Chapter 11
Mikey
Normally, I hated the morning. Morning meant noise. It meant the return of the world, the return of the responsibilities, the return of the constant, low-level buzz of anxiety that lived at the base of my skull.
But this morning, the world was quiet.
I lay on my back, one arm thrown over my eyes to block the sun, the other dead weight because a small, curly-haired human was using it as a pillow.
Lydia.
She was asleep, her face pressed into the crook of my shoulder, her breath puffing warm and rhythmic against my skin. Her leg was thrown over my hips, trapping me. She was drooling slightly on my pectoral muscle.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I carefully lifted my arm, peeling my eye open to look at her.
The memories of last night hit me in a rush—not a chaotic flood, but a warm, golden tide.
The way she had arched. The way she had screamed my name into the pillow.
The way she had looked when I knotted her—eyes wide, stunned, and completely mine.
Mine.
The Wolf purred in my chest. A deep, satisfied rumble. For the first time in years, the creature wasn't pacing. It was curled up by the fire, belly full, guarding its treasure.
I ran my free hand down the curve of her spine, tracing the indentation beneath the sheet. She stirred, making a soft, protesting noise, and snuggled closer.
"Morning, Mouse," I whispered, my voice a wreck of gravel and sleep.
"Mmmph," she replied, tightening her grip on me. "No. Too early."
"It's six-thirty," I said, checking the clock on the nightstand. "Bus leaves at nine. But Jagger is going to be waking up soon to pee, and if he hears a female voice in here through the wall, he's going to tweet about it."
Lydia froze. Then, slowly, she peeled her face off my chest. She blinked up at me, hair wild, mascara smudged under her eyes.
"Jagger," she croaked. "Right. The wall."
"Thin walls," I reminded her. "Connecting balcony."
She groaned and flopped back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Reality. I hate it."
"Me too."
I turned on my side, propping my head on my hand so I could look down at her. I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb.
"So," I said, the word heavy. "What's the play, Coach?"
She looked at me, her whiskey eyes sharpening as the sleep cleared. "The play?"
"Us," I said. "Last night... that wasn't a one-time thing. You know that. I know that."
"No," she agreed softly. "It wasn't."
"But Reynolds called you a distraction," I continued, my jaw tightening at the memory of the scout. "And your uncle... if Mac finds out I'm sleeping with his niece while I'm supposed to be fighting for a contract and passing Anatomy, he's going to bench me. For my own good."
Lydia bit her lip. "And I'm an intern. There are rules, Mikey. HR rules. If they think I'm trading grades for... favors..."
"I'll kill anyone who suggests that," I growled, the peace of the morning shattering instantly.
"I know you will," she soothed, reaching up to touch my face. "That's the problem. You're protective. I'm professional. We're a disaster on paper."
"So we burn the paper," I said. "We hide it."
"Hide us?"
"Just for now," I promised. "Just until the draft. Until I get the bonus. Until I can pay off the facility and secure my dad. Once I have the contract, I don't care what Reynolds thinks. I don't care what Mac thinks. I'll shout it from the damn scoreboard."
I leaned down, pressing my forehead against hers.
"But right now... I can't lose this chance, Lydia. I need the money. And I can't lose you. If Mac separates us, if he bans me from seeing you..."
"He won't separate us," she whispered. "We're a team, remember? Tactile learners."
"Secret team," I corrected.
"Secret team," she agreed. A small, mischievous smile touched her lips. "It's kind of hot, actually. Sneaking around."
I smirked, leaning in to nip at her bottom lip. "You think everything is hot, you little pervert."
"Only when it involves you."
She kissed me then—a slow, lazy morning kiss that tasted of sleep and promise. I felt my body responding instantly, hardening against her thigh.
"We have to go," she murmured against my mouth. "I have to sneak back to 206 before the team wakes up."
"Five more minutes," I bargained, moving my hand to her breast.
"Mikey..."
"Two minutes," I groaned. "Just let me touch you. I need to charge up before I have to pretend I don't want to eat you alive in public."
She laughed, a breathless sound, and opened her legs for me.
"Okay. Two minutes. But quiet. If Jagger hears, I'm blaming the plumbing."
The bus ride home was torture.
Absolute, unadulterated psychological warfare.
I sat in the aisle seat. Lydia sat by the window. To the rest of the team, we were just the Enforcer and the Intern, tired from the road trip, maybe sharing a quiet conversation about hydration charts.
But under the grey wool blanket I had draped over our laps, my hand was resting high on her thigh, my thumb rubbing circles into the soft denim of her jeans.
