7. Jayce
SEVEN
Jayce
T he ice clinks against the glass as I take another sip of my bourbon, feeling the burn in my throat. Rosie’s glare could set me on fire, but I can’t help thinking that maybe now she understands how it feels to watch someone you love hurt themselves. I’m on my second drink already, and my nerves are finally easing up, it takes away the pain. And I relax in my chair.
“All right, I’ve got some news,” Nina announces as she marches into the room, laptop in hand. I always assumed she was just Riley’s assistant, but it turns out she’s involved in everything Ethan touches as well. “I called my hacker friend, and he’s already pulled the footage from Kix Lyle’s camera.”
“Oh, wow. Great,” I say, downing the last of my whiskey. “But what if the police have already done the same? Hi, by the way.”
Nina greets me with a soft “Hello, sweetheart” as she glances at the cane resting against my stool. “I hope you’re doing better.”
We haven’t seen each other since my last game. She gave us her usual good luck wishes, just like always. She hasn’t changed much—still rocking the pencil skirt, matching blazer, and blouse combo like it’s her personal uniform.
But thinking about that last game leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My last game indeed. Just the thought makes me want to pour another bourbon, but Rosie’s stationed herself in front of the alcohol tray like a dragon guarding its hoard.
“Well, I’m still breathing,” I say, keeping my tone light, though Nina gives me a pitying smile that I could really do without. I know she means well, but I struggle to cope with being disabled just like that.
“You’re probably right, though—no guarantee they haven’t pulled the videos,” she says, thankfully shifting the conversation. “It’s only been two, if I’m right.”
“Yeah, the others got destroyed.”
Nina settles onto the couch across from us, her movements casual, like she’s made the conscious decision not to pry further. I could kiss her for that. I’ve had enough of people bombarding me with endless, stupid questions. Questions that don’t need asking. It’s obvious I feel like shit. It’s obvious my leg might never recover. It’s painfully obvious I miss hockey. Stop. Freaking. Asking. My fingers tighten around the empty bourbon glass in my hand.
The minute Nina sits, her fingers tap away at the keyboard. “But we have to work with what we’ve got. In the meantime, both of you need to know your rights.” She looks up, amber eyes scanning Rosie and me. “If the police question you, you don’t have to say anything. You only have to testify if it goes to court, and until then, we have time to find out what happened, understood? No talking.”
Ethan nods, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call a lawyer for Rosie,” he says, stepping out of the room to make the call. “We need Mr. Stevens for that.”
I recognize the name; it’s the Huntington’s sketchy family lawyer.
Rosie crosses her arms, still glaring at me.
Her eyes seem darker than usual, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But hell, even when she’s furious, she’s breathtakingly beautiful. Her raven hair cascading over her pale shoulders, her perfect features marred only by the fury in her expression. I grin back at her and, showing her the empty glass, I mouth, Refill please .
As an answer, she flips me off.
Nina glances up from her laptop screen and her gaze lingers a little too long on the two of us, if you ask me. I frown at her. “So here’s our plan: we’ll examine the footage, find out what happened, and figure out how to handle things from there. We need to see how you even got in there and with whom.”
“Sounds good,” Rosie says, and I nod away as well. “Thank you, Nina. I can’t believe you chose to work on your weekend.”
“Don’t worry, darling, I live for work. You actually did me a favor. Since Riley is in Canada, things got boring,” Nina says with a wink to Rosie.
“But honestly, Jay, you guys should have called us right away,” Nina says, fixing me with a look so sharp I half expect her to pull out a badge. “We could’ve handled it, but instead, you incriminated yourself by putting that guy back in his house.”
I shrug, trying to brush it off. “We were both drunk and panicking. At the time, it felt like the best option.”
“Only if the cops don’t figure out it was you two geniuses under those masks,” she snaps. “It’s going to look sketchy as hell when they see footage of you dragging an unconscious guy back into his wrecked home.”
“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. It was stupid, indeed. But then again, calling the cops wasn’t an option, and I didn’t think of Ethan and Nina.
Nina softens slightly and turns to Rosie, offering a small smile. “We’ll figure out who the asshole behind this is. There’s no way you’re responsible for that disaster, Rosie.”
