Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
I could do this. Smile. Nod. Say a few canned lines about my time at Thackeray and talk about hockey.
Easy.
Assuming I could ignore the sweat trickling down my spine and the way my stomach twisted itself into knots because it was talking about Bell that was going to be the problem.
Bell, with his stupid bright smile—the one that hit like a punch to the gut every time he directed it my way—that made it impossible for me to remember why I ever thought I could keep my distance.
He looked so fucking happy to be here doing this, vibrating with excitement like a big old puppy, his eyes shining bright under the harsh overhead lights. Unlike the segment we’d filmed a few days ago, today’s was going to be more serious. It was being billed as a real conversation between us, a deep dive into our similarities and differences.
And right now, I was feeling one of those particular differences in every molecule of my body.
Sometimes, it was easy for me to pretend I wasn’t fucking a guy thirteen years younger than me—someone who wasn’t five years old when I’d started my freshman year at the college we both graduated from—but today was going to drive that point home in spectacular, humiliating fashion.
Like there’d be a giant neon arrow over my head flashing predatory asshole .
Great, now every inch of my skin felt too tight, too hot under my clothing, like I was seconds away from coming apart at the seams. The neck of my hoodie felt like a noose. The shirt underneath it clung to my body, damp with sweat. Even my socks itched.
The harsh overhead lights buzzed faintly, the sound taking root in my brain like static. The chill from the nearby rink created a disorienting contrast with my overheated body.
And underneath it all, the faint notes of Bell’s cologne—something new that was woodsy with a hint of citrus—made my throat go dry every time he shifted beside me.
Whenever I got too in my head about our age difference, Bell tried to talk me down from the ledge by quoting Mark Twain at me, saying, “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter—and I don’t mind, Ethan.”
I tried to cling to that now, but the words barely made a dent in the noise between my ears.
“Okay, today we’re keeping it conversational,” Blair chirped from behind the camera, her voice slicing through my spiral like a splash of cold water. “Just pretend this isn’t even here.” She gestured at a camera that was so close it felt like it could film the inside of my skull.
Bell shifted his knee closer to nudge mine under the table, his jeans brushing against my sweats, rough denim scraping soft cotton.
Friendly. Casual. Normal.
Except it wasn’t. Not for me.
Not when my body reacted like he’d slipped a hand under my clothes instead.
I locked my jaw and stared straight ahead, breathing through my mouth so I wouldn’t have to smell his damn cologne and accidentally get hard.
Get it together, Harrison. You’re a professional.
“You both played hockey for Thackeray College, but more than a decade apart,” Blair said, launching right in. “Did you ever think you'd end up teammates?”
Bell laughed, the sound skittering over my skin. “Honestly? I never even thought I’d meet him.”
I grunted, shifting in my seat. “Yeah. I was already long gone before he got there. Probably no one even remembered my name.”
Bell snorted, and I couldn’t help glancing at him.
“Um, dude. You held the record for most goals scored in a single season for ten years.” His mouth curved in a shit-eating grin, pure mischief sparking in his eyes. I knew what he was going to say before the words even left his lips. “Until I came along and broke it.”
Off camera, Blair chuckled. “And how did that feel, Ethan?”
I lifted one shoulder in what I hoped looked like an unbothered shrug. “It was bound to happen sometime.”
If it had been anyone other than Bell, it really wouldn’t have been a big deal. But because it was him, I’d been a little bit pissed off.
Okay, a lot pissed off.
“And then Bell was drafted by the Aces,” she continued, having no clue she was dragging me down a very slippery slope.
I fought not to flinch, not to let anything show. I remembered that night way too fucking clearly. The way I’d gone home and pulled up clips of him skating, lithe and reckless and stupidly beautiful, and let myself think things I had no business thinking about someone that young. Shame and want had tangled so tightly in my gut that I thought I would throw up.
Blair flipped to the next card, her voice bright when she said, “You both played for Coach Halstrom. Any horror stories to share?”
Jorgen Halstrom was a bit of a legend in hockey circles. He’d played professionally for a number of years before a career-ending injury cut his time on the ice short. He’d been a big, bruising player, the type of guy you never wanted to cross. He had a terrible temper and a big mouth, but he knew the game in a way not many people did. Absolutely no one expected him to go into coaching, but a couple of years before I went to college, he’d married a Linguistics professor at Thackeray and had started coaching there. The man was gruff and could be a mean fucking bastard, but there was no denying he got results.
