Chapter 4 #2
"I can't stop," I whispered. The fight drained out of me. "I have a showcase in three weeks. If I don't nail it, I don't get a contract. If I don't get a contract..." I trailed off.
"If you don't get a contract, Daddy keeps paying the bills?" he suggested, a hint of his old edge returning.
I laughed. It was a brittle, jagged sound. "Daddy isn't paying the bills, Ben. Daddy cut me off. Yesterday. Completely. If I don't get a contract, I'm waiting tables at Applebee's. I have forty-two dollars to my name."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ben stayed crouched there, staring at me. He was processing this. The Spoiled Princess narrative he had built in his head was crumbling, and he didn't know what to do with the rubble.
"He cut you off?"
"Yep. Sink or swim. And currently..." I gestured to my swollen ankle. "I'm sinking."
Ben didn't say anything. He just looked at me. Really looked at me. He looked at the sweat-matted hair, the tear tracks on my cheeks, the bloody foot.
He sighed. A long, heavy exhale through his nose.
He shifted, sitting on the floor in front of me. He placed the bag of frozen peas on my ankle.
The cold was shocking, but the relief was instant. I let out a small whimper.
"Hold that," he ordered.
I put my hand on the bag.
He didn't leave. He sat there, elbows on his knees, watching me.
"You're an idiot," he said softly.
"Thanks. Your bedside manner is inspiring."
"You're training on concrete. In the cold. Without a spotter. You're going to end your career before it starts."
"I don't have a choice, Ben! I'm stuck here!"
"You always have a choice."
He reached out, and for a second, I thought he was going to touch my face. Instead, he took my other foot—the one that wasn't swollen—and began to undo the ribbon.
"What are you doing?"
" taking the other one off before it cuts off your circulation."
He removed the second shoe. He ran his thumb over the arch of my foot, applying pressure to a tight muscle.
I gasped. It felt... good. Too good. It was intimate in a way that terrified me. Feet were gross. They were tools. They were battered and ugly. And he was touching them like they were precious.
"You have high arches," he murmured, his eyes focused on his task. "Like a dancer. Or a skater."
"Don't compare me to a skater," I said weakly. "You guys just crash into things."
"We glide," he corrected, his thumb digging into a knot near my heel. "And then we crash."
He looked up. Our eyes met. The basement felt very small suddenly.
"Why were you reading that book?" he asked.
The question came out of nowhere.
My face flamed hot. "What?"
"The book. On your Kindle. The one about the..." He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "The Dominant billionaire and the... whatever she was."
"Secretary," I whispered. "She was his secretary."
"Right. Why?"
I looked away, staring at the rack of hockey sticks. "Because it’s interesting."
"It’s fantasy."
"So? Hockey is fantasy. You pretend a piece of rubber is the most important thing in the world."
"That's different. Hockey is control. It’s rules. It’s discipline."
"Exactly," I said, turning back to him. "That's what I like about the books. The control."
Ben went still. His hand stopped moving on my foot.
"Explain," he said. His voice was low, commanding.
I swallowed hard. I shouldn't tell him this. He was the enemy. He was the roommate. He was the guy who slammed doors in my face.
But he was also the guy holding a bag of peas on my ankle and massaging my arch.
"My whole life," I started, my voice barely a whisper, "is controlled by someone else. My father. My instructors. The Academy. 'Stand up straight, Ivy. Don't eat that, Ivy. Smile, Ivy. You're representing the family, Ivy.'"
I took a shaky breath. "I have to be perfect. All the time. I have to be in charge of my body, my image, my emotions. It’s exhausting."
I looked at him, pleading for him to understand.
"In the books... she doesn't have to be in charge. He takes it. He tells her what to do, what to feel, when to move. She just gets to... exist. She gets to let go."
I bit my lip. "I just want to know what that feels like. To not have to drive the car for five minutes. To let someone else steer."
Ben stared at me. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked almost black. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle ticking rhythmically.
He understood. I saw it in his face. He was a control freak. He understood the burden of it.
"But you're a virgin," he said. It wasn't a question. "You told me in the library."
"Yes."
"So you want... that dynamic," he gestured vaguely between us, "but you've never even had the vanilla version."
"I know. It's stupid. I'm afraid I'll be bad at it. I'm afraid I'll freeze up. Or I won't know what to do." I laughed nervously. "I'm a perfectionist, Ben. I don't do things I'm bad at."
Ben looked down at my foot in his lap. He traced the scar tissue on my toe with his thumb.
"You need a teacher," he said.
The air in the basement vanished.
"What?"
He looked up. His expression was hard, unreadable. "You need someone to show you the ropes. Someone who understands control. Someone who won't let you get hurt."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Are you... volunteering?"
"I'm proposing a trade."
He let go of my foot and sat back, crossing his arms. The negotiator.
"I need this house to be quiet. I need to focus on the scouts. I can't have you running around causing chaos, playing loud music, and inviting linebackers into the pantry."
I blushed. "I didn't invite him."
"Whatever. You're a distraction. But if I control the distraction... then it's not a distraction anymore. It's part of the routine."
He leaned forward. "I'll help you. I'll teach you."
"Teach me... sex?" I squeaked.
"I'll teach you everything," he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll teach you how to let go. I'll teach you what your body can do when it's not dancing. No strings. No feelings. Just sensation. Just... education."
"And in exchange?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"In exchange," he said, "you do exactly what I say. You eat what I tell you to eat. You sleep when I tell you to sleep. You rehab this ankle properly. And you stay the hell away from the rest of the team."
My mind was spinning. This was insane. This was dangerous. This was literally the plot of the books I read, and those usually ended with heartbreak or kidnapping.
But looking at him—at the strength in his shoulders, the intensity in his eyes—I didn't feel scared. I felt... safe.
And for the first time in my life, I felt seen.
"You'll help me fix my ankle?" I asked. "So I can dance?"
"I'm a Kinesiology major," he said. "I know how to tape an ankle better than your ballet teacher. Yes. I'll get you to the showcase."
I took a deep breath.
"Okay."
Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Okay?"
"Deal. You teach me. I... obey." The word tasted strange on my tongue. Heavy. Sweet.
Ben stood up. He towered over me, blocking out the light. He held out a hand.
"Deal."
I reached up and placed my hand in his. His palm was rough, warm, and engulfed mine completely.
He pulled me up. I wobbled on my bad ankle, and he caught me instantly, his arm banding around my waist, pulling me into his hard body.
We stood there for a moment, chest to chest, the scent of him filling my head.
"Lesson one," he whispered, his lips grazing my ear. "We don't do this in the basement."
He scooped me up into his arms, bridal style.
"Where are we going?" I gasped, clutching his shoulders.
"To the kitchen," he said, walking toward the stairs. "You need protein. And ice. And then..."
He paused at the bottom of the steps, looking down at me with a dark, predatory promise in his eyes.
"Then we figure out just how much of a brat you really are."
I buried my face in his neck to hide my smile.
We were in so much trouble.