“The good news is there’s nothing online linking either of you to this mess,” Nina says, tapping her phone. “The tabloids are all over Kix, talking about his trashed house and the assault. So far, no mention of you or anyone. But let’s be real—he’ll open his big mouth sooner or later. Let’s just hope he doesn’t drag you into it as well.”
“I have a feeling someone will,” Rosie mutters, her voice small, and I notice the slight tremble in her shoulders. It takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms and tell her it’ll all be okay.
When she glances over, I manage a reassuring smile, and to my relief, she smiles back. It’s small, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to make my chest unclench, even if just a little.
But that brief moment of ease vanishes the second Ethan strides back in from his phone call, his sharp eyes flicking between Rosie and me. Fuck, he’s as serious as a heart attack. I sit up straight. “Does Riley know about you two?” he says, gesturing between us.
“Us?” Rosie scoffs.
“There’s no ‘us,’ Ethan,” I say, and I think my cheeks burn. It must be from the bourbon.
“And no, he doesn’t know,” Rosie adds. “I want to tell him myself what happened with Levoy.”
I shift uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with everyone. It’s true; there isn’t anything between Rosie and me, but the way we’ve been acting could definitely give someone the wrong idea. I’d be lying if I said it’s not making me have the wrong thoughts, and I absolutely hate myself for it. My hand cramps around the whiskey glass again.
“All right,” Ethan says. “We won’t say a word to him then.”
“Actually…” Nina says and turns her laptop around, the screen is filled with her color-coded calendar. And oh God, it’s a chaotic rainbow of appointments, meetings, and reminders— so packed it looks like someone let loose with a box of crayons. I squint, trying to make sense of it, but it’s impossible. There’s so much happening that my brain waves the white flag in surrender. Just looking at it makes me feel like I need a nap. “It might be better to wait a few days before telling Ri. There’s an important family event next week and everyone’s expected to be there and be happy. Riley’s planning to propose to Liora.” She taps on the Wednesday column, and that’s when I make out a ring emoji. Ah. Wait what?
“Riley’s doing what?” I say.
Everyone is looking at me now and it feels like time stopped.
My heart basically drops into my stomach, and I stiffen up. I had no idea Riley was planning something so big, and the guilt washes over me. He hadn’t told me. He couldn’t, because I wasn’t answering any phone calls, wasn’t talking with anyone. I just…I was only thinking about me. But their lives went on, they had things going on, too, it wasn’t just all about me and my stupid leg. They had a life. A life I didn’t care for…for months…shit. I’ve acted like a fucking narcissist.
In an instant, the glass in my grasp shatters, leaving shards in its wake. My hand throbs from the stinging sensation.
Before I can even wrap my head around what I’ve done, I hear Rosie’s screams and see Nina rushing into the kitchen while Ethan hurries to clean up the shattered glass from the floor. It all happens so quickly—or maybe my brain just short-circuits—but suddenly, Rosie’s right there, all over me, inspecting my hand.
“It’s okay, the glass broke in big chunks,” Ethan mumbles more to himself.
“Yeah, he’s just got a tiny cut,” Rosie mentions, her ample cleavage momentarily catching my attention. I try to focus on her words but find myself getting distracted from the perfection right in front of my face. I can’t help but swallow at the sight. Dear God. I remember how fucking tasty she looked this morning in nothing but her underwear. The way she looked every time I caught myself sneaking glances at her while she swam in her parents’ pool. Imagining her like this became my guilty pleasure. I swear, my body’s gone from zero to a hundred in seconds. The shift from panic to a boner…is so fucking weird. But it’s all me. Me and my obsession with this woman.
“Um, Rosie, could you…”
“Oh,” she says, and steps back slightly, but her fingers still linger on my hand for a moment before Nina arrives with a rag and plaster. I adjust myself quickly, hoping no one notices as the tension in the room shifts. Ethan’s muttering to himself as he cleans up, and Nina’s back to typing away while Rosie gently takes care of my injury. She’s applying a big, white bandage to my cut. But just as she starts to step away, I reach out, grabbing her wrist before she can move too far.
