Chapter 6 #2
I walked toward the hallway, intending to go to my room and collapse. But as I passed Nick’s office, I heard a voice.
"I understand, sir."
Nick.
The tone stopped me dead in my tracks. It wasn't the confident, arrogant voice he used with me. It wasn't the commanding voice of the Captain.
It was... small. Deferential. Mechanical.
I crept closer to the door, which was cracked open an inch. I knew I shouldn't eavesdrop. I knew it was a violation of the contract. But I couldn't move.
"Yes, I saw the projections," Nick was saying. "Second round is unacceptable. I know. I am handling the optics. The rumors are being suppressed."
A pause. A long, painful silence where I could hear the tinny sound of a man shouting on the other end of the line.
"I am not distracted," Nick said, his voice tight. "I am focused. The injury is non-existent. It is a non-issue."
Another pause. The shouting on the other end grew louder. I caught words like Legacy, Investment, and Disappointment.
"I won't fail you," Nick said. But he sounded like he was reciting a line from a script he hated. "Yes. I know what is at stake. The Vance name. Yes, sir. Goodbye."
The call ended.
I heard a sound then. A heavy thud, like a fist hitting a desk. Then the sound of glass shattering.
I pushed the door open without thinking.
Nick was standing behind his massive oak desk. His phone was on the surface, screen dark. In the corner of the room, a crystal tumbler lay in shards against the wall, a wet stain of amber liquid dripping down the paint.
He was gripping the edge of the desk with both hands, his head hung low, his shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths. His knuckles were white.
"Nick?" I whispered.
He flinched violently, his head snapping up.
When he saw me, his face contorted. For a split second, I saw raw, naked agony. I saw a little boy who had been told he wasn't good enough. Then, like a steel shutter slamming down, the mask slid back into place.
He straightened up, adjusting his cuffs. "You should knock, Jessica. Clause 3."
"Screw Clause 3," I said, stepping into the room. I ignored the broken glass. I looked at him. "Who was that?"
"Nobody," he said coldly. "Business."
"That wasn't business. That was your father."
His jaw tightened. "Same thing."
The words hung in the air, heavy and tragic. Same thing.
"He's angry about the draft projections?" I asked, moving closer.
Nick let out a harsh laugh, turning away to look out the window at the frozen city.
"He's angry that I'm human. He's angry that I have a scar.
He thinks the Chicago scouts are cooling on me because I lack 'killer instinct.
' He called to remind me that if I don't go first round, I am essentially disowned.
The Vance trust fund is for winners, not participants. "
I felt a pang of sorrow in my chest so sharp it stole my breath.
I had assumed his life was easy. I had assumed the money insulated him from pain. But standing there, watching his rigid back, I realized the money was just another cage. He was just as trapped as I was. I was trapped by poverty; he was trapped by expectation.
"He's wrong," I said.
Nick didn't turn around. "Is he? I'm broken, Jess. You felt it. My hip is a ticking time bomb. My mind is... scattered. Maybe I’m not cut out for this."
"You aren't broken," I said firmly. "You're injured. There's a difference."
I walked around the desk. I stood next to him, looking out at the city. He wouldn't look at me. He was staring at his own reflection in the glass, hating what he saw.
"Why do you do it?" I asked softly. "If you hate the pressure. You have money. You could quit. You could do anything."
"I don't know how to do anything else," he whispered. "Since I was four, I was on skates. It's the only time I feel... quiet. When I'm moving fast enough, the expectations can't catch me. The noise stops."
He looked at me then. His grey eyes were shimmering. Not with tears—Nick Vance didn't cry—but with a terrifying vulnerability.
"But lately," he confessed, "the noise is getting louder. And I can't skate fast enough anymore."
My heart broke. It shattered right there on the office floor, next to the whiskey glass.
I reached out.
I didn't think about it. I didn't worry about the contract or the lust or the weird game we were playing.
I took his hand.
It was a small gesture. His hand engulfed mine. His skin was cold.
"You don't have to skate fast right now," I said. "You're home. The ice isn't here."
He looked down at our joined hands. He stared at them like they were a foreign object.
"You should leave," he said weakly. "I'm not... good company tonight. I'm going to drink."
"No," I said. "You're not going to drink. Alcohol inflames the muscles. And you have practice tomorrow."
"Then what do you suggest, Dr. Monroe?" He sounded exhausted.
"I suggest food," I said. "Real food. Not protein shakes. And then... maybe we just sit. No talking. No training. Just... existing."
He looked at me, searching for the angle. Searching for the trick.
"Why?" he asked. "Why would you do that? I'm an asshole to you."
"Because," I squeezed his hand, "we're allies. Remember? And right now, you look like you need an ally more than you need a coach."
He let out a long, shuddering breath. The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch.
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. He squeezed back. Hard.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
An hour later, the scene in the penthouse was surreal.
We were sitting on the expensive Italian leather sofa. The TV was on, playing some mindless reality show that I liked and Nick pretended to hate.
I had made grilled cheese sandwiches. It was the only thing I could cook with the ingredients in his pristine, empty kitchen.
Nick was eating one. He held it delicately, like it was a hazardous material, but he was eating it.
He wasn't wearing his suit. He had changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants. He was sitting in the corner of the sofa, his long legs stretched out on the coffee table (a clear violation of his own rules).
I was sitting on the other end, tucked under a blanket.
There was three feet of space between us. We weren't touching.
But the air in the room was different. It wasn't charged with that frantic, sexual energy of the gym. It was... soft. Warm.
It felt domestic.
And that terrified me more than the sex.
I glanced over at him. He was watching the TV, his expression relaxed for the first time since I’d met him. The lines of strain around his eyes had smoothed out.
He caught me looking.
He didn't look away. He didn't smirk. He just held my gaze.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For the sandwich?"
"For staying."
My throat tightened. "I live here, Nick. I didn't have much of a choice."
"You could have gone to your room," he said. "You stayed here."
He shifted, sliding a few inches closer on the couch.
"My father," he said, staring at the TV again. "He never stayed. If I fell, he walked away until I got up. If I cried, he left the room until I stopped. He taught me that weakness isolates you."
He looked back at me.
"But you didn't leave."
"I'm stubborn," I managed to say, my voice thick with emotion.
"You are," he agreed. A small smile touched his lips. It was a real smile. It reached his eyes. "You are a brat. And a menace. And..."
He reached out across the space between us. He didn't touch me. He just let his hand rest on the cushion near my knee.
"And I think I might be in trouble," he finished softly.
I knew what he meant. I felt it too. The ground shifting beneath us. The contract dissolving into something unwritten and terrifyingly permanent.
"Me too," I whispered.
We sat in silence as the credits rolled on the TV. The city snowed outside, cold and indifferent. But inside the glass box, for the first time, it wasn't freezing.
Nick’s pinky finger moved, brushing against the fabric of my blanket, just barely touching my leg.
It was the loudest touch of my life.
And as I closed my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I realized the horrible truth.
I wasn't just fake dating Nick Vance. I wasn't just his handler.
I was falling in love with him.
And that was going to hurt so much more than a muscle spasm.