Chapter 4 #2
She didn’t back away. Most people backed away when I looked like this. Jax did. The coaches did.
Belinda didn’t. She took a step forward.
"I was just... getting coffee," she lied. There was no coffee pot in the hallway. "Are you okay?"
"I’m fine."
" You’re not."
"I said I’m fine." I turned away from her, staring at the blank wall. "Go back to your spreadsheets."
I heard the soft pad of her socks on the carpet. She was coming closer.
"Was that... was that him?" she asked quietly.
I stiffened. "Who?"
"Your dad. Nikolai."
Everyone knew. It was public record. But hearing her say his name made me feel exposed. Naked.
"It’s none of your business," I said tightly.
"I know," she said. She stopped just behind me. I could feel her presence. I could smell the vanilla. It wasn’t cloying today. It was... grounding. "My dad yells too. Usually about the power play percentage. But sometimes... sometimes he yells because he’s scared he’s losing his grip."
I turned my head slightly. "My father isn't scared. He’s an addict."
"Maybe he’s both," she whispered.
She reached out.
I watched her hand move in my peripheral vision. Small. Pale. Ink-stained fingers.
She hesitated, then placed her hand gently on my forearm.
The touch burned.
It wasn't sexual. It wasn't the searing heat of the party. It was a warm, steady pressure. An anchor.
"You don't have to be him, Peter," she said softly. "You know that, right? You aren't destined to crash just because he did."
She saw it. She saw the fear. The core terror that drove every minute of my life.
I looked down at her hand on my arm. My muscles were rock hard, tense with adrenaline, but her touch was softening them.
"Control is an illusion," I murmured, repeating the thought I’d had in the kitchen.
"No," she said firmly. She squeezed my arm. "Control is a tool. But you can't control other people. You can only control your save percentage."
She looked up at me. Her hazel eyes were clear, intelligent, and startlingly kind.
"And right now," she added, a small, tentative smile touching her lips, "your save percentage is excellent. But your stress levels are statistically alarming."
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The rage receded, leaving behind a dull exhaustion.
"You heard everything," I said.
"I heard enough," she admitted. "I won't tell anyone. Not even Sloane."
I believed her. I didn’t know why, but I did.
"Thank you," I said stiffly.
She nodded and pulled her hand away. The loss of contact made my skin ache.
"I should... get back to work," she said, gesturing vaguely to her office. "I’m trying to figure out why the second line’s faceoff win percentage drops in the third period."
"Fatigue," I said automatically. "And Miller telegraphs his grip."
"Telegraphs his grip," she repeated, her eyes lighting up. "That makes sense. I can track that."
She turned to go.
"Bee," I called out.
She stopped and turned back. "Yeah?"
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was messy. She was chaotic. She was wearing socks with cartoon penguins on them. She was everything I avoided.
And she was the only person who had seen the monster in my blood and hadn't run away.
"Get your coat," I said.
"What?"
"Get your coat. And your laptop. We’re leaving."
"Where are we going? It’s pouring outside."
"To my car," I said. "We need to talk. About the hypothesis."
My SUV was a tank. German engineering. Leather seats. Soundproof.
The rain hammered against the roof, a deafening drumroll that encased us in a private, grey world. The engine was off. The windows were fogging up from our body heat.
Belinda sat in the passenger seat, clutching her laptop bag to her chest like a shield. She looked nervous again. The confident girl who had comforted me in the hallway was gone, replaced by the virgin who was terrified of the proposition.
"So," she said, her voice high. "The hypothesis."
I turned in my seat to face her. The leather creaked.
"You are distracted," I said. I went into 'Captain Mode.' Clinical. Direct. "I watched your workflow this morning. You checked your phone twelve times in an hour. You stared at the wall for ten minutes straight."
She flushed. "I was thinking."
"You were obsessing," I corrected. "About the party. About Kevin. About the fact that you feel inexperienced."
"Okay, Freud, get out of my head."
"I need you focused, O’Shea," I said. "This team is my life. If we don’t win the Frozen Four this year, my draft stock drops. If my draft stock drops, my signing bonus drops. If my bonus drops, I can't... I can't fix things." I can't pay off my father's debts one last time to make him go away.
She softened. "Okay. I get it. The stakes are high."
"So," I continued. "We have a mutual problem. You have a psychological block regarding intimacy that is affecting your work. I have a need for a highly functioning analyst."
