15. Landon
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Landon
I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting the silence settle. My keys hang loose between my fingers, and I don’t even bother tossing them into the bowl on the console.
The apartment is pristine. Modern. Sleek. Exactly how I left it this morning.
But I’m not.
My chest feels tight. Ankles buzzing. I can still hear her voice in the elevator. See her face. Ivy—wearing those soft clothes, cradling a baby on her hip like she’s done it her whole life.
She didn’t even look at me properly. Just that soft “hey,” like we’re neighbors passing in a hallway and not… whatever the hell this is.
I stalk toward the kitchen, open the fridge, and stare inside at rows of organized, untouched meals. I don’t want any of it. I close it again.
Instead, I head for the balcony. I shouldn’t, but I do.
I step out into the morning heat and rest my hands on the railing, glancing left. My pulse spikes.
Their balcony.
I saw everything.
It wasn’t on purpose. Last night, I was out here catching up on emails, sipping a drink I didn’t even want. I had a podcast playing—something about fraud litigation in corporate law. I’d tuned most of it out.
It was late. Quiet. The sky had been blanketed in clouds, the city humming beneath me.
And then I saw her.
Ivy.
Bent over the terrace railing in a red bikini. Hair tumbling down her back in a mess of curls. Rhett was behind her. His hands on her hips, his mouth near her ear. Her eyes were closed. Lips parted.
Then Hunter stepped out. Pressed in behind her. His palm flattened on her stomach while Rhett’s fingers tugged at those flimsy ties on her top.
They were fucking her.
Right there. In the open.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
There was nothing performative about it. They hadn’t even realized they had an audience.
I saw everything.
The way Ivy’s head fell back when Rhett whispered something in her ear. The way Hunter’s hand fisted in her hair. The sounds she made. The way she gripped the balcony edge as if it was the only thing tethering her to earth.
I should have looked away.
But I didn’t.
I watched until she came. Until they pulled her inside. Until the door slid shut behind them and all I was left with was the imprint of her body scorched into the dark.
I stand here now, palm braced on the same railing, and it’s like I can still feel it. Hear it. That broken little moan. The sigh of surrender.
I breathe in through my nose, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
She’s just a neighbor.
Just a woman.
But something about her has been sitting in my bloodstream like a virus.
I head inside, slam the balcony door behind me, and stalk down the hallway to my bedroom. I should take a cold shower.
I turn it on and strip.
I hate this. I hate how much of her I remember. I hate that my body doesn’t care she’s sleeping with two of the players. That she’s clearly tangled up in something complicated and messy and not at all what I need.
But all I can see when I close my eyes is her flushed face. Those sexy-as-hell bikini bottoms and the tremble in her legs when Hunter pressed his hand between her thighs.
I step under the spray and grab the soap, hoping to scrub the memory off my skin. But it’s burned in too deep.
Bracing one arm against the tile wall, I lean my forehead into the crook of my elbow and wrap a hand around myself.
It’s not romantic.
It’s not slow.
I jerk hard and fast, frustration tangled in every stroke.
I imagine her. Ivy. Not in lingerie. Not in anything fancy. Just barefoot in that oversized jersey. Mouth swollen from kissing. Her voice low and teasing. Her eyes fixed on mine like she’s trying to figure out why I won’t look away.
I picture her climbing on top of me, her thighs warm around my waist, hair falling over my chest as she sinks down slow. Her teeth tugging at her lip, her breath stuttering against my jaw.
I come with a sharp groan, chest caving forward, head dropping low. I rinse off quickly, still cursing under my breath.
It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.
She’s still there, in my head, tangled up in my senses.
And I don’t even know her. All I know is that she’s distracting and infuriating and impossible to ignore.
I towel off, drag on sweatpants, and pace the length of my apartment. Everything feels too clean. Too still. The kind of still that amplifies whatever noise is clanging inside your own skull.
I reach for my phone and flip to my messages. Cam rescheduled our meeting to three. Right. I need to be sharp for that. Focused.
But I can’t focus when I keep seeing her.
Ivy.
I remember her expression in the elevator this morning. She’s so fucking beautiful.
Fuck!
This city is fucking cursed. Everyone’s in a harem. Everyone’s tangled up in someone else. I came here for a job. To rebuild. To get away from the messy divorce I left behind.
