Chapter 9
Ben
The Ice Box was pulsating.
I hated it.
I was sitting on the high-backed leather armchair in the corner of the living room, my left leg propped up on an ottoman, an ice pack strapped to my knee. I was holding a red solo cup filled with water, watching my teammates try to drink away the memory of the third period.
My knee throbbed—a dull, relentless ache that synced with the bass of the music. But the pain in my chest was sharper.
I replayed the scene in the hallway over and over. The scout. My father. The handshake.
He’s buying it again. He’s fixing it.
I took a sip of water, the plastic cup crumpling in my grip. I wanted to smash something. I wanted to clear the room. I wanted silence.
But mostly, I wanted Ivy.
She wasn't next to me. She was across the room, near the kitchen island, trapped in a conversation with Fitz and a couple of girls from the volleyball team.
She was still wearing my jersey. It was the only bright spot in the room—that bold number 4 on her back, claiming her for me even when I couldn't reach her.
She looked tired. Her smile was tight, polite. Her eyes kept flicking toward me, checking. Every time our gazes met, something pulled tight in my chest. An invisible tether.
I need to get her out of here.
"Dude, you look like you're plotting a murder."
I looked up. Jax was standing over me, swaying slightly. He had a smudge of face paint on his cheek and looked surprisingly cheerful for a guy who had spent sixty minutes getting cross-checked.
"Just thinking," I grunted.
"About the scout?" Jax sat on the arm of my chair, leaning in. "Coach said he liked your grit. Said you playing through the pain was 'old school hockey.'"
"Coach says a lot of things," I muttered. "Did you see who the scout was talking to?"
Jax frowned. "Some suit. looked rich. Why?"
"That was my dad."
Jax’s eyebrows shot up. "Senator Sterling? Here? In the flesh?"
"Yeah. Shaking hands. Making deals." I stared into my cup. "He's trying to buy my draft spot, Jax. Just like he bought my way into prep school."
Jax was silent for a moment. Then he clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Ben, look at me. You're the best defenseman in the conference.
You lead the league in blocked shots. You lead the team in hits.
Your dad could buy the whole damn arena, and it wouldn't change the fact that you are the one on the ice. You earned this."
I looked at him. I wanted to believe it.
"Thanks, man."
"Now," Jax grinned, nodding toward the kitchen. "Go rescue your girl. She's been cornered by Kevin from the swim team for ten minutes. And Kevin only talks about chlorine levels."
I looked over. Sure enough, a guy in a speedo-tight shirt was leaning way too close to Ivy, gesturing wildly. Ivy looked like she was planning an escape route through the ventilation ducts.
That was it.
I grabbed my crutches. I hauled myself up, wincing as my bad leg took weight.
"Clear a path," I told Jax.
Jax saluted and plowed into the crowd. "Make way! Cripple coming through! Make way!"
I hobbled through the parting sea of students. I ignored the "Good game, Cap" comments. I ignored the girls trying to catch my eye.
I reached the kitchen.
Kevin was mid-sentence. "...so the pH balance is actually critical for drag reduction, you know?"
I moved in behind Ivy. I didn't say a word. I just wrapped my arm around her waist from behind and pulled her back against my chest. I rested my chin on the top of her head.
Kevin stopped talking mid-pH. His eyes widened as he looked up at me.
"Hey, Ben," Kevin squeaked. "Just... talking swimming."
"Fascinating," I deadpanned. "She's leaving."
I looked down at Ivy. She tilted her head back to look at me upside down. Her eyes were relieved, sparkling with that secret humor we shared.
"Am I?" she asked.
"Yes. You look exhausted. And my knee is killing me."
"Okay," she agreed instantly. She turned to Kevin. "Sorry, Kevin. Duty calls. Good luck with the... water."
She grabbed my hand—the one wrapped around her waist—and squeezed it.
We turned to leave.
"Wait," a voice slurred from the corner.
It was Tank. He was sitting on the counter, very drunk. "Where you going with the Princess, Sterling? Party's just starting."
"Party's over for us," I said, steering Ivy toward the back door.
"You keeping her all to yourself?" Tank leered. "Not very team-player of you."
I stopped. The room went quiet.
I turned slowly. I let go of Ivy and took a step toward Tank. I leaned on my crutches, but I made sure he felt every inch of my height.
