Chapter 1 #2
I grabbed my Birkin bag—there was no way in hell I was leaving it—and tried to step out.
Disaster struck immediately.
I was wearing my favorite knee-high stiletto boots. They were Italian leather, exquisite, and absolutely useless. As soon as my foot touched the ground, the heel sank straight through the snow and into the mud beneath.
"Ah!" I pitched forward, flailing.
I braced for the impact of the cold, wet snow.
It never came.
Two large, calloused hands clamped around my waist. They were hard and unyielding, stopping my fall with effortless strength.
"Jesus Christ," the man muttered near my ear. "Are you wearing stilts?"
"They're archival Valentino," I snapped, trying to regain my balance, but I was stuck. "Let go of me."
"If I let go, you're going face-first into a drift," he said dryly.
Before I could argue, he moved. He didn't ask. He didn't count to three. He just swept one arm behind my knees and the other around my back, scooping me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing more than a bag of feathers.
I gasped, my hands instinctively clutching his shoulders for stability. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through me that had nothing to do with the static of the storm.
He was solid. Like, rock solid. Beneath the layers of flannel and canvas, I could feel the density of muscle. He smelled like winter air, cedarwood, and something sharp—like gasoline and raw soap. It was intoxicatingly masculine.
"Put me down!" I protested, though I didn't let go.
"Stop squirming," he ordered. He wasn't breathing hard, despite carrying me through thigh-deep snow. "My truck is right there."
He marched toward a rusted monstrosity idling on the road. It looked like a tank that had survived a war.
"I am not getting in that," I said, wrinkling my nose. "It looks like it has tetanus."
He stopped. He looked down at me. His eyes were the color of slate—grey, cold, and utterly unimpressed.
"Your options are the truck," he said, his voice flat, "or I drop you right here and you can wait for the wolves. Your call."
He shifted his grip slightly, his fingers digging into my hip through my faux-fur coat. The sensation was possessive, commanding. My breath hitched.
"The truck," I whispered. "Fine. The truck."
He didn't smile. He just walked to the passenger side, yanked the door open with one hand while still holding me, and deposited me onto the seat.
He leaned in to make sure I was settled, his face inches from mine.
For a second, just a split second, the world stopped.
The wind howled outside, but inside the small space between our bodies, it was silent.
I looked at his mouth—stern, unsmiling lips.
I wondered what it would take to make them soften.
Then he pulled back, slamming the door shut.
Liam
I stomped around to the driver's side, shaking the snow off my shoulders before climbing in. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a rhythmic thudding that annoyed the hell out of me.
She was so small. That was the first thing my brain registered when I picked her up. She was buried in some ridiculous oversized fur coat that looked like it cost more than my tuition, but underneath it, she felt fragile.
And she smelled... dangerous. Even in the cab of The Beast, which smelled like old coffee and motor oil, her scent took over. Vanilla. Warm, expensive vanilla and something floral that made my head spin.
I put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road, my grip on the steering wheel tight enough to crack the plastic.
"Where to?" I asked, staring straight ahead.
"The Kensington Apartments," she said. Her voice was shaking less now, gaining back some of that haughty edge. "Near the Art building."
"I know where they are," I said. Of course I did. It was the building with the heated underground garage and the doorman. The place where the rich kids lived.
"I'm Sofia," she said after a long silence. "Sofia Thorne."
I nearly slammed on the brakes.
Thorne.
My head snapped toward her. In the glow of the dashboard lights, I finally recognized her. I’d seen her picture in the alumni magazine. I’d seen her father, Marcus Thorne, standing in the owner's box at every home game, looking down at us like we were racehorses he’d bought at auction.
Marcus Thorne. The billionaire owner of the Blackwood Kodiaks. The man who signed my scholarship checks. The man who had a clause in every player's contract that explicitly forbade "fraternization with administration, staff, or their immediate families."
She wasn't just a rich girl. She was a walking, talking expulsion notice.