Every time I moved my finger, her breath hitched. She would turn a page of her book without reading it.
"You're evil," she texted me.
I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out, keeping my face stoic.
Me: I'm just keeping you warm. It's cold on the bus.
Lydia: You're two inches away from the danger zone. If you move your hand up, I'm going to spill my coffee on you.
Me: Do it. Then I'll have to take my pants off.
She choked on her latte.
Jagger, sitting across the aisle with headphones on, looked over. "You good, Mouse?"
"Fine," Lydia squeaked. "Swallowed wrong."
"Careful," Jagger grinned. "It's bumpy."
I squeezed her thigh hard, a silent warning/claim. She glared at me, her cheeks flushed pink.
I looked out the windshield at the passing snow-covered pines. I felt... light.
It was a strange sensation. Usually, my chest felt like it was filled with lead. The worry about my dad, the fear of the madness, the pressure of the game—it was a physical weight.
But today? The weight was still there, but it was manageable. Because I wasn't carrying it alone.
Every time the fear of the $12,000 debt crept in—Friday is coming, Friday is coming—I would squeeze Lydia’s leg, and she would cover my hand with hers, and the panic would recede.
She was the anchor. And for the first time, I wasn't drifting.
Three days later, the novelty of the secret had worn off, replaced by a desperate, clawing hunger.
We were back on campus. The routine had returned. Practice. Class. Lift. Eat. Sleep.
But now, the routine was punctuated by moments of stolen heat that left me dizzy.
We couldn't be together in the dorms—her roommate, Becca, was always there, and the Hive was a revolving door of teammates. So we improvised.
We found corners of the campus where the shadows were deep.
On Tuesday, I dragged her into the stacks of the library, the section housing dusty periodicals from the 1980s that nobody ever read. I kissed her until her lips were swollen, my hands roaming under her sweater while she tried to quiz me on the skeletal system.
"Stop," she had gasped, pressing a book against my chest. "Identify the bones of the hand."
"Carpals, metacarpals, phalanges," I had recited, kissing her neck. "Now identify this bone."
On Wednesday, she cornered me in the stairwell of the Science Center after class. She pushed me against the concrete wall, standing on her tiptoes to bite my jaw.
"You looked good in practice today," she had whispered. "Scary."
"You weren't supposed to be watching," I groaned, gripping her waist.
"I'm always watching."
It was intoxicating. It was maddening.
But it was Thursday afternoon when the cracks started to show.
I was in the Equipment Room again, sharpening skates. It had become our unofficial meeting spot. It was soundproof, smelly enough to mask scents, and lockable.
Lydia slipped in at 4:15 PM, locking the door behind her.
She looked stressed. Her hair was pulled back tight. She was chewing on a pen cap.
"Hey," she said, dropping her bag.
"Hey." I turned off the grinder. "What's wrong?"
"Uncle Mac," she sighed, leaning against the workbench. "He's ramping up the security for the playoffs. He wants to install cameras in the hallway outside the locker room. And he wants me to log all my hours strictly. No 'extra' tutoring sessions unless they're in the designated zones."
I stiffened. "He suspects."
"I don't think so," she shook her head. "I think he's just being Mac. Control freak. But it makes this..." She gestured between us. "...harder."
I walked over to her, wiping my hands on a rag. I stood between her legs where she leaned against the bench, resting my hands on the metal on either side of her hips.
"We'll adapt," I said. "We'll find new spots."
"It's exhausting, Mikey," she admitted, looking up at me. "Lying to him. Lying to Becca. Every time she asks where I'm going, I have to invent a study group."
"I know," I said, leaning down to rest my forehead against hers. "I hate it too. I hate not being able to claim you. I hate watching Davis flirt with you in the training room and having to stand there like I don't want to rip his throat out."
"Davis is harmless," she smiled weakly.
"Davis is a male with a pulse. He's not harmless."
I kissed her. It was supposed to be a comfort kiss, but the moment our lips touched, the chemistry took over. It always did.
She tasted like coffee and stress. I tasted like metal and need.
I lifted her up, sitting her on the edge of the workbench. She wrapped her legs around me instantly, pulling me flush against her.
"Mikey," she breathed.
"I need you," I growled, my hands sliding under her shirt to find the warm skin of her back. "Right here. Quick."
"Someone could come in," she whispered, but she was already unbuckling my belt.
"Door's locked," I mumbled, attacking her neck. "And the grinder is loud if I turn it back on."
I reached for the button of her jeans.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was thunderous in the small room.
We froze.
My hand was down her pants. Her hand was in my hair.
"Holt? You in there?"