Chapter 15
DANNY
Three minutes into the Edmonton game and I’m already playing like shit.
My timing’s off. I’m a half a second behind on every play, my mind spiraling. Carter’s wide open on the wing, ready for an easy pass, and I miss him completely, shooting it right over to Edmonton.
The crowd groans. I heave a deep sigh when the puck sails into our net.
Coach yanks me after two minutes.
“What the hell was that?” he bites out. “What the hell are you thinking about, Masterson? Because it sure ain’t beating Edmonton.”
If he only knew.
“My bad, Coach,” I say.
His nose is bright red from the cold, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Your bad? Masterson, you just handed them that goal. Wake the fuck up.”
I nod, but I’m not waking up. Can’t. Because my head’s not on the ice. It’s in the press box where Alex Naylor’s sitting with his stupid little press badge and his notebook, watching everything.
Watching me. Watching Noah.
I saw him before warmups. He stood near the tunnel with the other journalists, his eyes tracking Noah across the concourse like he’s already writing the story in his head.
Noah saw him too. That’s when he disappeared.
Fuck, we’re giving Alex exactly what he wants just by being in the same building.
Coach puts me back in for the second period. We’re down one to nothing, thanks to yours truly, and I need to get my shit together. I have to focus on my team and the fucking puck, not Noah and Christ only knows what kind of shit Alex is planning to expose.
Edmonton’s center flies past me in the wing. I chase him down the ice to cut him off but I’m too late. He whips around me and feeds the puck to his teammate, who shoots. Tate makes the save, but barely.
“Masterson!” Coach yells from the bench. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I adjust my helmet and square my shoulders. I can’t give him an answer because I don’t have one.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, I take the dumbest penalty of my life.
Edmonton’s winger starts talking shit about Puck Fest. As if I need to battle any more noise in my head. And instead of skating away like I’ve been practicing for weeks, I shove him into the boards.
Not even hard. Just enough to be stupid.
The ref’s arm flies up, and he gives me two minutes in the box for roughing.
Coach covers his face with his hand. He won’t even look at me. My teammates are pissed. The game’s slipping away because I can’t keep my head straight.
And Alex is in the press box watching the whole thing, smug-ass grin on his face because I’m feeding him his story, word for fucking word.
My penalty ends, and now we’re down by two. I get back out on the ice determined to fix this, to do something, anything that’ll prove I’m not the liability everyone thinks I am.
Edmonton dumps the puck. I’m the first one there. I grab it, look for my pass. Jack’s open on the wing. It’s the easiest fucking play in hockey.
Except I don’t see the Edmonton forward coming from my blind side.
He strips the puck from me and feeds it to their center. The buzzer sounds before my brain processes what just happened.
Three to nothing.
My fault. Completely, totally, obviously my fault.
Coach pulls me. He doesn’t say a word, just points to the bench and turns his back.
I sit there the rest of the period, shoulder slumped, head in my hands, watching my team try to dig out of the hole I created.
They can’t.
In the locker room afterward, everyone is quiet. Frustrated as hell, I’m sure. I know I am. I fucking handed Edmonton that win.
I can’t get out of the locker room fast enough. Nobody will outright blame me, that’s not how things work with us. But they’re all thinking it, and the silence chokes me. I shower fast, throw on jeans and a hoodie, and rush out, desperate to put this night behind me.
Because what I did just proved what the press has been saying…that I’m exactly the reckless asshole everyone thought I was.
The parking garage is nearly empty when I get there, and I’m halfway to my truck when I see him.
Alex. Leaning against a pillar, typing on his phone.
He looks up. Smiles. Smug fucking bastard.
“Tough game.”
I keep walking, my lips pulled tight together.
“Seemed like you had trouble focusing. Not like you,” he says, following me.
“Not in the mood.”
“Fair enough. It’s been a long night.” He speeds up to catch me. “I saw you took a penalty for roughing. That’s usually Noah’s job, right? Keeping you from taking stupid penalties?”
I stop. “What the fuck are you getting at?”
Alex shrugs. “Nothing. Just observing.” He tilts his head. “You’ve been playing clean for weeks. Tonight you looked distracted. Makes me wonder what might have changed.”
“Nothing changed.”
“Are you sure about that? Because from where I was sitting, you looked like someone with a lot on his mind. Personal stuff, maybe?”
I wanna deck this asshole so bad. The only thing that stops me is more bad press.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with Noah. I know he’s managing your probation very personally. And I know tonight you played like someone who’s got more than hockey on his mind.”
“Go fuck yourself, Naylor.”
“There it is.” Alex grins. “That temper. The one Noah’s been working so hard to control. Interesting how it comes out when I mention him.”