She stumbles slightly, and my hand instinctively lands on her thigh to steady her. The contact is electric, my whole body tingles, and I quickly pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“Thanks,” I mutter, my gaze lifting to meet hers, a little breathless, a little too aware of how close we are. And somehow, I still won’t let go of her hand.
“Always,” she says, flashing me that grin that could’ve floored me if I wasn’t already parked on my butt.
“He still wants you as his best man, you know,” Nina tells me as soon as my breath becomes steady again and I snap back out of my rose-colored daydream. “You should probably give him a call soon.”
“Yeah, you should talk to him. Just…not about all this yet,” Rosie says and sits back on the couch again.
“Right,” I agree quietly, feeling the weight of my bad decisions crashing down on me again.
“Okay, you two,” Ethan says, clapping his hands together. “Go home now and try to relax. You are so fuzzy, it’s horrible. We’ll work on everything here and keep you updated. And don’t worry, Rosie. We’ll manage it. Thanks to your brother, we’re perfect at damage control.”
“The best,” Nina says, grinning.
“Thank you so much, you guys are incredible,” Rosie says.
And that’s when I get up, because when a man throws you out, you don’t stick around to argue.
Our drive back to my New York apartment is filled with silence, the hum of the city outside doing little to fill the space between us. When we arrive, Rosie insists on helping me carry my stuff inside. I want to argue, to tell her I can handle my duffel and luggage, but the truth is, that I will need to leave one in the hallway and take the elevator twice. It would be stupid to turn down her offer to help me. So, I swallow my pride and let her.
The elevator ride is strange—awkward, almost surreal. And when I finally unlock the door and let her inside, it’s even stranger. The only reason I take women to my apartment is to fuck them. I’m not like Riley, or like he was before Liora, but I do like to have a good fuck. Or I used to, that is. Performing now with this darn leg is a mystery. Yet, her presence adds an extra layer of complexity to the mix. I can’t even count the numerous times I imagined her here with me. Imagined my hands on her skin, on her mouth. That fucking dirty mouth of hers.
“Wow,” Rosie says, and I pretend that I didn’t just think about fucking her from behind. I definitely didn’t.
She’s setting my duffel bag on the bed and taking a slow look around. “Not what I expected. But it’s so cool, Jay. Feels like an art gallery.”
“I think it was one before,” I reply, watching her as she surveys my space. She looks so cute with that swishy ponytail, wearing my way-too-huge clothes. This petite frame of hers swimming in them, but still rocking it. Those Huntington genes at work, I guess.
She walks over to my bed, her fingers brushing the edges of the heavy, cream-colored curtain I’ve hung from the ceiling. It’s meant to divide the sleeping area from the rest of the studio.
“Clever,” she murmurs, drawing it closed to test its effectiveness. The curtain gives the bed a touch of privacy, leaving the rest of the space open and airy.
I know my apartment isn’t much by Huntington standards, and definitely not as flashy or spacious as hers.
Honestly, I don’t think anyone lives quite as lavishly as Rosie. She practically calls the Whitmore Collection home—one of the most exclusive, expensive hotels in New York, owned by none other than her parents of course. But here’s the thing about her. The image of this spoiled, surface-level girl in designer clothes is just a mask she wears for strangers. A persona she perfected over time, molded by the world’s expectations of who she should be. But underneath all of that, she’s still the rebellious, sharp, quick-witted fire I fell for all those years ago, who’d used all of her wealth in seconds just to tramp the world.
“You are stunning, Rosie,” I say, and she turns to face me, her delicate hand still on my curtain. I lean against my black leather couch in the middle of my studio and her gaze flits to my feet, to my chest, to the bulge of my arms as I fold them.
“You like me looking like a dwarf? You should see me in my Valentino dress,” she smirks. “No, honestly, I didn’t know you were so skilled at decorating spaces.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
And there it is. Her cheeks turn scarlet.
But she’s right. It wasn’t easy decorating this place. My apartment is in the industrial district of Manhattan, the kind of building that used to be something else: a warehouse, a gallery, maybe both. And that’s what I like about it. The exposed red-brick walls give it character, interrupted by sleek black columns that add a modern edge. The entire space is a studio—one big, open room—because, with my schedule, that’s all I ever wanted. Now, with my injury, it’s even better—no stairs, everything within reach.