Bell immediately perked up. “God, yes. He was terrifying.”
I snorted under my breath, some of the tension in my chest easing. Talking about my old coach was so much better than discussing what it was like to find out I’d be playing alongside my forbidden obsession. “Yeah. And lucky for you, he’d mellowed out by the time you got there.”
Bell turned toward me, laughing openly.
Christ, he was impossible not to look at when he was like this—happy, unguarded, just pure fucking light.
“Mellowed out?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “He once got tossed from a game for screaming at a ref so loud you could hear him on the broadcast. If that’s mellow, I’d hate to see what qualifies as intense in your mind.”
The words hit me out of nowhere: My feelings for you .
My pulse throbbed in my temples as flashes of us the night before surged through my mind—Bell’s hands gripping my shoulders, his breath hot against my neck, the way he’d whispered my name and told me to let go already.
I locked my jaw, grinding down on the words that threatened to spill out, and forced a neutral expression on my face. I stared straight ahead, feeling like I was two seconds away from saying or doing something incredibly stupid as Blair’s voice cut back in.
“And Bell, you wear number fifty-five now. Any particular story behind that?”
His smile faltered slightly, his hand brushing over the back of his neck. He hesitated just long enough for the silence to stretch thin, then glanced at me out of the corner of his eye before looking back toward the camera.
“Yeah, actually,” he said, his voice quieter now, less boisterous. “When I was a kid, Ethan was my favorite player. I used to watch his highlights and try to copy the way he skated. I wanted to play where he played. Be like him.”
My throat closed up tight. I couldn’t have spoken, even if I tried.
Bell shifted in his seat, almost like he was bracing himself. Like maybe he hadn’t meant to admit any of that out loud, but now that he had, he was going to double down on the confession. “Obviously, five wasn’t available, so I doubled it.”
He gave a small, awkward shrug like it wasn’t the single most devastating thing anyone had ever said to me.
About me.
I locked my hands on my knees, gripping hard enough to make my knuckles ache, and forced my face to stay neutral. Willing my whole body not to betray me.
Don’t look at him. Don’t let it show.
Blair let out a soft, genuine sound of awe. “Wow. That’s incredible. It must feel pretty special, then, getting to play together now.”
Bell beamed at me, bright and earnest and so goddamn proud. “It’s the best,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth.
The back of my neck prickled with heat. I nodded stiffly, my jaw clenched so tight that a muscle twitched visibly in my cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs as I fixed my gaze on a spot just past the camera, afraid my eyes would betray everything I was fighting to hide. Betray how hard I was fighting to stay sitting in that fucking chair.
“And that’s a wrap,” Blair said from behind the camera a few seconds later. She stepped out, an iPad tucked under her arm. “You guys crushed it. Seriously, this series is gonna break the internet.”
Bell gave a quick, almost sheepish laugh and slouched back in his chair. He nudged my knee like he was trying to pretend everything was normal. “Told you this would be fun,” he said, but there was a tiny edge of uncertainty in his voice.
I forced a smile for Blair’s benefit, but my skin felt three sizes too small.
“Thanks again,” she said, her smile wide. “Cody will send you a preview clip once it’s edited. You’re gonna love it.”
“Cody?” Bell asked.
Blair’s face twisted in confusion. She scratched her head. “Um, the intern. The tall one?”
Bell grinned at her, his dimples flashing. “Oh, right. I was wondering what his name was.” He leaned back in his chair, the casual movement pressing his shoulder briefly against mine.
She gave him another curious look, her gaze flicking momentarily between us, as jealousy flared bright and hot in my gut before I could tamp it down. My fingers twitched against my thigh, the urge to stake my claim on him almost overwhelming.
Bell had made it more than clear he only wanted me, but I couldn’t help the wave of possessiveness that swept over me at the mention of the cute young intern.
I needed to get out of here before I did something reckless—like grab him by the hoodie, drag him against me, and kiss him hard enough to leave no fucking doubt that he was mine.
I shoved to my feet too fast, the legs of my chair screeching against the floor. My knee banged the underside of the table, making the water bottles jump.
Bell shot me a curious look, one hand half-reaching toward me, but I didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. I sidestepped a camera cable snaking across the floor, nearly colliding with one of those damn interns hurrying past with a clipboard.
