Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Jerry
Pain is usually a dull, monochromatic gray. It sits in the background, a static noise that you learn to tune out. But waking up on Sunday morning, the pain in my ribs was a vivid, screaming neon red.
I groaned, trying to shift, and immediately regretted the decision. A sharp spike of agony lanced through my side, stealing my breath.
"Don't move," a sleepy voice murmured.
A small, warm hand pressed against my chest—my good side—holding me down.
I opened my eyes.
Heather.
She was curled against my right flank, her head resting on my shoulder, her honey-blonde hair fanned out across my chest like a silk blanket. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing slow and even. She looked... peaceful.
And she was in my bed.
The memory of last night crashed over me. The drive home. The desperation. The way she had straddled me and taken control because I was too broken to do it myself.
“You can't ruin me, Heather. You're the only thing fixing me.”
I had said that. Out loud. To a girl I had hired to solve a PR problem.
I should have felt panic. My internal alarm system—the one installed by my father when I was ten—should be blaring. Asset compromised. Leverage exposed. Abort mission.
But all I felt was... lighter.
Despite the ribs, despite the bruises, I felt strangely weightless. The crushing pressure in my skull, the constant hum of anxiety about the draft and the team and the legacy... it was quiet.
Heather opened one eye. It was golden-hazel and surprisingly clear for 7:00 AM.
"You're thinking too loud," she whispered. "I can hear the gears grinding."
"I'm assessing structural damage," I lied, my voice rough with sleep.
"Liar," she said. She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped down, revealing the curve of her bare shoulder and the top of her breast.
My body reacted instantly. Pain be damned.
She noticed my gaze drop. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips. It wasn't the sweet, nervous smile of the girl I met in the rink. It was the smile of a woman who knew exactly what she did to me.
"How are the ribs?" she asked, tracing a line down my sternum with her index finger.
"Manageable," I grunted. "Better when you're touching them."
"Smooth," she teased. "Very charming. Did you download a 'Romance Hero' software update overnight?"
"I'm versatile," I said. I reached up with my good hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was instinctive. Possessive. "Heather."
"Yeah?"
"What is this?" I asked.
The playfulness vanished from her face. She bit her lip—that nervous tell I was starting to find adorable.
"I don't know," she admitted softly. "The contract says we're fake dating. But... last night didn't feel fake."
"It wasn't," I said firmly. "I don't fake that."
"So..." She looked down at my chest, avoiding my eyes. "Are we... real dating? Because that complicates things. The team. The Dean. Your dad."
My father.
The thought of him was like a bucket of ice water. If he knew I was genuinely involved with a scholarship student—someone with no connections, no capital—he would view it as a weakness. He would try to cut it out, like a tumor.
"We can't tell them," I said. The words tasted sour, like ash.
Heather flinched. She pulled her hand back. "Oh. Right. Of course. Because I'm a liability."
"No," I said sharply, grabbing her wrist before she could pull away completely. "Look at me."
She looked up. Her eyes were guarded now. The armor was coming back up.
"You are not a liability," I said, putting every ounce of conviction I had into the words. "You are... necessary. But my world is a shark tank, Heather. If they know this is real—if they know I actually care about you—they will use you against me. Or worse, they'll come for you to get to me."
"Who?" she asked. "Bianca? Carter?"
"Everyone," I said. "The scouts. The agents. My father. They look for leverage. If they know you're my leverage... they'll try to break you."
I squeezed her wrist.
"I won't let them break you," I vowed. "So we keep the contract. To the world, this is a PR stunt. A business arrangement. But in here..." I gestured to the room, to the bed, to the space between us. "In here, you're mine. Is that okay?"
She searched my face. She was looking for the lie.
She didn't find one. Because for the first time in my life, I wasn't hedging my bets.
"Okay," she whispered. "Secret lovers. Very scandalous."
"Very dangerous," I corrected. "If Coach Miller finds out I'm sleeping with my 'assistant', he'll have me running suicides until I throw up."
"Then we better be careful," she said. A mischievous glint returned to her eye. "Because I'm not planning on stopping."
"Good," I growled. I pulled her down for a kiss. It was deep, slow, and tasted like morning breath and promise. "Because neither am I."
Tuesday
Sneaking around is exhausting. It is also, unfortunately, incredibly erotic.
The logistics were a nightmare. Heather still had her "room" in the penthouse—the guest room down the hall—to keep up appearances for the cleaning staff and the occasional surprise visit from the PR team.