"And your solution is..." She swallowed hard. "To sleep with me?"
"No," I said quickly. "No. That would be messy. Workplace ethics. And... complications."
And if I sleep with you, I might not want to stop.
"Then what?" she asked.
"Coaching," I said. "We treat it like a drill. Exposure therapy. You are afraid of the unknown. So, we remove the unknown. We practice. We simmer. We get you comfortable with touch, with heat, with the... mechanics."
"Mechanics," she repeated, her face turning a bright shade of crimson.
"Yes. Kissing. Touch. Sensation. We escalate incrementally. Until you feel confident enough to go out there and find a... Kevin." Even saying his name made my teeth grind. "And in exchange, you do something for me."
"What?" she asked suspiciously. "Do your calculus homework?"
"No. You help me with the legacy."
"The legacy?"
"My father," I said, looking out the windshield at the rain.
"The media is going to start sniffing around soon.
The draft is coming. They love a tragic backstory.
'Son of the Drunk Legend.' I need to control the narrative.
I need you to bury anything that looks like him in my stats.
I need to look perfect. I need to look like a machine.
If I have a bad game, I need you to find the data that proves it wasn't my fault. "
It was a weak excuse. I knew it. She knew it. I didn't need her to spin the media; I had an agent for that.
But I needed a reason to keep her close. A reason that felt professional.
Belinda studied me. She chewed on her lower lip.
"So," she said slowly. "We have a deal. You teach me how to be... seductive? And I help you gaslight the NHL scouts?"
"Essentially," I said.
She was silent for a long moment. The rain pounded on the roof. The air in the car was getting warm, thick with the scent of wet wool and vanilla.
"Rules," she said suddenly.
"Name them."
"Rule One," she held up a finger. "No sex. Actual sex. I’m saving that for... someone I can actually date. Someone with a future."
The words stung, but I nodded. "Agreed. Penetration is off the table. Everything else is fair game."
Her eyes widened slightly at Everything else, but she nodded.
"Rule Two," she continued. "Secrecy. Absolute secrecy. If my dad finds out, he will literally kill you. And then fire me."
"Agreed. No one knows. Not even Jax."
"Rule Three," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked down at her hands. "No feelings. You don’t get to fall in love with me, Peter. And I don’t get to fall in love with you. This is science. This is data."
I looked at her. Her messy bun. Her penguin socks. Her brave, terrified face.
No feelings.
It was the most dangerous rule of all. Because looking at her right now, I already felt the cracks forming in the ice.
"Agreed," I lied. "No feelings. Just physics."
I extended my hand across the center console.
"Do we have a deal, O’Shea?"
She looked at my hand. It was large, scarred, dangerous.
She took a deep breath. She reached out.
Her hand was small and warm in mine.
"Deal," she whispered.
I didn't let go. I held her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. Just a graze. A test.
She shivered. A visible tremor that ran through her entire body. Her pupils blew wide, swallowing the hazel.
"Lesson One starts now," I murmured, my voice dropping to that low register that made her breath hitch.
"Now?" she squeaked. "In the car?"
"Lesson One is simple," I said, tightening my grip slightly. "You don't pull away."
I lifted her hand. I turned it over, exposing the pale, sensitive skin of her wrist. I watched her pulse fluttering there like a trapped bird.
I leaned down. Slowly. Letting her anticipate it. Letting the tension build until the air in the car felt like it was going to ignite.
I pressed my lips to her wrist.
Right over the pulse point.
I felt her gasp. I felt her hand jerk, instinct trying to flee. But I held her firm.
"Don't pull away," I commanded against her skin. The vibration of my words went straight into her bloodstream.
I kissed her wrist again. Then I used my tongue. Just a flat, hot stroke against the sensitive skin.
She made a sound. A whimper. The exact sound she had read about in the film room.
I pulled back.
She was staring at me, her mouth open, her chest heaving. She looked wrecked. And I had only kissed her wrist.
"Good girl," I whispered.
The praise hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes rolled back slightly.
"Class dismissed," I said, releasing her hand.
I turned back to the steering wheel and started the engine.
"Buckle up, Bee. I’m taking you back to the dorms."
She sat there, frozen, clutching her wrist to her chest as if I had branded her.
And in a way, I had.
The deal was signed. The game was rigged.
And we were both going to lose.