I muttered something half-coherent at Blair—maybe “Thanks, talk to you later,”—and bolted for the tunnel, heat prickling the back of my neck like a brand.
* * *
The locker room buzzed with post-game energy—laughter ricocheting off the concrete walls, the sharp slap of towels snapping bare skin, the wet, humid stink of sweat and disinfectant thick in the air.
We’d pulled off a solid win, and the guys were riding high.
Hell, even I was feeling it … somewhere under the tightness that hadn’t left my chest since that interview.
Bell was across the room, toweling off that thick, gorgeous hair, his face flushed from a combo of leftover adrenaline and the scalding heat of the showers. Roonie and Murdock jostled past him, throwing elbows and laughing. He caught my eye for a split second before he reached for his navy blue Tom Ford suit, his gold Aces tie draped loose over the hanger.
He was on fire, racking up points left and right—all of his nerves from the beginning of the season seemed to have disappeared.
Hockey players were a superstitious bunch of assholes, and the fact of the matter was since Bell and I had started sleeping together, I was playing better than I had in years, too. Apparently, getting railed on the regular had some kind of cosmic side effect that vastly improved a hockey player’s game. Who knew?
“Hey, Harrison,” Viggy called from a few lockers down. “Nice work on that rebound in the second. Pure hustle.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, forcing a stiff smile to my lips. I could live to be a hundred and still never get used to being complimented about my skills on the ice.
Something in my brain must have been broken, though, because the opposite was true when I was alone with Bell.
I lived for his praise. His words of affirmation. The way he could tear me apart and put me back together again with a well-timed “You take my cock so good,” rasped in that deep, filthy voice he reserved just for me.
Shaking my head to clear the fog that settled over me anytime my thoughts drifted in that direction, I bent to tie the laces of my dress shoes.
When I sat back up, my eyes went straight to him.
I couldn’t seem to help it.
He was fussing with the cuffs of his dress shirt, his tie still hanging loose around his neck.
I pushed to my feet and was reaching for my suit jacket when Dante stepped into the doorway, her steely gaze sweeping the room before landing on Bell—and then darting to me.
Uh oh.
“Harrison. Bell. Can I grab you two for a minute?”
My stomach dropped as a few of the guys hooted, making dumb kissy noises.
Bell rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket. Shrugging into it, he called out, “Don’t be jealous, boys. The most gorgeous lady in the arena just can’t get enough of me.”
I snagged my tie off the hook and tied it in a sloppy knot as I followed him out, my gut tightening with every step toward Dante’s office.
We trailed her down the hallway to the other side of the building, our dress shoes clicking against the polished concrete and echoing in the narrow space. A muffled cheer erupted from somewhere nearby—fans lingering after the game, most likely. Dante’s continued silence ratcheted up my unease. By the time we reached her door, my gut was twisted in knots.
When we stepped inside, those knots doubled.
Ramos was there, leaning casually against the far wall, his hands in his pockets and his feet crossed at the ankles.
“Please, take a seat,” Dante said, gesturing toward two chairs on the opposite side of her desk.
Bell hesitated for just a second—his gaze darting between them—before he dropped into the chair on the left, all loose-limbed ease as he flashed them a cocky little grin.
It wasn’t his real grin, though. The real one was slightly too wide, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made it impossible not to smile back. The one I’d seen just this morning when I’d sleepily handed him coffee, our fingers brushing as the mug passed between us. The one that made me forget, for just a moment, all the reasons why this was a terrible idea.
This one was muted. Polished. A mask he wore when he thought he had a role to play.
I stayed standing for a beat too long, my brows furrowing, before finally sinking into the seat beside him.
Ramos cleared his throat and pushed off the wall, perching on the edge of Dante’s desk, trying to appear casual. It didn’t work. His fingers drummed twice against his thigh before he stilled them, crossing his ankles and then uncrossing them, making the desk creak slightly under him.
“First off, nice win today,” he said, nodding toward us both. “Team’s been on a hell of a tear lately.”
Bell flashed a grin, always quick to soak up praise, while I muttered a quick, “Thanks.”
“That’s part of the reason we wanted to grab you,” he said, turning to Dante, who picked up the thread of conversation seamlessly, almost like they’d practiced this ambush beforehand.