Still, I couldn’t face the idea of being here alone during recovery, which is why I’d hidden out in the Hamptons. It wasn’t just for peace and quiet. It was because I didn’t want anyone, especially Rosie, to see me like this. And now here she is, standing in my apartment, shattering that illusion of control and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
“You read?” Rosie asks, walking toward the bookshelf that sits just beyond the bed, neatly dividing the room and separating the living space from my kitchen. It’s packed with autobiographies of my favorite hockey players, a few well-worn novels, and an assortment of trophies.
“Not really, sometimes when I was with the guys and trying to appear classy while they belted out tunes from their butts.”
Rosie snickers, her expression darkening as she directs her gaze toward my bathroom just across from my bed, separated by a translucent glass wall. There’s a luxurious freestanding bathtub inside. From my bed, I have a clear view of it. It’s functional, efficient…and sexy as hell when you lie here and watch a beautiful woman bathe. And no, I definitely don’t let myself imagine Rosie in there with steam rising as she cleans her tits. Nope, not going there.
I shouldn’t have brought her up here. It’s bringing a lamb to the wolf. My damn dick was already throbbing as soon as she came into view.
With heated cheeks, I set down the luggage and notice my phone vibrating in my pocket. I glance at the screen and see Riley’s name flashing. My hands go utterly still for a moment. Oh, what a day.
“Take the call, Jay,” she says. She’s in my bathroom now, touching my damn bathtub.
But she’s right. If this day taught me anything, it’s that I can’t act like an asshole any longer. I’m not the center of the fucking world.
“Hey, man,” I say.
“You’re finally taking my call after fifteen and a half days and all you give me is a ‘hey, man’? You’re fucking kidding, right?” my best friend says.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“You better be,” Riley snaps. “I’ve been traveling for away games nonstop, worrying about you, dickhead. If you hadn’t answered, Liora would’ve come knocking on your Hamptons hideaway tonight.”
I chuckle. Who would have thought that Riley Huntington would have a soon-to-be wife who would do anything for him, even check on his friends? I’m still so happy for him that he found her. And that she stayed. Thank God she stayed.
“I’m back in New York, man,” I say, bracing for his reaction.
A pause. Then, sharper, “What? Say that again.”
“Yeah, I’m back in the city,” I repeat, playing with the hem of my shirt.
It’s my best friend. Speaking with him shouldn’t make me so nervous. But I was a bad friend. A real bad friend for a long time. And considering the thoughts I have about his little sister…it makes everything even worse, especially knowing that his fiancée went through real trauma in her life thanks to a fucking groomer. It was a nightmare. I can’t let him think I’m the same kind of monster. I’m not.
“Real funny. So, come on, man, tell me. How are you holding up?”
I let out a long exhale, my eyes drifting unwillingly toward Rosie across the room. “Not great, but…” I glance at her again. She’s lifting the hoodie, revealing a tantalizing sliver of skin. “…it’ll get better.” What the fuck is she doing?
“Progress, at least. We’ll be back tomorrow. Mind if I swing by?”
The thought of Riley here while Rosie’s prancing around in my clothes—or less—sends a jolt through me. Not entirely unpleasant, which makes me doubt I ever was a good person after all. “Sure. Love that,” I manage, though my throat feels dry as hell now.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you’d say no and that I’d have to break in,” he jokes and tells me something about King, our right winger and other close friend.
But then Rosie does it.
She peels the hoodie off like it’s no big deal, leaving her in a tiny tank top that clings to every curve. My breath hitches. Her breasts peek through the hem. They are pointy.
I watch her fingers move to the waistband of my pants.
Oh no. No way. No way in hell.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, my heart thundering.
I think it’s doing jumping jacks in there.
“What’s wrong?” Riley asks.
“Um…” My gaze is glued to his sister as she shimmies out of the pants, leaving her in nothing but my boxers. Her smooth, long legs, toned from God knows what ballet routine, are on full display.
I bite my fist.
What does God want from me? I’m just a man, and I can only take so much.
“Hello? Earth to Jay? What’s going on over there?”
“Uh…” My brain misfires. My voice is stuck somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. My dick kinda says, Go over there, we want. And my brain says, Stay the fuck away, you idiot.
