Chapter 11
Ivy
There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from happiness.
It’s not the heavy, leaden weight of depression or the sharp, brittle fatigue of anxiety.
It’s a soft, hummed vibration in the bones.
It’s the feeling of muscles that have been used thoroughly, of skin that has been touched everywhere, of a mind that has finally, mercifully, stopped racing.
I was floating.
Technically, I was limping slightly across the foyer of the Ice Box, clutching a bag of bagels, but internally? I was doing grand jetés across the Milky Way.
It was Sunday afternoon. The house was waking up. I could hear the distant rumble of the TV in the living room and the sound of someone blending a smoothie with the ferocity of a jackhammer.
I had survived brunch.
My father had been... manageable. I had played the part of the chastened daughter perfectly. I listened to his threats about Ben’s career. I nodded when he talked about "realigning my priorities." I promised to focus on my showcase and "limit distractions."
I lied through my teeth.
And now, I was back. Back in the sanctuary. Back to the man who made me forget that my last name came with a price tag.
I climbed the stairs to the attic, my heart doing a traitorous little flutter in my chest. The Attic. It used to be the scary room where the grumpy landlord lived. Now? It was Oz. It was Narnia. It was the only place on earth where gravity didn't apply.
I knocked softly on the heavy oak door.
"It's open," Ben’s voice rumbled.
I slipped inside and locked the door behind me.
Ben was sitting at his desk, shirtless (of course), reviewing game tape on his laptop. He had his reading glasses on—the ones he hated, the ones that made him look like a sexy, dangerous librarian. His bad leg was propped up on a chair, wrapped in ice.
He spun around when he heard the lock click.
The look on his face shifted instantly. The intense, brooding scowl vanished, replaced by a heat so palpable I felt it on my cheeks.
"You're back," he said. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened at the corners. The gray was lighter today. Less storm, more steel.
"I come bearing carbs," I said, holding up the bag. "Everything bagels. And cream cheese. The good kind, not the low-fat sadness you usually buy."
Ben pushed his chair back. "Come here."
"I should put these in the kitchen..."
"Bagels later. You now."
I didn't argue. I dropped the bag on the floor and walked over to him.
He reached out, grabbing my waist and pulling me between his spread legs. He buried his face in my stomach, inhaling deeply.
"You smell like expensive perfume and stress," he mumbled into my sweater.
"I had brunch with... a friend," I lied smoothly. The lie tasted like ash, but I swallowed it. I couldn't tell him about my dad. Not yet. He was already stressed about the knee and the scout. If he knew my father was actively threatening him? He’d blow up. He’d do something noble and stupid, like break up with me to "save" me.
"A friend?" He looked up, his hands sliding around to cup my ass. "Male or female?"
"Female. Very boring. We talked about... tights."
"Liar," he murmured, but he didn't push it. He just kissed my stomach through the wool. "Did you miss me?"
"You left me a note, Ben. A note with instructions on how to hydrate. It wasn't exactly The Notebook."
"It was practical. I care about your kidneys."
"I missed you," I admitted, running my fingers through his messy dark hair. "I missed you the second I woke up."
He groaned, pulling me down until I was straddling his good leg. He kissed me—a slow, lazy, claiming kiss that tasted like coffee and possession.
"We have a problem," he whispered against my lips.
My heart spiked. "What?"
"I can't focus. I was watching tape just now, and all I could see was you. Your face. The sounds you made last night." He bit my lower lip gently. "I'm supposed to be analyzing the penalty kill, and instead I'm analyzing how fast I can get you naked again."
I laughed, relief washing over me. "That sounds like a serious medical condition."
"It is. It's fatal."
He pulled back, his expression turning serious. He took my face in his hands.
"Ivy. About us."
"Yeah?"
"We have to be careful."
"I know."
"No, I mean really careful. The team... they talk. If they know we're together—really together—it changes the dynamic in the house. And the scouts... they're looking for any reason to say I'm distracted."
"And my dad," I added quietly. "If he finds out I'm 'distracted,' he pulls the plug on my tuition instantly."
Ben’s jaw tightened. "He won't touch you. I won't let him."
"I know. But we need the money, Ben. I need to finish the semester."
We stared at each other. The reality of our situation sat between us like a third person in the room. We were two people standing on the edge of a cliff, holding hands, while wolves circled behind us.
"So," Ben said, running his thumb over my cheekbone. "We're a secret. A covert op."
