19. Jayce
NINETEEN
Jayce
T he metallic click of Colton’s lighter snaps through the quiet night as we linger outside the restaurant. Warm golden light spills from the entrance, catching on the sleek glass doors where the name of the place is etched in elegant script. Inside, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, people in suits and cocktail dresses laugh over plates that probably cost as much as an average rent. I can’t wait for Liora to scold Riley for spending so much money on her. It’s going to be amazing.
Colton shifts beside me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cigarette between two fingers. He doesn’t usually smoke, but life’s been serving him a giant plate of shit lately, so I let him have this one. His ex-wife, Laura, is trying to take their daughter to the UK. She can barely take care of herself, let alone their kid. He’s been fighting for full custody for months, and if there’s anyone who deserves to win that battle, it’s him.
Colton King looks exactly like the guy you’d least want to meet in a dark alley—a six-foot-five wall of muscle, fake blond buzz cut, a sharp jaw, and a black ink tattoo creeping up his neck. On the ice, he’s terrifying. Silver eyes that cut like a blade, a voice deep enough to send rookies running, and a presence that makes our rivals hesitate before they so much as breathe in his direction. But underneath it? Total marshmallow. The guy spends his weekends squeezed into tiny chairs, pinky up, sipping imaginary tea with his daughter—wearing a tiara like he was born for it, even with a skull tattoo inked across his hand. It’s almost unfair, the way he can look like someone who could break you in half but still be the kind of dad who lets his little girl put glitter makeup on him. Fuck, he’d kill me if I ever told anyone that, though.
I knock my shoulder against his. “So Laura’s in the UK again?”
Colton exhales sharply, flicking ash off his cigarette. “Yep. Just took Livi to the UK like it was a weekend trip to the grocery store. No warning, no discussion. Just a text after they landed, like, ‘Oh, by the way, we just landed.’” His voice is level, but I can hear the barely restrained anger underneath. Laura only married him for his money, and I feel truly sorry for him. He deserves better.
“She can’t keep doing that,” I say, frustration bubbling up in my chest.
“No shit,” he mutters.
I watch him finish his cigarette, flicking it to the curb with a sharp snap of his wrist.
That’s Colton for you—not much of a talker. But he doesn’t need to be. I know when he’s done, and I know that’s about as much of a conversation about him as I’m gonna get.
“How about you?” he says. “I was close to catching you, you know.”
“Hard to do when you’re all the way up in Canada,” I say.
He nods, resting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to take your time, man, but you got me worried.”
“I’m back.” Well, I hope I am. At least I’m not thinking of drowning myself anymore. When I wake up, I actually want to live the day. That’s something.
Colton lets out a low breath. “Scared the shit out of me.”
I shrug, trying to act like I’m not feeling it too. “I scared myself, man.”
He pulls me into a hug, and for a moment, I’m completely stunned. Colton doesn’t hug people. Hell, he barely even touches anyone, let alone offers something like this. I can’t even remember the last time he hugged someone—not after the Cup win, not after anything.
But here he is, holding me, his grip tight, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. I slowly let my arms move, patting his back awkwardly at first, and then I just sink into it. The warmth of it, the unexpected care, is enough to make my chest tighten. It’s like we both know that I was close to giving up entirely, and something stings in my eyes.
Riley and Colton—they were always there for me, despite everything. They called, they came over, they sent messages, and even got my mom to take the bus and check on me. But I pushed them all away, every single one of them, except Rosie…
We let go and that’s it.
Across the dining room, Riley’s waving arms conduct chaos—servers scrambling with silver table runners, florists wedging blue hydrangeas between champagne flutes. That guy’s so nervous, it’s hilarious.
“Dude looks like Coach during playoff OT,” I say, nodding at Ri.
“Fuck, yeah,” Colton says, giving me that smile I’m sure women all over the world would beg for.
We enter the party and weave past a ladder where some poor kid’s hanging glittering pucks from the rafters. God, Riley’s doing way too much.
The man of the hour turns to face us, dressed to perfection in a sleek black tuxedo. His eyes narrow in frustration, and his voice cracks as he yells, “They delivered the wrong damn ribbons!” I can see the tension in his shoulders, but before he can say anything else, I pull him into a quick backslap hug.
