Chapter 6

Wyatt

Ice scrapes under my skates, the chill of the rink seeping through my gear. Puck on my stick, I fake left—no good. Right into a defenseman’s path. Zach circles back, eyebrows raised beneath his helmet.

“Hey, the PR campaign seems to be working,” he says, pausing to swipe a bead of sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jersey. He takes a moment to adjust his helmet, his gaze flicking across the rink as if assessing our next play.

“Yeah, Chloe’s pulling strings,” I grunt, pushing off the boards and feeling the familiar ache in my muscles.

Zach nods. “It’s helped drown out some of Sonia’s bullshit. Some people are seeing through her allegations.”

I exhale, relief barely touching the tension in my chest. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

We glide toward the bench for a water break. Zach takes a long sip and then glances over at me. “Chloe’s doing a solid job. And she’s hot. Surprised your charms haven’t worked on her yet.”

I shake my head, feeling the shift in the conversation. “Yeah, well… my charms worked back in college, but they seem pretty useless now.”

Zach raises his eyebrows surprise. “Back in college?” His interest piques. “She went to USC?”

“Yep.” The words are matter-of-fact, but they carry the weight of a history I’ve kept to myself.

“So, the two of you were a thing?” Zach’s curiosity is evident, his eyes studying my expression for more than just the surface story.

“Thing is a strong word.” I shrug, not willing to admit it felt like it could have been more than that. “And she’s the one acting like she doesn’t remember me.”

“Ouch,” Zach chuckles, slapping my shoulder with his glove. “Guess you’re not as unforgettable as you thought, Banks.”

I don’t tell him how much that night meant to me, how often Chloe’s ghost has danced through my dreams over the years. It’s been a week since we started working together, and I’m still struggling to keep my head straight when she’s around. Instead, I chase after the puck, muscles tensing, my focus splintering like thin ice.

Practice drags on, and I’m a half-step behind every play. Pucks skitter past my stick, shots veer wide. Frustration boils in my chest, each missed pass stoking the fire.

“Come on, Banks, keep your head in the game!” Alec, my teammate, a veteran on the team, calls out from the bench, his mustache twitching in amusement. His voice echoes, too loud in the frosty air, fueling my irritation.

“Watch it, Harding,” I snap back, knowing full well he enjoys seeing me off my game. If looks could freeze, he’d be a statue.

“Keep this up, and I’ll be back on the first line before you can say benchwarmer,” Alec taunts, leaning over the boards in a friendly tone that feels more like a challenge.

“Over my dead body,” I mutter, but the bite’s gone from my words as I skate out of the rink. We head to the locker room, the weight of the day’s failures clinging to me like wet gear.

The locker room’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on the scuffed tiles. I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey and toss it into the bin, muscles aching from exertion and irritation .

Just then, Coach Reynolds steps out of his office. “Got a minute, Banks?” he calls to me, his voice cutting through the post-practice chatter.

“Sure thing, Coach.” I follow him in, the door closing with a soft click. The office feels tight, the walls crowded with strategy boards and framed victories that now feel miles away.

“Rough practice today,” Coach says, skipping the pleasantries, his eyes locking onto mine like he’s searching for answers.

“Got some stuff on my mind,” I admit, leaning back against the cold filing cabinet. I don’t need to explain. Coach knows. Everyone in the organization knows.

Coach leans forward, sighing, his voice softening just a touch—just enough to let me know he’s not completely oblivious. “Wyatt, I’ve heard about what’s going on. Look, I’m not the type to get into a guy’s personal life, but I know this PR stuff is weighing you down.”

I glance up, surprised. Coach isn’t one for heart-to-hearts.

He rubs his temple, clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation, but pushes through. “I get that life outside the rink can be tough. Hell, I’ve seen it chew up guys and spit them out more times than I can count. But I need you to focus here. On the ice. That’s where you control things. The team’s depending on you. I believe in you, and I know you can pull through, so shake off the outside noise.”

I nod, jaw set tight. “Understood, Coach. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” he grunts, returning to his usual businesslike tone. “We need you leading the charge this weekend.” He doesn’t give me an out. It’s not a suggestion. His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. Without another word, he shifts his focus to his notebook, already scribbling down plays as if the conversation never happened.

“Count on it,” I say, but the words taste like sawdust.