"Black ops," I agreed. "Nobody knows. Not Jax. Not Coach. Not Lila."
"It's going to be hard," he warned. "I'm very possessive. I don't like hiding things that are mine."
"We can do it," I said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "We're disciplined, remember? You're the Captain. I'm the Ballerina. We know how to perform."
"Perform," he echoed darkly. "Right."
He kissed me again, harder this time.
"But behind this door?" he growled. "No performance. Just this."
"Deal."
Three Days Later
The thing about secrets is that they act like an aphrodisiac.
The danger of getting caught, the weight of the unspoken words, the stolen glances across a crowded room—it all added a layer of adrenaline to my life that was more potent than any energy drink.
My world had turned into technicolor. The gray slush of Burlington looked like glittering diamonds. The smell of the locker room smelled like victory. Even Madame K’s insults sounded like poetry.
I was in love.
And I was lying to everyone I knew.
It was Wednesday night. We were in the library—the massive, brutalist concrete bunker in the center of campus. It was late, past ten, but the place was still buzzing with caffeine-addled students preparing for midterms.
I was sitting at a large communal table with Jax, Rook, and a few guys from the team. Ben was there, too. He sat across from me, his laptop open, a textbook on Advanced Biomechanics open next to it.
On the surface, we were the picture of platonic study buddies.
Under the table, however, was a different story.
I had slipped my foot out of my sneaker. My sock-clad toes were currently sliding up the inside of Ben’s calf, hidden by the long tablecloth.
I watched him over the top of my History book.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He was typing furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. But I saw the way his jaw ticked. I saw the way his hand flexed on the mouse.
I moved my foot higher. past the knee. To the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.
He stopped typing.
"So," Jax said loudly, slamming a Red Bull onto the table. "Hypothetical question. If a bear and a shark fought in three feet of water, who wins?"
"The shark," Rook said without looking up from his sketchbook. "Speed advantage."
"No way," Jax argued. "The bear has reach. And paws. It's a land tank."
I pressed my toes into Ben’s thigh, right near the junction of his hips.
Ben cleared his throat. It was a rough sound.
"The shark," Ben said, his voice tight. "Because the bear is distracted."
I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
"Distracted by what?" Jax asked.
"By a very annoying fish nibbling at its legs," Ben muttered, finally looking up.
His eyes locked onto mine. They were dark. searing.
Stop it, he mouthed.
Make me, I mouthed back.
He narrowed his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
A second later, my phone buzzed on the table.
Ben (The Butcher): You are playing a dangerous game, Princess.
I picked up my phone, hiding it behind my book.
Me: I'm bored. Anatomy is boring. I'd rather study practical application.
Ben: If you don't move your foot in three seconds, I'm going to crawl under the table and bite you.
Me: Is that a threat or a promise?
Ben: Keep pushing and find out.
I smiled, moving my foot just a fraction higher, brushing the denim of his jeans where he was undoubtedly hard.
Ben dropped his pen.
It clattered loudly on the table.
"I need a break," he announced abruptly, standing up. The chair screeched against the floor. "I need to... check on my knee. Ice."
"You iced it an hour ago," Jax pointed out.
"It needs more ice," Ben growled. He looked at me. "Ivy. Come help me. You have the wrap in your bag."
It was the flimsiest excuse in the history of excuses.
"Oh," I said, widening my eyes innocently. "Do I? Sure. I'll help."
I stood up, grabbing my bag.
"You guys are weird about that knee," Jax muttered, opening a bag of chips. "It's a joint, not a pet."
"Shut up, Fitz," Ben said.
He walked away toward the study rooms in the back—the soundproof ones with the frosted glass.
I followed him. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
We walked down the aisle of books. Past the biographies. Past the reference section.
Ben opened the door to Study Room 4. It was empty. A small table, two chairs, and a whiteboard.
He ushered me inside.
The second the door clicked shut, he moved.
He didn't lock it—he couldn't, university policy—but he shoved a chair under the handle.
He turned to me.
"You," he growled, "are a brat."
"I was just—"
I didn't finish the sentence.
He picked me up. Literally lifted me off the ground and slammed me against the wall.
His mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't gentle. It was starving. It was the kiss of a man who had been holding his breath for two hours. He devoured me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming every inch.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, burying my hands in his hair.
"Ben," I gasped into his mouth. "The window. The glass is only frosted. People can see silhouettes."