Then Riley gags. “God, don’t tell me you’re jerking off right now.”
My chest tightens, heat flooding my face. “Riley, no!” I snap, panic setting in. I lower my voice. Rosie gets rid of the tank top now. Fuck. Fucking fuck. “Look, I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
Before he can respond, I hang up and turn my entire attention to Rosie, who’s now sitting in my full bathtub, her bare legs sprawled over the tub edge like she doesn’t have a care in the world. When did she turn on the faucet for the bath?
“What the fuck are you doing, Rosie?” I snap.
She tilts her head, a playful, innocent smile curling her lips, as if she has no clue how effortlessly she’s driving me insane.
“I’m taking a bath.”
“Do you want to kill me?” I bark, but there’s no anger in my voice—just frustration and…heat. So much heat. Today has been the first time since my injury that my dick says he’s still alive. And damn is he alive.
Rosie raises an eyebrow, the picture of nonchalance, but the glint in her eyes tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Relax, Jay. I’m just taking a bath. You can…go sleep. I’ll be gone in an hour. I just can’t think of being alone…at home. Sorry. I should have thought this through, but it kinda felt…right.”
She stretches her arms over her head, and my restraint snaps like a rubber band. Borrowing my sanity is more like it.
“Rosie, you can’t just waltz into my apartment and take a bath like it’s no big deal,” I say, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. I know I should turn away, but my dream woman is naked in my fucking tub.
“Jay, we’ve had one hell of a night,” she says, her whiskey eyes never leaving mine. “I’m tired, I’m sore, and all I want is to soak in this tub for an hour before I go back to my own place. Can I please?”
“Fine,” I grumble, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. “But keep it down, all right? And don’t make a mess.”
“Scout’s honor.” She smirks, her fingers making an X over her left boob.
Her breasts float in the water, tempting me like ripe peaches waiting to be plucked. I shake my head, trying to clear it of the fog that seems to have taken over.
My body feels like it’s running on autopilot as I head to the sink to brush my teeth, the mundane task doing little to distract me from the real problem. Rosie. But I must admit, just hours ago, my leg was my biggest problem. A Rosie problem seems so much more inviting.
She’s right there, in the glass-enclosed bathtub, and it’s impossible not to steal glances. She’s a masterpiece—every inch of her. Pale skin shimmering under the soft bathroom light, water droplets clinging to her like they’re too enamored to let go. And I can’t blame them.
I spit, rinse, and turn off the faucet with more force than necessary, gripping the counter to ground myself. Fuck. This is so hard. Why is this so hard? You can have other girls, Jay. Just not her. It can’t be so fucking hard.
The reflection staring back at me in the mirror looks like a man on the brink. When I finally turn away, I somehow manage to drag myself back to the bed instead of to the bathtub. How? I don’t know. I must be Superman.
I strip down to my boxers, tossing my clothes aside, and climb onto the mattress. I tell myself not to look, not to give in to the pull that’s stronger than gravity itself. But I do. Of course I do. Who am I even lying to? I’m not Superman. More like a dude in boxers trying to fight off his kryptonite with zero willpower.
But maybe it’s okay.
Maybe if I just look this one time.
I can hold on to that memory forever. It sounds economic, doesn’t it?
I had some real hard weeks too. Why not treat myself?
I glance at her.
And the clear water reveals everything.
Every curve, every delicate movement. Fuck…the way her body shifts as she leans back and runs a hand through her wet hair. Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. She looks straight into my eyes and that’s when my slow brain finally gets it. Rosalie Huntington is seducing me. My mouth goes dry again, but worse, my dick jumps and I want to touch it. She’s not even trying hard, but she’s teasing me, unraveling me one drop of water at a time.
That’s all it takes. That’s all I fucking need from her to melt.
I close my eyes and throw an arm over my face, like that’s going to help. It doesn’t. The sound of water splashing gently as she washes her skin with soap is suddenly louder than the New York streets outside. I try to focus on anything else, but it’s useless.
She’s just a few feet away, and I’m losing my mind.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong. For a dozen reasons.
I open my eyes again and find her kneeling in my bathtub, her long black hair sticking to her breast as she looks at me again. Her red mouth pouty as she washes herself.
Lord, I have sinned.