her burns through the fine fabric of her cardigan.
I lift my hand and rest my fingers against her cheek.
Her skin is impossibly soft. My thumb traces her jawline, and she closes her eyes for a heartbeat. A shaky exhale brushes my lips.
There is no conscious decision anymore. Gravity takes over.
My lips find hers. It’s not a rushed collision, but a slow, inevitable one. She tastes like dark Bordeaux, like suppressed longing and all the wasted years that have stacked up like an invisible wall between us. I slide my hand into her hair, pulling her closer until her chest presses against mine.
Jade returns the kiss with a hungry desperation. Her hands claw into the fabric of my sweater. The world outside this library ceases to exist. There is no billion-dollar stadium deal, no Elias Hayes, no lies. Just this racing pulse under my fingertips and the soft hitch in her breath.
I deepen the kiss, wanting more, but suddenly her body tenses.
Her hands, which were just clutching my sweater, push flat against my chest. She shoves me away with a panicked gasp.
“No,” she breathes out.
I let go immediately, my own breath heavy and ragged. “Jade...”
“This... this can’t happen,” she stammers. Her eyes are wide, wild panic flickering in them as if she’d just peered into an abyss.
She springs from the sofa, her movements frantic and uncoordinated. She grabs blindly for her notebook, snatches the pen, and nearly trips over the edge of the rug.
“Jade, stay here,” I call, starting to stand, but she throws her hands up defensively.
“Just leave me alone, Cayden!” she retorts, her voice breaking.
She wheels around and practically runs from the library. The soft patter of her feet on the stairs fades quickly into the vastness of the house.
I’m left alone on the sofa, staring at the two half-empty wine glasses, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. The taste of her still clings to my lips.