I’m about to tell him exactly where to shove his observations when I see a shadow move near the elevator.
My chest tightens. It’s Noah walking to his car.
He sees us and stops short.
A smile lifts Alex’s lips, but there’s nothing genuine about it. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you, Noah.”
Noah’s face hardens, his professional mask locked in place. “The game’s over, Alex. You should head back to your hotel.”
“Just having a friendly conversation with Masterson. It was a tough game tonight. I just wanted to get an inside scoop. For my article.”
“Yes. It was rough.” Noah looks at me, a questioning look in his eyes. “You okay?
No. I’m not okay. Haven’t been okay since he kissed me and then shoved me away.
“I should go,” Alex says. Still smiling. What a colossal prick. “See you both around.”
He leaves, and it’s just us left in the parking garage.
“Are you alright?” Noah asks again.
“No.”
“Masterson—”
I stalk toward him. “I played like shit tonight because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us. About Alex watching us like he knows something.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“He suspects something. You saw him tonight. He’s digging, and the more we hide, the more suspicious it looks.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Stop pushing me away. Stop pretending you don’t feel anything. Stop making me feel like I’m insane for wanting something you won’t admit you want too.”
Noah’s quiet for a long minute. “You should go home. Get some rest.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What else can I say?” he says, his voice a low growl that makes my body hum because I can feel that he’s dancing on the knife edge of control right now.
“Anything. Something real. Something that isn’t you hiding behind your bullshit walls.”
“I can’t—“
“You can. You just won’t.” I twist away from him. “Fuck this.”
I walk to my truck, get in, and slam the door.
My fingers wrap around the steering wheel as I sit there, trying to breathe through the anger and frustration and the fact that I just cost my team a game because I’m pining for a guy who gives more of a damn about optics than he does his true feelings.
Noah stands by his car, watching me.
I should leave. I need to drive home, go to bed, forget about this. Forget about him.
I let out a sigh and scrape my hands down the front of my face as Noah drives past me, heading for the exit.
It takes me a split second to decide.
I follow him out of the parking deck, letting other cars get between us once we’re on the road. I stay just close enough to keep his taillights in view. We weave through the downtown area, onto the freeway, and into the neighborhoods north of the arena.
He finally pulls into the driveway of a house that matches him…the kind of place that screams “I have my shit together.”
I park across the street then watch him get out and grab his stuff. He turns toward the house and catches a glimpse of my truck. It stops him cold.
I jump out and walk up the driveway, my hands in my pockets.
“What are you doing here?” he says, a look of genuine shock settling into his expression.
I shrug. “Couldn’t stay away.”
“Danny—”
“No. You don’t get to push me away again. You don’t get to keep saying this is a mistake and then look at me like you’re dying to kiss me.”
“You followed me home.” His lips quirk up. Just a little bit. “Stalker.”
I step closer. “Yeah. I did. Because I’m done pretending this isn’t happening. I’m done playing by your rules when your rules are just bullshit excuses.”
“This is a bad idea,” he says, his eyes darting left and right, as if there are paparazzi ready to spring out from the well-manicured bushes at any second.
“Probably. But I’m tired of good ideas that make me feel like shit.”
He stares at me. “If I let you in,” he finally says, “everything changes.”
“Everything already changed. You kissed me, and you can’t take that back.”
“I can try to move past it.”
“Well, I can’t. I’ve tried for days and all I can think about is you. How you tasted. How you grabbed me like you’d been wanting to for weeks. How you looked at me right before you did it.”
He lets out a sigh and sweeps a hand through his hair, making it look even sexier.
“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t think about it. Tell me I’m the only one who can’t stop.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, jaw tight, clearly at war with himself.
Then he turns to unlock the front door.
“Get inside,” he hisses. “Before someone sees you.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, all the neighbors who are secretly watching from their windows.”
He rolls his eyes at me and nods toward the open door. I follow him in. The house is exactly what I expected. It’s clean, organized, and everything is in its place. Complete control. So Noah.
He closes and locks the door before slowly turning to face me.
“What do you want from me, Danny?”
“The truth. Just once, tell me the truth.”
He leans back against the door. “The truth is I’m terrified. Of this. Of you. Of what happens if anyone finds out.”
“And?”
“And I can’t stop thinking about you either. Haven’t been able to since you walked into my office looking like you wanted to punch me.”
“I did want to punch you.”
“I know. You probably still do, at least half the time.”
“Yeah, well. You make it kinda easy since you’re so infuriating.” I shrug.
“So are you.”
We’re too close now. Close enough that I can see his chest rising and falling and the battle waging behind his eyes.
“Tell me to leave,” I murmur, inching toward him. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll walk out.”
“I can’t,” he whispers.
“Why not?”
“Because it’d be a lie.”