"She's not a puck, Tank," I said, my voice low and dangerous enough to cut through the music. "She's not something you pass around. She's with me. And if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me at practice on Monday. Assuming you can skate after I put you through the boards."
Tank paled. He held up his hands. "Whoa. Chill, Cap. Just joking."
"Laugh," I commanded. No one laughed. "Didn't think so."
I grabbed Ivy’s hand again. "Let's go."
We walked out the back door into the cold night air. The silence hit us like a physical blow, shocking and welcome.
The walk from the main house to the detached garage—where my apartment was technically located above the bays, though I usually just used the internal stairs—was icy.
Ivy shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "You were scary back there."
"He was disrespectful."
"He was drunk. But... thank you." She looked up at me, her breath puffing white in the air. "For the rescue. And the defense."
"I told you," I said, stopping at the bottom of the external stairs. "I protect what's mine."
She went still.
What's mine.
I hadn't meant to say it out loud again. It was slipping out more and more. The barrier between "fake" and "real" was dissolving.
"Can you make it up the stairs?" she asked, looking at my crutches.
"I'll manage. You go first. In case I fall, you can be a soft landing."
"Ha ha. Very funny."
She started up the stairs. I followed, gritting my teeth against the pain in my knee. Every step was a battle, but I wasn't going to let her see me struggle.
We reached the top. She unlocked the door with the key I had given her yesterday ("For emergencies," I’d lied).
We stepped inside.
My apartment was quiet. It smelled like cedar and old books. It was a sanctuary.
Ivy flicked on the lamp. The soft yellow light illuminated the space—the leather couch, the overflowing bookshelves, the massive bed in the corner.
She turned to face me.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the bed.
"I'm fine."
"Sit, Benjamin. Or I will kick your good shin."
I sighed and hobbled over to the bed, sitting on the edge. I leaned my crutches against the wall.
"Happy?"
"Immensely." She walked over to me. She looked determined. "Take off your pants."
I choked on a laugh. "Usually, you buy a guy dinner first."
"I'm serious. I need to ice your knee. And you can't ice it through denim."
She was right. My jeans were tight, and my knee was swollen to the size of a grapefruit underneath.
"Fine."
I unbuttoned my jeans. I felt her eyes on my hands. She watched every movement—the slide of the zipper, the shift of my hips as I shimmied the denim down.
I kicked them off, leaving me in my boxer briefs.
Ivy didn't look away. Her gaze traveled up my legs—the thick muscles of my thighs, the scars on my shins, the bulge in my briefs.
She swallowed hard. Her pupils dilated.
"Focus, Nurse St. James," I teased gently.
She blinked, snapping out of her trance. "Right. Ice."
She went to the mini-fridge in the corner and grabbed a new ice pack. She came back and knelt between my legs.
The position was... intimate.
She carefully placed the ice on my knee. Her hands were gentle, avoiding the bruised areas.
"It looks bad," she whispered, tracing the swelling.
"It's just fluid. It'll drain."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not when you look at me like that."
She looked up. Our faces were inches apart.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm the only person in the room. Like you actually care."
"I do care," she whispered fiercely. "You know I care."
She rested her hands on my thighs, just above my knees. Her palms were warm.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"My father... I saw him too."
I stiffened. "You saw him talking to the scout?"
"Yes. And Ben... I saw the look on your face when you came out of the locker room. You looked... defeated."
"I'm not defeated," I said, though it felt like a lie. "I'm just tired of fighting a rigged game."
"Then stop playing his game," she said. She moved her hands up my thighs, sliding them higher. "Play your own game."
"And what game is that?"
"The one where you get what you want. Not what he wants for you."
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest. I could feel her heart beating against my ribs.
"What do you want, Ben?" she asked softly.
I looked down at her. At the blonde hair spilling over my bare skin. At the trust in her posture.
"I want to stop thinking," I admitted. "I want to turn my brain off. I want to feel something other than anger."
She pulled back. She looked me in the eye.
"Then let me help you."
She reached for the hem of the jersey she was wearing.
My breath caught.
Slowly, deliberately, she pulled the jersey over her head.
She wasn't wearing a bra underneath.
My world tilted.
She was perfect. Pale skin, soft curves, pink nipples hardening in the cool air. She tossed the jersey to the floor.