"I know who you are," I said, my voice dropping an octave. It came out colder than I intended.
She shifted in her seat, pulling her coat tighter. "Oh. Fan of the team?"
"I'm the Goalie," I said. "Liam Vanner."
She blinked. "Oh. The Wall."
She knew my nickname. I didn't know if that pleased me or irritated me.
"So," she said, trying to recover her composure. She pulled a compact mirror out of her bag and checked her lipstick. Who checks their lipstick after a near-death experience? "I guess this is awkward. My dad signs your checks."
"Your dad owns my future," I corrected her. "And if he finds out I was alone in a car with you, he’ll shred it."
She snapped the mirror shut and turned to look at me. Her dark curls were wild, framing a face that was devastatingly pretty. High cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes that seemed to be assessing me, taking me apart.
"He won't find out," she said. "I'm not going to tell him I wrecked the G-Wagon. And you're not going to tell him because you're... scared of him."
I laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.
"I'm not scared of him, Princess. I respect the hierarchy. He has the money. I have the talent. We stay in our lanes. You," I gestured to her with a tilt of my head, "are swerving out of your lane."
"I hit a patch of ice!" she defended.
"You were driving a tank in stilettos during a blizzard," I shot back. "That’s not bad luck. That’s negligence."
"You are incredibly rude for someone who just played hero," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I'm not a hero," I said. "I'm a liability mitigation specialist. I didn't want a dead body on Route 9 making me late for practice tomorrow."
It was a lie. I pulled her out because the thought of her getting hurt made my stomach twist. And that terrified me more than the snow.
The rest of the drive was silent, but the air in the cab was thick. Every time I shifted gears, my arm brushed against the bulky fabric of her coat. I could feel her eyes on me, watching my hands, watching my profile.
The heat was cranking now, and the scent of her vanilla perfume was suffocating. It was cloying, sweet, and made my mouth water.
I pulled up to the curb in front of the Kensington. The doorman was already rushing out with an umbrella, despite the wind.
"Thank you," she said, her hand on the door handle. She paused. "For... saving me. Even if you were a jerk about it."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of cash. It looked like hundreds. She tried to tuck it into the cup holder.
"For your trouble. Buy some gas. Or a new personality."
I moved faster than she expected. My hand shot out and clamped over her wrist. Her skin was soft, warm, pulse fluttering frantically beneath my thumb.
"Keep your money," I said, my voice low and dangerous. I leaned in, invading her space until I could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "I don't want your charity, Sofia. And I don't want your dad's money unless I earn it on the ice."
She stared at me, lips parted, breath hitching. She didn't pull her wrist away. For a moment, she looked like she wanted me to tighten my grip. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the iris.
"Then what do you want?" she whispered. The question hung between us, heavy with subtext.
My gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up to her eyes. The answer pounded in my blood, primal and reckless. I want to know if you taste as expensive as you look. I want to know if you make noise when someone tells you no.
But I released her wrist, pulling back to my side of the cab.
"I want you out of my truck," I said. "Go."
She swallowed hard, grabbed her bag, and scrambled out into the snow.
I watched her run toward the building, her heels slipping on the wet pavement, the doorman ushering her inside. She didn't look back.
I waited until the glass doors closed behind her before I let out a long, ragged breath. I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to scrub the image of her frightened, defiant eyes from my mind.
I put the truck in gear and peeled away from the curb, my tires spinning aggressively on the ice.
I was in trouble.
Serious, career-ending, life-ruining trouble.
Because for the first time in four years, I didn't care about the scholarship. I didn't care about the scouts. I didn't care about the rules.
All I could think about was the way she had looked at me when I told her no. Like she had been waiting her whole life to hear it.
I gripped the wheel, the leather groaning under the pressure.
Stay away from her, Vanner, I told myself. She is poison.
But as I drove back into the dark, swirling heart of the storm, I knew it was already too late. The crash hadn't just wrecked her car. It had wrecked my control.
And I had a terrible feeling I was going to enjoy the wreckage.