Chapter 11
Toby
Waking up used to be a tactical maneuver.
I woke up, and I couldn't move. Not because of my knee—though the ache was a dull, throbbing reminder of the game—but because a warm, blonde weight was draped across my chest.
Georgia.
She was asleep, her face buried in the crook of my neck, her breath puffing rhythmically against my collarbone. Her leg was thrown over my waist, her arm pinned under my back. She had effectively clamped me down like a human barnacle.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the blackout curtains—gaps she had made because she "needed to know the sun still existed." Usually, I would have been annoyed by the light pollution. I would have been annoyed by the disruption to my REM cycle.
Instead, I lay there, staring at the dust motes dancing in the beam of light, and felt a terrified, soaring lightness in my chest that had absolutely no place in the playbook.
I was happy.
The realization was so foreign it made me nauseous. Happiness was a variable I couldn't quantify. It was dangerous. It made you careless. It made you slow.
But looking down at her—at the smudge of mascara under her eye, at the slightly parted lips, at the messy platinum hair fanned out over my dark sheets—I didn't care about being fast. I just wanted to be here.
I carefully lifted my hand, my fingers hovering over her bare shoulder. I traced the line of her deltoid, down to her elbow. Her skin was soft, warm, and marked with faint red spots where my beard had grazed her the night before.
Mine.
The possessiveness roared to life, hot and instant.
It wasn't rational. We had slept together once.
Well, three times, if we were counting the rounds in the middle of the night.
But in the cold light of day, with the adrenaline gone, this should have been the moment of regret.
The "Post-Nut Clarity" Jager always preached about.
There was no clarity. There was only more fog. And I wanted to get lost in it.
Georgia shifted. She made a small, grumpy noise in the back of her throat and tightened her grip on me.
"Too bright," she mumbled against my skin.
"It's 6:00 AM," I whispered, my voice rough with sleep. "The sun is legally allowed to be up."
"Make it go away," she groaned. "Turn off the sun, Toby. Use your billionaire powers."
"My powers are limited to shipping logistics and hockey," I said, running my hand down her back. "I can't control celestial bodies."
"Useless," she sighed.
She propped herself up on one elbow, blinking blearily at me. The sheet fell to her waist, exposing her breasts.
My mouth went dry. Even after last night—after hours of exploring every inch of her—the sight of her body still hit me like a physical blow.
She caught me staring. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face.
"Take a picture," she teased. "It lasts longer."
"I don't need a picture," I said, my voice dropping to that low register that seemed to be my default setting around her. "I have a photographic memory. I can recall the exact mole on your left ribcage."
She blushed. It was a lovely shade of pink that started at her chest and worked its way up.
"Stalker," she whispered.
"Scientist," I corrected.
I reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. It started slow, lazy, tasting of morning breath and intimacy. But the moment our lips touched, the spark was there. It was always there. A live wire humming under the floorboards.
I deepened the kiss, my hand tangling in her hair. She made a soft sound and melted against me. I felt myself hardening instantly.
This is a problem, my brain warned. You have rehab in an hour. You have classes. You have to walk into the locker room and look your teammates in the eye.
I pulled back, breathing hard.
"We need to talk," I said.
Georgia groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. "Oh God. The 'Talk.' Can't we just have morning sex and pretend we're modern adults who don't need labels?"
"We aren't modern adults," I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I hissed as my right knee protested the movement. It was stiff, swollen, but functional. "We are two people with targets on our backs."
Georgia sobered instantly. She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, suddenly looking very small in the big bed.
"My father," she said.
"And mine," I added. "And the media. And the scouts. And Coach."
I turned to face her. "Georgia, if anyone finds out about this—about us sleeping together, about you living here—it's over. Your dad will pull strings to trade my rights or bury me in the draft. My father will use it as proof that I'm 'distracted' and cut the trust before I get the bonus."
"So what are we doing?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Are we... stopping?"
The thought of stopping made my chest ache.
"No," I said fiercely. "We aren't stopping."
I reached out and took her hand.
"We're going underground," I said. "We are a black ops mission. In this apartment, you're mine. In the dark, you're mine. But out there?" I gestured to the window. "We are roommates. We are barely friends. I am the Captain, and you are the student physio."
"Lying," she summarized. "We're lying to everyone."
