Chapter 10 #2
"Ivy?"
"Mmm?"
"You okay?"
She let out a long, happy sigh. "I feel... floaty. Is that normal?"
"Yeah. Endorphins."
I rolled off her, pulling her into my side. She curled against me instantly, fitting into the curve of my body like a puzzle piece.
I pulled the sheet up over us.
I looked at the ceiling.
My knee was throbbing again. My career was still in jeopardy. My father was still a shark circling the waters.
But right now? With Ivy’s warm, soft weight against me?
I didn't care.
"Ben?" she whispered into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I meant it."
I froze. I knew what she meant.
I love you.
Panic flared in my chest. A cold, sharp spike.
Love was a weakness. Love was leverage. If I loved her, I gave her the power to destroy me. Just like my dad used love to control me.
"Go to sleep, Ivy," I said quietly. I kissed her forehead. "We'll talk in the morning."
She stiffened slightly. Then she relaxed.
"Okay," she whispered. "Goodnight, Captain."
She fell asleep quickly.
I stayed awake.
I watched the moonlight shift across the floor. I listened to her breathe.
And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that it was too late to be afraid.
I was already destroyed.
Because looking at her sleeping face, I knew I would burn the world down to keep her. I would give up the NHL. I would give up the legacy. I would give up everything.
And that... that was terrifying.
Because a man who has something to lose is a man who can be beaten.
And Ben "The Butcher" Sterling... never lost.
The Next Morning
Ivy
I woke up alone.
The bed was cold on the other side. The sheets were rumpled, smelling of sex and cedarwood, but Ben was gone.
Panic fluttered in my chest.
Did he leave? Did he regret it?
I sat up, wincing as my body protested. My inner thighs were sore. My core ached. But it was a good ache. A satisfied ache.
I saw a note on the pillow.
It was written on a piece of lined notebook paper, in sharp, angular handwriting.
*Went to the rink. Early practice. Didn't want to wake you.
Take the pills on the nightstand (Advil). Drink water.
Stay off the ankle.
B*
No "Love, Ben." No "Last night was amazing." Just instructions.
I picked up the note. I traced the 'B'.
It was so... him. Controlled. Practical. emotionally constipated.
But he had left Advil. And a glass of water.
I smiled.
I got out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me like a toga. I walked to the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror.
My hair was a bird's nest. My lips were swollen. There was a bruise forming on my neck—a hickey the size of a quarter.
"Oh god," I laughed, touching it. "Subtle, Sterling. Very subtle."
I looked different.
The frantic anxiety that usually lived behind my eyes was gone. replaced by a soft, satiated glow.
I showered quickly, washing away the sweat but keeping the memory.
I dressed in one of Ben’s oversized hoodies (with permission this time) and leggings. I limped downstairs to the kitchen.
The house was quiet. Sunday morning at the Ice Box meant everyone slept until noon.
I made coffee.
As I stood there, waiting for the brew, my phone buzzed on the counter.
I picked it up.
INCOMING CALL: DAD
My stomach dropped. The glow vanished.
I stared at the screen. The name flashed like a warning light.
Dad.
He never called on Sundays. Sundays were for golf and power brunches.
I hesitated. I could ignore it. I could pretend I was asleep.
But the voice in my head—the one Ben was trying to silence—whispered: Answer it. Be a good girl. Fix this.
I slid the icon to answer.
"Hello?"
"Ivy." His voice was crisp. No warmth. "I'm in town."
"I know," I said, leaning against the counter for support. "I saw you at the game."
"Good. Then you know why I'm calling. I need you to meet me for brunch. The Green Mountain Inn. Noon."
"I... I can't. The roads are still bad."
"The roads are fine, Ivy. Don't be dramatic. I'll send a car."
"Dad, why are you here?"
"Business," he said. "And family. We need to talk about your... situation. And about your friend. Mr. Sterling."
My blood ran cold.
"What about Ben?"
"He's a talented young man. But he's in a precarious position. I think I can help him. But I need your cooperation."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," my father said, his voice dropping to that smooth, terrifying negotiator tone, "that if you want your tuition paid for next semester... and if you want Mr. Sterling to have a career after that knee injury... you'll come to brunch."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. The silence of the kitchen rushed back in, but now it felt suffocating.
He knew. He knew about the knee. He knew about the money. He knew everything.
And he was going to use me to get to Ben.
I sank onto a stool, clutching the phone.
Ben had said he would burn the world down for me.
But what if the fire started with us?
I looked at the coffee maker.
I needed to tell Ben. I needed to warn him.
But if I told him... he would explode. He would confront my dad. He would ruin his chances with the Montreal scout.
I had to protect him.
I stood up.
I grabbed my coat.
I was going to brunch.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't going as the daughter. I was going as the opposition.
Game on, Dad.