“Relax, Huntington. You’re a mess,” I tease, crossing my arms, watching him fidget. “And…Liora’s really buying the whole ‘grand opening’ story?” She’s actually way too smart for this.
“Better be.” He runs a hand through his messy hair, and I can’t help but grin at the sight. His cheeks are flushed, the strands of his long, raven-black hair tumbling over his forehead in a way that’s more bird’s nest than anything. It’s endearing, really—he’s so damn in love with her, it’s practically written all over him. “Told her Priya’s handling the media invites and guests. You know how Lia gets about surprises.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “Well, I think the surprise wouldn’t be as much of an issue if it wasn’t for the small fortune you’ve probably already dropped on this thing.”
Colton, who’s been silently watching, flicks a stray thread off Riley’s sleeve with a smirk that screams trouble. “So, what’s next? You getting down on one knee in front of a marching band and a choir of dolphins?”
Riley’s groan is as dramatic as his red face. “Shut up, King.”
His phone buzzes—three rapid-fire vibrations. “Shit, caterers are early.” Then he looks at me and the nervous glint in his eyes is replaced with worry. “How are you? You good? Really?”
The question lands like an unexpected check. I roll my left shoulder, still tender from last night. When I rolled in between the sheets with his sister, and there it is again. That damn guilty conscience. “Yeah, I’m better. I want to meet up with Mercer soon, maybe really try to become a…a coach.”
Both heads snap toward me.
Colton’s whistle draws stares from the bartender and Riley’s sudden hug nearly topples a centerpiece.
“Coach Jay, nice,” Colton teases, leaning back with this wry grin of his.
“Really, though—I’m proud of you,” Riley adds. “You’re going to be an amazing coach, even if I’m not a fan of you barking at me to get my ass up.”
We all laugh.
“Yeah, I’m trying, you know?” I admit. “It’s not the same adrenaline rush—feeling the ice beneath you, chasing the puck and all…but maybe I can channel that into strategy.”
“Now you get to yell at us from the sidelines and call all the shots. Considering how shit we’ve been playing lately, I think we need just that,” Colton says, and Ri nods along.
I chuckle reluctantly, reaching for my hair—only to remember it’s all tied up in a bun, so I let it be. “Yeah, but I just know every play will feel like a reminder of what I lost.”
“Listen,” Colton says. “You’re not just any guy. You’ve got a mind that sees the game from angles none of us ever will. Maybe this is just where you’re meant to be.”
Riley slaps me on the back. “Exactly. We’re your own personal pit crew. We might roast you a little, but we’ve got your back, Coach.”
I exhale slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Yeah, maybe they’re right.
“Okay, gotta go now,” Riley says, and within seconds, he’s back to the nervous wreck from before and he runs back to the caterers, checking on whatever he’s checking on.
We watch as more guests trickle in—Derek, Shiny, Malcolm, the whole team. Everyone’s genuinely happy to see me, and we trade a few lighthearted comments until I spot Ethan and Nina making their entrance. I excuse myself and head over to Ethan. Almost immediately, Nina wraps me in a hug, her pencil skirt as immaculate as Ethan’s uniform. I can’t help but wonder if they ever know what it’s like to dress down for comfort—or if they’re forever stuck in business mode.
Ethan doesn’t wait for greetings. “Kix Lyle’s tox screen came back.” His voice drops as oyster shuckers clatter nearby. God, Riley. “Blood alcohol level at 0.20 percent when they found him. They also found GHB, a depressant that can make a person dizzy, disoriented, and unconscious in high doses.”
“So, he was drugged by someone? What about Rosie’s tests?”
“We did a couple more, haven’t returned yet.”
Nina’s manicured nail taps her martini glass and I clasp my hand around my water. Fuck. Smelling it isn’t easy. “There’s more. He’s got no lower body trauma. So, he couldn’t have been hit by a car.”
My knuckles whiten around the tumbler. I was so strong until now. Maybe one drink? “And the broken ribs…”
“Consistent with a forward fall. Charlotte could be right, he may have fallen down the stairs.” Ethan’s gaze flicks toward the entrance. “Not vehicular impact. But he looks like someone beat him up, and that someone must have been way stronger than our petite ballerina.”
The room tilts. Relief tastes like single malt and copper pennies. At least she didn’t drive him over. “Then why the fuck’s Rosalie still—”
Silverware clatters. Conversations stutter.