A sick, cold weight settled low in my gut.
They most likely had.
Was it because they knew about Bell and me?
“You two have been killing it on the ice, and the fans love the social media series. Engagement’s through the roof.” She hesitated, tapping her pen against her desk.
That pause made my stomach twist tighter.
“But with the extra attention, we’re seeing some … uglier comments, too.”
The skin at the back of my neck prickled, a cold sweat breaking out under my collar.
Bell shifted slightly in his seat, his posture stiffening just a fraction.
“We’re scrubbing the worst of it as fast as we can,” she explained, leaning forward in her chair, her tone carefully neutral, though her eyes flashed with concern. “But the comments are … of a personal nature, shall we say.”
Bell tipped his chin in that way he did when he was pretending something didn’t bother him, but it very much did. “Yeah, that’s pretty normal for me.” He gave a tight, shallow shrug, his smile straining at the corners. “You learn to tune it out.”
Ramos cleared his throat. “Look, no one’s blaming you—obviously. You’ve been great. The content’s been great. We just want to make sure you’re both aware and that you’re comfortable continuing.”
Comfortable?
Nothing about this was comfortable—it was horrifying.
A couple of months of cautious happiness was circling the drain because Bell and I couldn’t keep our eyes off each other for five fucking minutes on camera.
This was exactly why I’d been hesitant to do this series at all.
I avoided scrutiny like the plague, but now, all eyes were on me.
On us.
I was good at deflecting from the truth I didn’t want others to see, but I wasn’t that good.
We’d fucked up.
“Did you know about this?” I asked, turning to face Bell.
He blinked once, caught off guard by the accusation in my tone, before dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I saw some of it, but it’s fine,” he said, like he was trying to reassure me. “It’s just a few trolls.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“You were already—” He stopped himself, glancing at Dante as if suddenly realizing he shouldn’t say too much. A flush crept up his neck as he turned back to me, his brow furrowed with concern. “You were already stressed.” His eyes pleaded with me to understand.
Understand?
My hands curled into fists on my thighs. He was trying to manage me.
I pulled my phone out, jaw clenched so tight it ached. My hands felt clumsy as I pulled up the team’s latest post, time-stamped twenty minutes ago. I scrolled through the comments, and there it was, a flood of shit Dante’s team hadn’t managed to scrub yet.
PuckWizard_7 : Bet you anything Harrison’s the bottom.
BlueLineDefender: Nah, Bell’s the one getting railed every night. He’s never been shy about his preferences.
SlapShot_24 : Pretty boy must be so fucking sore.
H0ckeyLifer : Listen, I don’t care who’s fucking who, as long as they keep doing it. Harrison’s playing better than he has in years.
PowerPlay_Junkie : They’re not teammates, they’re soulmates.
Puck_Hustler17 : Their supposed chemistry goes way beyond the ice. Think the team knows?
RainbowSlapsh0t : Bro, just come out already. It’s 2025. No one cares.
Heat surged under my skin, so intense it felt like it might boil me alive from the inside out. The metallic taste of fear flooded my mouth as my stomach flipped violently. The words blurred, black dots skittering across my vision, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unknow it. The comments were permanently burned into my retinas.
I felt Bell shift beside me, felt him watching me, but I couldn’t look at him. If I did, I would shatter right here in Dante’s fucking office.
For a moment, everything went silent—the only sound was the thundering of my pulse in my ears—then I shoved my chair back with a violent scrape, the legs catching on the carpet. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dante stiffen, her head tilting just slightly as Bell reached for me, his hand brushing my arm.
“Ethan,” he said, voice low, careful, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over my arm.
I spun away from him so hard that I nearly stumbled. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped. “Not here.”
Bell scrambled to his feet, his face draining of color and his mouth forming a shocked ‘O’ before it pressed into a tight line. “Wait, please.”
“Don’t.” The word ripped from my throat, rough and broken.
Please don’t touch me , I begged silently.
Not where they could see. Not where they would guess.
A harsh, broken sound tore free from somewhere deep in my chest. I shoved the door open hard enough that it banged against the wall, the vibration rattling the framed team photo nearby.
As I stumbled into the hallway, I caught a glimpse of a startled intern flattening himself against the opposite wall, coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup. I pushed past him, head down, legs moving faster with each step, like I could outrun the anger and paranoia clawing up my spine.