He doesn’t even glance up, already absorbed in his notes. He’s done with the personal stuff, as expected. But there was something there, in that brief moment—a sliver of concern, the way only Coach could show it without making a big deal out of it.

Dismissed, I turn and exit back into the locker room’s relative privacy, his words echoing in my mind. He’s counting on me. And so is the team. I can’t let them down—not with everything hanging in the balance.

Alec smirks from his spot on the bench as I walk past, but I ignore it. Typical Alec. I’ve got enough on my plate without dealing with whatever his problem is.

I head toward the showers, not bothering to glance back. Stripping down, I step under the scalding water, letting it pound the tension from my shoulders. The rhythmic drumming of droplets against the tile drowns out the rest of the world, offering a brief escape from everything hanging over me. By the time I shut off the faucet, my skin is pink and heat radiates from my body.

Wrapped in a towel, I head back to my locker. Steam curls around me, mingling with the remnants of adrenaline and antiseptic spray. The room’s mostly empty, save for a few stragglers who give me a wide berth—my scowl is as effective as a Do Not Disturb sign.

That’s when Chloe barges in, green eyes ablaze, auburn hair a fiery halo around her determined face. She’s a tempest, a force of nature that commands attention.

“Out,” she barks at the remaining few, and they don’t argue, just grab their things and vanish. Now it’s just me and her, alone in the humid aftermath of practice.

I blink, a little taken aback. How the hell did she get in here? But then again, it’s Chloe—of course she’d find a way in. She’s nothing if not determined.

“Chloe—” I begin, but the word hangs between us, heavy with questions and the undertow of something unsaid.

“Save it, Banks,” she snaps, her usual poise fraying at the edges. Her gaze locks on mine, fierce and unwavering, and I recognize the simmering anger of someone wronged.

“Talk to me,” I say, bracing myself for the storm about to break.

Chloe thrusts a tablet under my nose, the screen aglow with my own face—a moment frozen in time that I wish could melt away. The image is of me at a pool table at O’Malley’s, Zach’s beer clutched in my hand as he lines up his shot. The headline above it screams scandal, dragging my parents’ memory through the mud.

“Look at this,” she says, voice tight with controlled fury. Her finger jabs at the article, scrolling through paragraphs that paint a portrait of my past—one tarnished by tragedy and insinuation. The words sting, each syllable laced with venom: “Is Alcohol Addiction a Banks Family Curse?”

I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. “Damn it,” I mutter, the towel around my waist bunching as my hands clench into fists. “This is a lie.”

“Keep reading,” Chloe urges, her voice softening just slightly, but still tense.

The narrative twists deeper, recounting the accident that stole more than just headlines. It claimed lives—my mom’s and dad’s. It isn’t just their battles with the bottle, but the aftermath that haunts me and the young man on the other side of that collision, forever changed.

“I can’t believe they’d go this far,” I say, my voice strained, trying to process the fact that someone would use my parents’ deaths like this.

Chloe’s eyes narrow, a sharp edge to her tone. “Believe it. The media will dig as deep as they can.”

Before I can fully digest that, she swipes to another post—Sonia’s latest masterpiece of manipulation. She’s crafted a narrative so cunningly cautious, a labyrinth of legal loopholes. ‘Wyatt’s late-night antics have often led me to wonder,’ it reads, ‘about the true cause of his emotional outbursts.’

“Never,” I spit out, the word like acid on my tongue. “I never touched a drop, not even in—”

“I believe you,” Chloe cuts in, her green eyes locking onto mine. There’s no doubt there, no hesitation, just a fierce determination to fight this.

The locker room smells of sweat and the stale humidity of practice, but that all fades into the background. Chloe stands before me, ready to go to war. For me.

“Your meeting with MADD is set for Thursday,” Chloe says, her hands firmly on her hips, clearly ready for the resistance she knows is coming. “I jumped on this the second I found out, making calls, pulling every string I could on my way here. There’s also a local reporter eager to hear your side, to talk about your childhood, your parents, and to record you taking a stance against alcohol.”

I can almost see the narrative she’s crafting, painting me as the grieving son turned advocate. But the idea cuts too deep, reopening wounds I’ve kept buried for years.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’m not spilling my guts to Mothers Against Drunk Driving, or anyone else for that matter, for public consumption.”

