Chapter 12 #2
Mari leaned closer, breath brushing my ear. “You’re somewhere else, Coach.”
She wasn’t wrong. My pulse had gone uneven, my stomach twisted up in something that didn’t make sense. Billie Donovan was twenty-something, fierce, probably already halfway home. So why the hell did it feel like she still had a fist around my throat?
I forced a grin that didn’t reach my eyes. “Long week,” I murmured.
The lie tasted like metal.
I looked past Mari again, across the bar. Billie’s seat was empty now. Empty, yet the space hummed like she’d only just stepped away.
The crowd thinned enough for me to see her again.
She was by the jukebox now, back half-turned, hood off, cheeks still flushed from the game.
A guy had materialised beside her—too clean, too confident, plastic smile already in place.
College haircut, Crestwood jacket, the kind who thought women came standard with gratitude.
He leaned in, said something I couldn’t catch. She hesitated, then lifted her drink in thanks. Polite smile. The mask.
I knew that smile. Hell, I'd worn the same one for cameras.
He pointed toward the small patch of floor somebody had declared a dance zone. The song was too slow for the room, all syrup and yearning. His hand brushed her elbow, lingered when she tried to step aside.
Something in my chest went tight.
Billie laughed softly, the way people do when they’re trapped but don’t want to make a scene. He misread it, took half a step closer, voice low and confident.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I could read the body language fluently—weight shift, angled shoulder, the defensive tilt of her chin. She wasn’t enjoying herself. She was surviving the moment.
Don’t make trouble, don’t embarrass anyone, just smile until it’s over.
That look gutted me.
She’d done everything right tonight—played her guts out, lifted her team, even managed to exist in the same room as me without flinching. And now she was cornered by some frat-polished asshole who thought persistence passed for charm.
My hand locked around the glass until the ice squeaked against it. Mari’s voice blurred beside me, something flirtatious, maybe a question, maybe my name. I didn’t catch a word.
All I could hear was the hum in my skull whispering one word—Mine.
Not like ownership. More like a claim carved in bone before I knew it existed. Stupid. Dangerous. Real.
The guy leaned closer to Billie, tried to touch her shoulder again.
She sidestepped, smile flat, eyes darting toward the door.
My pulse picked up like the start of a fight.
The muscle in my jaw twitched. Fists half-formed.
Every instinct wanted me on my skates again, closing distance, throwing someone off balance.
I stayed put. Forced the glass to my mouth and swallowed the last of the whiskey until it burned slow. A reminder that I was still in charge of something—if only my throat.
The stool creaked under me. Mari said my name again, softer, testing. I gave her a nod that wasn’t an answer and set the empty glass down hard enough to rattle.
Control was a funny thing; you thought you had it until the wrong song played and memory started skating circles in your chest.
Billie brushed past the guy and headed toward the exit, quick steps, hand tight on her hood. Relief and regret hit at once—glad she was done with him, furious that I wasn’t the one who made him back off.
I exhaled slow, counting heartbeats until the urge drained away. The guy already moved on to someone else.
Still, the echo remained—mine.
I waved off Mari’s next sentence and ordered water. My knuckles hurt from gripping too hard. The fight stayed locked behind my ribs, pacing, waiting.
The noise pressed in, too hot, too human. I couldn’t breathe inside it anymore. The laughter, the buzz, Mari’s perfume—everything scraped my nerves raw.
I stood up so fast the stool screeched against the floor. Mari blinked up at me, half-smile frozen.
“Early skate,” I muttered, already reaching for my wallet. “Gotta set drills before sunrise.”
The bartender caught my nod. “On me tonight,” I told him, sliding cash across the counter before he could argue. Maybe I wanted to atone for something, though I couldn’t name what.
Mari leaned an elbow on the bar, eyes searching my face. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” I said. One word, no explanation.
Her mouth curved, not in anger—pity, maybe. Or understanding. Hard to tell. We both knew I wasn’t walking out with her. Not tonight. Not ever.
As I passed her, our eyes met for a beat too long. Hers were sharp, curious. Mine refused to stay. I looked away first, the coward’s move, but better that than false promises.
The door slammed behind me and the night air hit like a slap—cold, dense, real. The kind of cold that stripped you clean of excuses. I breathed it in until my chest burned. My keys dug crescents into my palm, metal biting through skin.
Rain slicked the sidewalk. Streetlights threw pale circles across empty cars. The city hummed low, distant, like a heart you could barely hear. I started toward the lot, boots crunching, jacket collar pulled high.
You came to bury suspicion.
That was the line I fed myself on the drive over. Bury it under noise and whiskey and someone else’s laughter. Pretend the fire in my chest wasn’t her—didn’t start with her, wouldn’t end with her.
But walking away from that bar, I knew better.
You left carrying confirmation.
The truth was heavy, and it had her face. Every breath pulled her closer instead of pushing her out.
I could still smell the ice on her skin, the faint sting of liniment, the echo of her voice when she’d whispered that she could handle anything I threw at her. I believed her. That belief scared the hell out of me.
You’re in trouble, Shaw.
Yeah. I knew.
I stepped back into the bar… and there she was, this time with Kira, and… the bar tender.
No.
I should go home.
I should.
And yet…