"Ivy," I groaned, my hands instinctively reaching for her hips. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," she said. Her voice didn't shake. "No lessons tonight. No teaching. Just... us."
She stood up and unbuttoned her jeans. She shoved them down, stepping out of them. She was left in tiny white panties.
She climbed onto the bed. She straddled my lap, careful of my bad leg.
The sensation of her skin against mine—bare chest to bare chest, bare legs tangling—was electric. It short-circuited every thought in my head.
"Kiss me," she commanded.
I didn't need to be told twice.
I wrapped my arms around her and crashed my mouth onto hers.
It was desperate. It was messy. It was the culmination of weeks of banter and stolen glances and suppressed hunger.
We fell back onto the mattress. I took the weight on my elbows, hovering over her, shielding her.
"You're beautiful," I rasped, kissing down her neck. "God, Ivy, you're a masterpiece."
"Show me," she whispered, arching into me. "Show me what it feels like when you don't stop."
I looked down at her. She was open. Vulnerable. Trusting.
"I'm not going to stop," I promised. "Not tonight. Not ever."
I reached down and hooked my finger in the waistband of her panties.
"Last chance to run, Princess."
She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me down.
"I'm not going anywhere."
I ripped the fabric.
And then, finally, there were no more barriers.
Ivy
I had read about this. I had read hundreds of books describing the act. Friction. Heat. Insertion.
But reading about it was like reading about a hurricane. You can understand the wind speed, but you can't understand the roar until you're standing in the eye of it.
Ben wasn't gentle. He couldn't be. He was too big, too intense, too pent-up.
But he was careful.
He kissed me until I was dizzy. He touched me until I was weeping for him. He used his hands, his mouth, his words—"So wet," "Take it," "Good girl"—to prepare me.
And when he finally, slowly, pushed inside me...
It hurt. A sharp, tearing pressure.
I gasped, digging my nails into his shoulders.
He stopped instantly. He held himself perfectly still, hovering over me, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest.
"You okay?" he gritted out, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would crack. The strain on his face was terrifying. He was holding back an ocean.
"I'm okay," I whispered, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. "Just... big."
He huffed a dark laugh. "Sorry. Genetics."
"Don't be sorry," I said, lifting my hips experimentally. The pain faded into a dull stretch. "Just... move. Please."
He started to move.
And the world exploded.
It wasn't just physical. It was emotional. Every thrust felt like he was hammering down my walls, breaking into the parts of me I kept hidden.
I am loved.
The thought came out of nowhere. It wasn't just lust. It was the way he looked at me. The way he held my weight. The way he whispered my name like a prayer.
"Ben," I sobbed, the pleasure building too fast, too bright. "Ben, I can't... I can't hold on."
"Don't hold on," he growled, driving deep. "Let go. Give it to me."
I shattered.
I screamed his name into the quiet room, my body bowing off the mattress, spasms rocking through me that felt infinite.
He followed me seconds later. He buried his face in my neck, groaning a low, guttural sound that vibrated through my very bones. He poured himself into me, shaking with the force of his release.
We collapsed together. A tangle of limbs and sweat and heavy breathing.
He didn't pull away. He rolled to the side, taking me with him, keeping me wrapped in his arms. He pulled the duvet up over us.
Silence settled over the room. But it wasn't the heavy, awkward silence I had feared.
It was peaceful.
I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heart slow down. I traced the black ink on his arm.
"Ben?"
"Mmm?" He sounded half-asleep, his hand stroking my hair.
"You were right."
"I'm always right. About what?"
"The lesson. Lesson Two. 'Anticipation is better than the act.'"
He opened one eye, looking down at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You were wrong. The act was definitely better."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. He kissed the top of my head.
"Glad to hear it, Princess. Because we have a lot of practicing to do."
I smiled, closing my eyes.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about tomorrow. I wasn't worried about my dad, or the showcase, or the money.
I was just here. Safe. Controlled. Loved.
And then, as sleep started to pull me under, a thought drifted through the haze.
We didn't use a condom.
My eyes snapped open.
Ben was already asleep, his breathing deep and even.
It’s fine, I told myself. One time. It’s fine.
I closed my eyes again. But the thought lingered, a tiny, quiet alarm bell in the back of my mind.
I pushed it away. Tonight was perfect. I wouldn't let reality ruin it.
I snuggled closer to Ben, and let the darkness take me.