But every night, like a ritual, she would wait until the lights were out, tiptoe down the hall, and slide into my bed.
It was addicting. The secrecy added a layer of adrenaline to everything we did.
But the hardest part wasn't the nights. It was the days.
We were in the library. It was 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. The place was packed with students cramming for midterms. The air smelled of old paper and stress.
I was sitting at a large oak table in the back corner, ostensibly studying for my Economics final. Heather was sitting next to me—not too close, a respectable six inches of space—working on a lesson plan for her Education practicum.
My leg was bouncing under the table.
I couldn't focus. The words on the page (Market Elasticity and Demand Curves) were blurring together.
All I could think about was the fact that Heather was wearing a skirt. A plaid, pleated skirt with black tights. And under the table, completely hidden from the rest of the library, her foot had slipped out of her boot and was currently resting on top of my sneaker.
She was rubbing her toes against my ankle.
It was innocent. It was torture.
"Stop it," I murmured, staring straight ahead at my textbook.
"Stop what?" she whispered back, turning a page of her notebook with agonizing slowness.
"You know what," I gritted out. "I'm trying to learn about supply chains."
"And I'm testing your focus," she teased. "A good Captain needs to be able to ignore distractions."
"You're not a distraction," I muttered. "You're a hazard."
She laughed softly. The sound vibrated in my chest. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She was biting the end of her pen. Her lips were pink, slightly swollen from this morning, when I had pinned her against the shower wall and kissed her until we were both late.
God, I wanted her. Right here. On the table. amidst the encyclopedias.
"Jerry!"
I jumped. Heather’s foot vanished instantly.
I looked up. Bianca St. James was standing over us, clutching a stack of books to her chest. She looked impeccable in a cashmere sweater set, her hair perfectly blown out.
"Hi, Bianca," I said, my voice flat.
"Studying hard?" she asked, her eyes flicking to Heather with disdain. "Or just... tutoring?"
"Both," Heather said brightly. "Jerry is very teachable."
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. "I heard about the game in Boston. Carter said you got hurt."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"Really?" She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "Because I heard you were limping. And that you refused to see the team doctor. My father is worried, Jerry. If you're hiding an injury..."
"I'm not hiding anything," I said, sitting up straighter. My ribs protested, a sharp stab of pain, but I kept my face blank. "I'm sore. It's hockey."
"Well," Bianca said, straightening up. "Just be careful. The scouts are coming to practice on Thursday. They want to see if you're durable. It would be a shame if you... cracked under pressure."
She gave me a sweet, venomous smile, then turned to Heather.
"Cute skirt," she said. "Very... schoolgirl."
She walked away.
Heather bristled beside me. I could feel the heat radiating off her.
"I hate her," she whispered. "I genuinely, spiritually hate her."
"She's irrelevant," I said.
"She's dangerous," Heather corrected. "She's watching you, Jerry. Like a hawk."
"Let her watch," I said. Under the table, I reached over and placed my hand on Heather's thigh. I squeezed, just once. "She can't see what matters."
Heather looked at me. Her anger melted into something softer, something warmer. She covered my hand with hers.
"Thursday," she whispered. "The scouts."
"Yeah."
"Are you ready?"
"I have to be," I said.
But looking at her, feeling the warmth of her hand on mine, I realized that for the first time, "being ready" didn't just mean playing perfect hockey. It meant protecting this. Whatever this was.
Thursday Practice
The arena smelled of fear.
It was subtle, mixed in with the sweat and the ice, but it was there. The scouts were in the stands. Three men in dark suits, sitting in section 105 with tablets and coffees, watching us like we were racehorses at an auction.
Coach Miller was pacing the bench, barking orders.
"Speed! Precision! Let's go, ladies! Don't embarrass me!"
I was at center ice. My ribs were taped so tight I could barely take a full breath. I had popped three ibuprofen before getting dressed. It took the edge off, but the ache was still there, a constant reminder of my fragility.
"Alright, Vane!" Miller shouted. "One-on-ones! You and Tank! Show them what a real shot looks like!"
I nodded. I skated to the blue line.
Tank was in the net, bouncing on his toes, looking massive in his pads. He tapped his posts with his stick.
"Bring it, Cap!" he yelled. "Don't go easy on me just because you're getting laid!"
A few of the guys snickered.
My blood ran cold.
I shot a glare at Tank. Shut up.