Chapter 4
Toby
The silence in the penthouse was usually my favorite sound.
It was the sound of order. It was the sound of a vacuum where no variables existed, where no unexpected problems could breathe.
For four years, I had cultivated this silence like a rare orchid.
I fed it with isolation, watered it with routine, and protected it with a security system that cost more than most people’s tuition.
But this morning, the silence was lying to me.
It wasn't empty. It was heavy. It was charged with the static electricity of the girl sleeping down the hall.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the coffee machine as it hissed and dripped. It was 7:00 AM on a Sunday. The sun was struggling to rise over Lake Superior, casting a bruised, purple light across the sleek countertops.
My hand, resting on the granite, was steady. But my mind was a riot.
Vanilla and trouble.
The memory of last night in the back hallway of The Vault replayed on a loop. I could still feel the phantom pressure of her velvet dress under my thumb. I could smell the perfume on her pulse point. I could taste the surrender on her lips right before my phone buzzed.
I had almost kissed her.
No. I hadn't just almost kissed her. I had almost claimed her. I had backed her into a corner and told her I wanted to control her mind.
Stupid.
I grabbed the mug, the ceramic hot against my palm. I walked to the window, forcing myself to look at the city below.
I was the Captain. I was the "Silencer." I was the guy who never took a penalty because penalties were emotional errors. Last night, I had nearly taken a game misconduct with the General Manager's daughter in a fire exit.
If Coach knew, I’d be running stairs until I threw up. If her father knew, I’d be traded to a farm team in Siberia.
But the worst part wasn't the risk. The worst part was that I didn't regret the near-kiss. I regretted the phone call that stopped it.
A sharp, stabbing pain radiated through my right hip, severing my train of thought.
I winced, my grip tightening on the mug until my knuckles turned white. I shifted my weight to my left leg, exhaling a hiss of breath through my teeth.
The adrenaline from the "rescue" last night had masked it, but this morning, the injury was screaming. It wasn't just tight. It was a hot, grinding sensation deep in the joint capsule, radiating down into the adductor.
I had told Doc it was just a strain. I had told Coach it was general soreness.
But I knew my body. I was a machine built for efficiency, and right now, a gear was stripped.
I limped—actually limped, because no one was here to see it—over to the living room and lowered myself into the Eames chair. The movement sent a fresh spike of agony through my groin.
"Fuck," I whispered to the empty room.
I set the coffee down and rubbed my face. I needed ice. I needed privacy. I needed to figure out how to fix this without alerting the scouts who were watching my every shift. If word got out that Kincaid had a structural hip issue, I wouldn't go first overall. I might not go top five.
And if I didn't go top five, I didn't get the signing bonus I needed to buy out my father's stake in my trust. I would be tethered to the Kincaid shipping empire forever.
"You look like you're in a hostage video."
The voice was raspy, steeped in sleep, and came from the hallway.
I snapped my head up. The sudden movement pulled my hip again, and I couldn't hide the grimace that twisted my face.
Georgia stood in the archway.
She looked... soft.
That was the only word for it. The armor was gone.
The "Brat" was offline. She was wearing a pair of my grey sweatpants that she must have stolen from the dryer, rolled up at the waist three times to keep them from falling off.
She wore a tiny, ribbed white tank top that belonged to her, leaving her midriff bare.
Her platinum hair was a chaotic bird's nest on top of her head, held together by a single clip.
She wasn't wearing makeup. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy with sleep.
She looked human. And seeing her like this—disheveled, real, standing in my living room—hit me harder than the vixen in the black velvet dress.
"I'm thinking," I grunted, masking my pain with irritation. "Try it sometime."
"Ouch." She shuffled into the room, her bare feet padding silently on the rug. She didn't have the energy to fight. She looked defeated. "Is there coffee? Or is caffeine also a 'variable' you don't allow?"
"Pot's on the counter."
She walked to the kitchen. I watched her go, analyzing her gait. She wasn't swaying her hips today. She was dragging her feet. The reality of her situation was settling in.
She poured a mug and leaned against the counter, blowing on the steam. She looked small against the vast, brutalist architecture of my kitchen.
"So," she said, not looking at me. "About last night."
"We don't talk about last night," I said instantly.
"Okay. Good. Because I don't really know how to talk about the fact that you threatened to brainwash me in a hallway." She took a sip, wincing at the heat. "But... thanks. For getting me out of there. Brett was being handsy."