“Come on, Wyatt. This could help reshape the way people see you.”

“By picking at scabs until they bleed?” I step closer, the tile cold beneath my bare feet. “You want me to parade my parents’ ghosts in front of the world?”

“I know it’s hard, but isn’t it better to face the truth than let these lies tear you down?” Chloe says gently, taking a step closer.

“Better for who, Chloe?” My voice rises, frustration and fear breaking through. “For you? For your image rehab tour?”

“Better for you, Wyatt!” she snaps back, the echo of her words bouncing off the lockers. We’re inches apart now, breaths mingling, tension hot between us. “To clear your name and maybe—just maybe—to honor their memory.”

“By dragging them through the mud again?” I challenge, her body so close to mine I can feel the heat radiating from her. It sends a jolt of something through me, something not entirely born from anger. “You think that honors anyone?”

“Sometimes the truth hurts,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin, trembling with emotion. “But it can also heal.”

“Easy for you to say,” I hiss back. “You’re not the one laid bare.”

We’re toe-to-toe now, the argument charged with something primal, the attraction we’ve been denying threading through the heat of our words. The anger doesn’t dissipate—it twists, becoming something raw, something undeniable.

“Wyatt…” Her voice is softer now, but the intensity in her eyes is unmistakable. She’s so close, the heat between us blurring the lines between frustration and desire. The back-and-forth of our words only heightens the tension, tightening every nerve in my body.

Before I know it, I close the gap, my mouth crashing onto hers. A release of everything—anger, frustration, and unresolved emotions. Her lips meet mine with equal force, like she’s been waiting for this too, the spark between us igniting into something uncontrollable.

At first, her hands press against my chest, as if to push me away, but then they grip my shirt, pulling me closer. I feel her body responding, the way her lips move against mine with desperate urgency.

But just as quickly as the moment ignites, she shoves me away, her palms flat against my chest, breaking the kiss with a sharp gasp.

“Wait,” she breathes, her eyes wide, searching mine. There’s no denying the pull between us, but the weight of everything we’re dealing with hangs heavy in the air .

“Chloe.” My voice is thick with the words I haven’t said, the frustration that’s been simmering since college. I can see the conflict in her eyes, the walls she’s built starting to crack.

Her green eyes flicker with something deeper than anger or desire—something that scares both of us. And in that moment, I know she feels it too, the way we’re drawn to each other no matter how hard we fight it.

With a swift motion, she tangles her fingers in the damp hair at the nape of my neck and pulls me back to her. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. It’s like we’re both trying to burn away the emotions we’ve buried for too long, finding something real in the chaos.

Our bodies press together, the argument forgotten as her hands slide down my chest, and I feel her tremble against me. It’s more than just lust—it’s the weight of everything we’ve been through, the unspoken understanding that we’re connected in ways we can’t fully explain. My hands move, finding the hem of her skirt, fingers creeping up the smooth expanse of her thigh, past her panties until they reach the heat of her .

“Mm. Just as tight as I remember,” I murmur, savoring the slick heat of her entrance as my fingers slide inside.

Her eyes flutter shut, head falling back against the locker with a soft gasp. “Your fingers…”

Without hesitation, I slip a third one in, drawing a sharp moan from her lips.

“Oh God,” she cries, her voice breathless, her body arching into mine, offering herself up to me.

“Good girl,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her neck.

She shudders beneath my touch, and I can’t help but grin, reveling in her response.

“Come for me,” I growl softly, teeth grazing her neck, just enough to make her tremble.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, gripping my hair, her body tightening around my fingers, her walls clenching in rhythm with each thrust. The locker room fills with the sound of her pleasure, her cries reverberating in the enclosed space. It’s intoxicating—her scent, the feel of her body quaking against mine, the raw intensity of the moment.

My name spills from her lips as she comes apart in my arms, her release leaving her trembling in the aftermath .

Then the moment shatters. A door slams somewhere in the distance, the sharp sound cutting through the charged air, jolting us both back to reality. Chloe’s eyes snap open, panic washing over her features.

For a beat, neither of us moves, the echo of the door still hanging between us. Then, with trembling hands, she pulls her skirt back down, her expression a mix of fear and regret.

Without a word, she turns and hurries out of the locker room, leaving me alone in the deafening silence, the lingering taste of her still on my lips.

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