And that’s when I see her.
She’s framed in the doorway like a struck match—blood-red satin clinging to every dangerous curve. Shit. That dress is violence. The lips are a warning. And her eyes. Her eyes are all I can see.
Riley appears at my elbow. “Why is my father here? No one invited him.”
“Obviously.” My thumbnail digs into the crystal’s etching as I watch them enter.
Rosalie’s father surveys the room like a stern senator presiding over a congressional hearing, his hand a silent sentinel pressed firmly to Rosie’s lower back. I watch her sip a frothy drink through a straw, each rhythmic movement of her throat perfectly synced with the erratic pounding of my own pulse. Just as her lips wrap around that annoying straw and my mind begins to drift, Henry Huntington locks eyes with me. I freeze—his gaze so unnervingly knowing, as if he knows that my head was nestled between his daughter’s legs last night.
And just like that, across twenty feet of polished concrete and the lingering scent of bad decisions, she mouths two little words that set my insides ablaze: Missed you . It had only been four hours, but damn, those hours stretched into an eternity, and I realize I missed her more than I care to admit.
In that short of a time, she’s become a need, a necessity for me.
Earlier, she’d been at a Juilliard course before heading off to her hotel complex to change and get her dad. I was with my physician and watched some games at home. But hell, it was hard. I didn’t drink, though. Not one sip. That’s something. I constantly thought about going to the store and getting some whiskey, but…I didn’t.
I would have two weeks ago.
Then they come over and I nearly reach out to pull her into me, until Henry’s icy stare slices through the moment, a vivid reminder that she isn’t mine to claim. Not really. And I step back as she drapes her arms first around Riley, then Colton, and finally me, leaving my mind to wander over forbidden territory. God, I ache for every inch of her. It’s an all-consuming hunger that I can barely contain.
“Oh, so stiff,” she murmurs in my ear, her warm breath sending shivers down my spine, while every hair at my nape rises in protest. I return her embrace hesitantly, acutely aware of how her plunging, low-cut dress sets my pulse racing in all the wrong—and right—ways.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” I whisper against her neck, the words tumbling out as reluctantly as I let her go.
I steal a glance at the others and catch Henry fumbling through small talk with Riley, while Colton fixes them with a glare that brooks no nonsense. Seizing the distraction, Rosie trails a teasing finger along my arm. Slowly and oh-so charged. “You’re looking fine as well, Mr. Thorne,” she says in a tone that makes me long for more. Way more.
Fuck. Her lashes flutter above those bright, honey-colored eyes, and I swear, she’s a wildcat, poised to pounce—and I’m honestly not sure whether I should be scared or completely hooked. Well, we all know I’m the latter.
“Did you have to sell your soul to bring your dad along?” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. My eyes flick sideways, checking if anyone’s watching us, but no one is, so I let my fingers trace along her hip. Her breath catches, and when she looks up at me, her gaze is all dark lashes and parted lips, pure temptation wrapped in red silk.
This is impossible. I let out a deep breath and watch her sigh too.
Then I take a step back before I do something reckless, something irreversible.
She laughs, the kind of sound that makes my pulse stutter. It slips between us like a whispered dare.
“He’s trying,” she says, and damn, her eyes stay locked on my mouth. Like she’s daring me to cross the line. Like she wants me to snap, to kiss her right here, consequences be damned. Look at her, making me question my sanity for a whole other reason. They could pour me every drop of liquor on earth, and I’d still turn it all down if it meant I could taste her lips right now.
“I just hope these two can behave for ten minutes,” she adds, her tone teasing, dangerous.
I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore. I just keep my gaze fixed on her and ask myself how the hell I deserve to share the bed with her. Even if no one is allowed to know, how could I be the one she wants? She’s fucking perfection and wants me? I’d kiss the ground this woman walks on, and all I want is for her to know it.
“He’s not staying long anyway. But it’s a start,” she says.
“Yeah. It’s good for Riley to see that he cares a little at least. He needs it.”
I drag my fingers up the inside of her arm, just barely, just enough to make her shiver. And I should pull away—I know I should—but I don’t. Because I want her. Badly. Desperately.
That’s when Priya’s laughter resonates from the foyer, and I lock eyes with Liora. She’s staring directly at me. At how I’m touching Rosie. Damn. How long has she been watching us?