"Brett is a moron," I repeated. "And you were letting him."
"I was surviving, Toby. There's a difference." She turned to face me, her blue eyes tired. "I don't have the luxury of being picky right now. Brett buys drinks. Brett has a dorm room. It's pathetic, but it's logistics."
"You're better than that," I said.
"Am I?" She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "I'm a twenty-one-year-old girl with no money, no home, and a father who is currently trying to starve me into submission because I refused to date the son of his business partner. I think 'better' is a luxury tax I can't afford."
She walked toward the living room, holding her mug with both hands.
"I'll be out of your hair today," she said quietly. "I'm going to text Lola. Maybe she can sneak me into her dorm if her RA isn't looking. I'll get my trunks out by noon."
A strange panic flared in my chest. She's leaving.
That was what I wanted. That was the plan.
So why did it feel like a mistake?
"You can't fit three trunks in a dorm room," I said.
"I'll sell the clothes. I'll sell the paints." She shrugged, but I saw her fingers tighten around the mug until her knuckles were white. "It's just stuff."
"It's your art," I said. "I saw the canvases. You don't sell your tools."
"You don't know anything about my art."
"I know you broke into a boathouse to make it."
She froze. She looked at me, genuine surprise on her face. "You... how do you know about the boathouse?"
"I told you. I see everything."
She stared at me, searching for something. Then, her gaze dropped.
It dropped to my leg. Specifically, to the way I was sitting—shifted entirely to the left, my right leg extended straight out, my hand subconsciously massaging the hip joint.
Her eyes narrowed. The "Brat" faded, replaced by the "Physio Student."
"You're hurt," she stated.
"I'm sore," I corrected. "Post-game inflammation."
"Bullshit." She set her coffee down on the side table and took a step toward me.
"Georgia, back off."
"I watched you walk to the chair," she said, her voice clinical now. "You aren't putting weight on the heel strike. You're guarding the adductor. And you're sweating, Toby. It's sixty-eight degrees in here and you have beads of sweat on your upper lip."
"I run hot."
"You're in pain."
She didn't ask for permission. She didn't hesitate. She walked right up to the chair and knelt between my spread legs.
The intimacy of the position was immediate and overwhelming. Her face was level with my chest. Her knees were on my rug. She smelled like sleep and vanilla.
"Don't touch me," I warned, but there was no heat in it. I was too exhausted by the pain to fight her.
"Shut up," she murmured.
She reached out. Her hands were cool. She placed them gently on my right thigh, just like yesterday, but there was no sexual teasing this time. This was an examination.
She pressed her thumb into the rectus femoris. I didn't react.
She moved to the TFL. Nothing.
Then, she dug her fingers deep into the hip flexor, right where the psoas met the bone.
My vision went white.
A guttural sound tore out of my throat—half-groan, half-growl. My entire body jerked, my back arching off the leather chair. I grabbed her wrists to stop her, my grip bruising.
"Fuck!"
We froze.
I was panting, clutching her wrists, my heart hammering like a jackhammer. She was staring up at me, her eyes wide but unyielding. She didn't pull away. She didn't apologize.
"That's not inflammation," she whispered. "That's a tear. Or a severe impingement. Toby... you can't skate on this."
I released her wrists slowly, dropping my head back against the chair. I closed my eyes. The secret was out. The masquerade was over.
"I have to skate on it," I rasped.
"You'll rupture it," she said, her voice rising. "If that tendon snaps, you're done. Surgery. Six months rehab. You miss the draft. You miss the season."
"I know," I said. "I know the anatomy, Georgia."
"Does Doc know?"
I opened my eyes and looked at her. "No."
"You're lying to the medical staff?" She looked horrified. "That's... that's insane. Why?"
"Because if Doc puts me on the IR, I drop in the rankings," I said, the words spilling out because I was too tired to hold them in. "If I drop out of the top three, I lose the bonus structure. If I lose the bonus, I can't buy my freedom."
"Freedom?" She frowned. "You're a Kincaid. You have infinite money."
"I have access to money," I corrected. "My father's money. Every cent comes with strings attached. He wants me to quit hockey and run the shipping logistics in Tokyo. He's waiting for me to fail. If I don't sign my own contract, on my own terms, I belong to him."
I looked at her, really looked at her.
"So yes, I'm skating on it. I'm playing on it. And I'm going to win on it. Because the alternative is being a puppet for the rest of my life."
The room went silent. The refrigerator hummed in the distance.