Chapter 14
Lydia
Happiness, it turns out, is the ultimate narcotic.
It blurred the edges of reality. It softened the harsh fluorescent lights of the arena. It made the bitter Michigan winter feel like a mild inconvenience rather than a threat to life.
And, most dangerously, it made me stupid.
It had been a week since the cabin. A week since Mikey had confessed his darkness and I had wrapped my arms around it. A week since he had wired the money—dirty, blood-soaked cash—to the facility and secured his father’s safety for another six months.
Since then, we had been living in a bubble of illicit bliss.
Mikey was playing like a god. With the weight of the debt off his shoulders and the knowledge that I wasn't going anywhere, he was unstoppable on the ice.
He was faster, sharper, and terrifyingly precise.
The scouts were buzzing. Even Reynolds, the Detroit skeptic, had been spotted at practice, taking furious notes.
And me? I was walking on air.
I was in the training room, organizing the tape rolls by color (a task that usually bored me to tears), and humming. Actually humming.
"You're doing it again," Becca said from the doorway. She was leaning against the frame, holding two iced coffees.
"Doing what?" I asked, not looking up from my rainbow of athletic tape.
"Glowing," she said, walking in and handing me a cup. "And humming. You haven't hummed since you got an A on your O-Chem final freshman year. Who is he?"
I froze. "Who is who?"
"The guy," Becca said, hopping up onto an exam table and swinging her legs. "The one putting that goofy smile on your face. Is it a grad student? Or... wait. Is it that brooding barista at The Grind?"
I laughed, turning to face her. "There is no guy, Becca. I'm just happy. The team is winning. My thesis is going well. Uncle Mac hasn't yelled at me in three days."
"Uh-huh," Becca sipped her coffee, eyeing me over the rim. "And where were you last Friday night? During the blizzard?"
My heart stuttered. One-two. One-two.
"I told you," I lied smoothly. "I was at the library. Studying for midterms. I fell asleep in a study carrel."
"Right. The library. The one that closed at 8 PM due to weather?"
I stiffened. "I... I stayed late. The janitor let me stay."
Becca stared at me. She wasn't buying it. She was my best friend. She knew my tells. She knew I twisted my ring when I lied. I forced my hands to stay still on the tape roll.
"Lydia," she said softly. "You know you can tell me, right? Even if it's someone... complicated."
I looked at her. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to scream it from the rooftops: I'm in love with the Enforcer! I'm sleeping with the Wolf! He calls me Mouse and makes me feel like a queen!
But I couldn't. Not yet.
"There's nobody, Bec," I said firmly. "I promise."
Becca sighed, hopping off the table. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But just be careful, okay? You've got that look. The 'I'm invincible' look. And in this town? That usually means you're about to get hit by a bus."
She walked out, her sequins skirt swishing.
I let out a breath I had been holding.
Invincible.
That's exactly how I felt. And she was right. It was dangerous.
Mikey texted me at 2:00 PM.
Mikey: Meet me. 2:30. The Sanctuary.
Me: The Hydro room? It's open hours. Anyone could walk in.
Mikey: I put a 'Cleaning' sign on the door. Jagger is guarding the hall. He thinks I'm napping. Come on, Mouse. I need a recharge.
I bit my lip, staring at the screen. It was risky. Insanely risky. Mac was prowling the halls today, preparing for the playoff meeting.
But the thought of seeing Mikey... of touching him... it was a magnetic pull I couldn't resist.
Me: 10 minutes.
I grabbed my clipboard (the ultimate prop) and headed for the tunnels.
The arena was buzzing with pre-playoff energy. Staff were running around. Players were stretching in the hallways. I kept my head down, walking with purpose.
I reached the Hydrotherapy Room. The "Closed for Cleaning" sign was taped to the door.
I looked left. Nobody.
I looked right. Nobody.
I slipped inside and locked the door.
The room was warm, humid, and smelled of chlorine. The lights were dimmed.
Mikey was waiting.
He was in the water, leaning against the edge of the tub, arms spread along the rim. He looked like a king in his watery throne. His bruises from the fight were fading into yellowish-green shadows on his ribs and arms. The cut on his eye was a thin pink line.
"You came," he grinned, his teeth white in the dim light.
"I'm an idiot," I said, dropping my bag and walking over to him. "Mac is in the building. Becca is suspicious. We are playing with fire."
"Fire keeps you warm," he countered. He reached out a wet hand and grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward him.
I stood between his spread knees at the edge of the tub. He looked up at me, water dripping from his hair.
"How's my favorite handler?" he teased.
"Stressed," I sighed, running my hands through his damp hair. "Lying is exhausting, Mikey. Becca knows something is up. She asked about Friday."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I was studying."