"We're protecting the asset," I said, slipping into business speak because it was easier than saying I'm protecting my heart. "Can you do that? Can you look me in the eye in the cafeteria and pretend you didn't scream my name four hours ago?"
Georgia looked at me. She twisted the ring on her thumb. Then she stopped.
She lifted her chin. The "Sterling Mask" slid into place—cool, detached, imperious.
"Watch me," she said.
Then she dropped the sheet and crawled across the bed toward me, a wicked glint in her eye.
"But if we're going to ignore each other all day," she whispered, pushing me back down onto the mattress, "you better fill me up now. I need enough to last until curfew."
I groaned as her hand found me.
"We're going to be late," I warned, even as my hips bucked up to meet her touch.
"Then we better be fast," she smirked.
The next three days were a masterclass in torture.
It turns out, pretending you aren't obsessed with the person standing five feet away from you requires more energy than skating a double shift in overtime.
The campus was our minefield.
On Wednesday, I saw her in the library. I was walking through the atrium with Jager and a couple of the rookie defensemen. We were wearing our team tracksuits, looking like a roving pack of wolves.
Georgia was sitting at a table near the glass wall, sketching. She was wearing a bulky cream sweater and headphones.
"Check it out," Jager nudged me. "Sterling is actually studying. I thought she just majored in spending money."
"Leave her alone," I grunted, keeping my eyes straight ahead.
But my body betrayed me. My internal compass swung violently toward her. I felt the pull in my solar plexus, a physical hook dragging me in her direction.
She looked up.
For a split second, her eyes met mine.
In that millisecond, a thousand images flashed through my brain: her naked in the shower, her laughing over burnt toast, her sleeping on my chest.
Then, the shutter came down. She looked at me with bored indifference, then looked back at her sketchbook.
It was perfect acting. It was Oscar-worthy.
And it made me want to drag her into the stacks and ravish her right there.
"Ice King," Jager laughed, mistaking my tension for disdain. "Cold as ever. You didn't even wave."
"I don't wave," I muttered.
Later that afternoon, in the training room, it was worse.
Doc Henderson was busy with a concussion protocol, so Georgia was handling my rehab.
I lay on the table, shirtless. She stood over me, applying the ultrasound wand to my knee.
The door was open. Other players were walking by. Coaches were in the office next door.
"How does the pressure feel?" she asked, her voice professional, clinical.
"Adequate," I replied, staring at the ceiling tiles.
But under the cover of the draped towel, her other hand—the one not holding the wand—was resting on my thigh. Her thumb was tracing small, maddening circles on the inside of my leg, just inches from my groin.
"Range of motion looks improved," she said loudly for the benefit of the room.
Then she leaned in to check the dial on the machine. Her lips brushed my ear.
"I'm not wearing panties," she whispered.
I choked on my own spit. My entire body seized.
"Careful, Kincaid," she said, pulling back with a sweet, innocent smile. "Breathe through the discomfort."
"You are evil," I hissed under my breath.
"I'm thorough," she winked. "See you at home, Captain."
She patted my thigh—hard—and walked away to refill the gel bottle.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my erection to subside, plotting my revenge.
My revenge came on Thursday night.
We had a mandatory "Study Hall" for the team in the athletic complex. It was a joke, mostly—guys pretending to read while watching TikToks—but attendance was taken.
I was in the Film Room, a small, soundproof theater in the basement used for reviewing game tape. I was supposedly breaking down the power play strategy for the upcoming series against Minnesota.
I texted her.
Me: Film Room. Basement. 5 minutes. Bring the 'notes' on anatomy.
Georgia: I'm in the middle of a sculpture.
Me: I don't care. Get down here.
Georgia: Bossy.
Me: Hungry.
Five minutes later, the heavy door creaked open.
The room was dark, lit only by the flickering blue light of the projector screen, which was paused on a freeze-frame of a face-off.
Georgia slipped inside. She was wearing a paint-splattered oversized hoodie and leggings. She locked the door behind her.
"This is risky," she whispered, leaning against the door. "Coach is upstairs."
"Coach is eating a meatball sub in his office," I said, standing up from the leather viewing chair. "I checked."
I walked toward her. The hum of the projector fan was the only sound.
"You summoned me?" she asked, tilting her head.
"You tormented me in the training room," I countered. "I believe in equal opportunity suffering."
"I was just doing my job."