"Boring," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss my stomach through my scrub top. "You should have told her you were rescuing a prince from a dragon."
"A monster from a pit," I corrected softly.
He pulled back, his eyes serious. "Same thing."
He tugged me closer until my thighs were pressed against the cold stainless steel of the tub.
"Come in," he said.
"I can't. I'm in scrubs. I have a shift in twenty minutes."
"Just for a minute," he pleaded. "I need to hold you. The noise... it's getting loud again. The playoffs. The scouts. Everyone wants a piece of me."
His vulnerability broke me. It always did.
"Okay," I whispered. "But no splashing. If I go back to the clinic wet, Mac will know."
"No splashing," he promised.
I kicked off my shoes and rolled up my pants. I sat on the edge of the tub, dangling my legs in the hot water.
Mikey moved instantly. He moved between my legs, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his head on my chest.
I held him. I stroked his back, feeling the tension slowly leave his muscles.
"Better?" I asked after a minute of silence.
"Yeah," he mumbled against my scrub top. "Much better."
He lifted his head. His eyes were heavy-lidded. Golden.
"Kiss me," he demanded.
I leaned down and kissed him. It was slow, deep, and drugged with heat. His hands slid up my back, under my shirt, his thumbs tracing my spine. My hands cupped his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble.
We forgot the time. We forgot the door. We forgot the world.
For a few minutes, we were just Mikey and Lydia.
Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I broke the kiss, breathless. "I have to go. Shift starts in five."
"Don't go," he groaned, burying his face in my neck.
"I have to. Or Mac gets suspicious."
I pulled away, hopping off the edge of the tub. I smoothed my scrubs, checked my hair in the reflection of the glass door.
"You look messy," Mikey noted, looking at my swollen lips. "I like it."
"You're terrible," I smiled. "Text me later?"
"Always."
I unlocked the door, checked the hallway, and slipped out.
I walked fast toward the training room, my heart soaring. I felt invincible. We had pulled it off. Another stolen moment. Another victory.
I turned the corner toward the clinic.
And ran smack into Davis.
"Whoa!" Davis laughed, catching my arm to steady me. "Slow down, Mouse. Where's the fire?"
"Sorry," I gasped, pulling away. "Late for shift."
Davis looked at me. He looked at my flushed face. He looked at my slightly damp scrub pants.
Then he sniffed.
His eyes narrowed. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.
"You smell like the pool," he noted. "And... cedar."
My blood ran cold.
Mikey's scent. Cedar and ozone. It was all over me.
"I was cleaning the hydro room," I said quickly. "Spilled some chemicals."
"Chemicals don't smell like Alpha pheromones," Davis drawled. He leaned in close. "You smell like Holt. Like... all over Holt."
"You're imagining things, Davis," I snapped, trying to step around him. "Move."
He blocked me.
"I knew it," he whispered, his voice laced with a nasty triumph. "I knew you two were sneaking around. The way he looks at you? The way you defend him? It's classic."
"Davis, stop."
"Does Coach know?" he asked, tilting his head. "Does Big Mac know his little niece is banging the team psycho?"
"Shut up," I hissed. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough," Davis grinned. "I know that Mac has a zero-tolerance policy for staff fraternization. And I know that Holt is already on thin ice with the Board."
He stepped closer, crowding me against the lockers.
"So here's the deal, Lydia. You're going to put in a good word for me with Mac. Get me more ice time in the playoffs. Maybe suggest that I deserve a shot on the first line."
"Are you blackmailing me?" I asked, incredulous.
"I'm negotiating," Davis corrected. "Pack politics, baby. You scratch my back, I don't tell Mac that his star player is sleeping with the help."
I stared at him. The rage boiled up inside me—hot and violent. It felt like Mikey’s rage.
"If you say one word to Mac," I whispered, my voice trembling with fury, "Mikey will kill you."
Davis laughed. "If Mikey touches me, he gets kicked off the team. And then he loses his draft spot. And then he's nothing. So... I don't think he's going to do anything. And neither are you."
He patted my cheek—a condescending, slimy touch.
"Think about it, Mouse. First line. Tell Mac I'm looking sharp."
He walked away, whistling.
I stood there, shaking.
The bubble hadn't just popped. It had been punctured by a jagged, dirty knife.
I didn't tell Mikey.
That was my mistake. That was the hubris.
I thought I could handle it. I thought I could protect him. If I told him Davis was blackmailing me, Mikey would kill him. He would tear Davis apart in the locker room, get expelled, and lose everything we had fought for.
So I kept it to myself.
I went to my shift. I taped ankles. I avoided Davis’s smirk.