And yet here I am.
I rub my jaw, teeth gritted.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a voyeur. I’m not a jealous ex. I barely know her. Still, she got under my skin.
The silence in my apartment feels louder now.
Everything is still in place. Everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
But I feel completely out of order. And the worst part?
I know this isn’t over.
Not the image of her. Not the way my body reacts. Not the bitter pulse of something dangerously close to want when I think about the way she smiled at them.
The way she belongs with them. The way she’s not mine—and never will be.
I don’t want her in my life.
But I’m starting to realize that doesn’t mean she’s leaving my head any time soon.
The phone buzzes on the counter. I’m just now starting to zone back into the legal brief on my laptop, but the name flashing on the screen pulls my attention fast.
I exhale, pinch the bridge of my nose, and swipe to answer. “Cam.”
“Hey, man. Sorry about this, but can we reschedule our meeting to later this evening?”
There’s commotion in the background—blades on ice, a whistle, some shouting. Arena noise. I glance at the time. “You at the rink?”
“Yeah. Media day got pushed and the guys are running a longer practice block. We’re scrambling to keep the new schedule tight. I owe you one.”
“Not a problem.” I check my watch out of habit. “What time were you thinking?”
“Seven work for you?”
I glance at the calendar on my laptop. “Yeah. Send me the updated invite. I’ll swing by the office.”
“You’re a lifesaver, man. Appreciate it.”
I end the call and stare at my screen for a second longer before I shut the laptop again. I haven’t even had coffee, and I’m already spinning.
Screw it.
Maybe if I take a drive, I can shake some of this tension out of my head. Being cooped up here is making me unravel.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the arena’s underground lot. I don’t even know why I came here. Part of me thinks it’s to get ahead of the chaos this team brings. Part of me knows better.
I take the elevator up and flash my access credentials to the receptionist. A quick nod, a gesture toward the ice, and I step through the double doors.
The cold blast of arena air hits me like a wall. The ice stretches out in front of me, crisp and bright under the overhead lights. Players in full gear weave across it, pucks rattling against boards, blades slicing through the surface in sharp, clean cuts.
I spot Rhett easily—he’s built like a wall, broad and commanding, taking a shot that snaps past the goalie into the net. Hunter isn’t far off, skating in with a kind of smooth precision that looks effortless but clearly isn’t.
I’ve never been much of an athlete. Growing up, the closest I came to sports was an occasional half-hearted gym class or tossing a baseball with my cousins in the backyard.
It wasn’t until years into practicing law that I picked up running and weight training, not because I enjoyed it but because it helped bleed out the frustration that built up in my work. Frustration that, more often than not, came from Teresa.
I grit my teeth and push the thought of her away before it can pull me under. Our marriage might have ended bitterly, but the truth is the cracks had formed long before we signed the divorce papers. We were incompatible in every way that mattered.
I don’t miss her, not in the way I should miss someone I once thought I’d spend my life with, but the echoes of our dysfunction have a way of surfacing at the worst moments.
I force my focus back to the rink. Coach Leo is pacing the boards, shouting directions that echo in the cavernous space. He claps his hands sharply, pointing players into new formations.
The entire thing is a well-oiled machine, every pass and drill clean, every player locked in. But then I hear it—a sound that doesn’t belong here. A sharp wail.
At first, I think it’s something from the speakers, some weird feedback. But then I look up, and my stomach tightens.
High in the bleachers, there’s a lone figure. Ivy. She’s got a baby balanced on her hip, shifting her gently while trying to soothe her.
The sound cuts through the noise of the rink, and I watch as both Rhett and Hunter stop mid-play. Their attention snaps instantly toward the stands. They skate hard to the edge, exchanging a few quick words with Coach Leo.
Whatever they say earns them a clipped nod, and then they’re ditching the drill entirely, skating toward the exit.
The doors to the stands open, and seconds later they’re climbing up toward her. Hunter reaches her first. He takes the baby from her like it’s second nature, settling the little girl against his shoulder.
She stops crying almost immediately, those small fists curling into his jersey.
Some of the other players are watching, calling out comments I can’t quite catch over the hum of voices and skate blades. There’s a mix of curiosity and teasing in their tones, but it rolls right off the three of them.
Rhett steps in close, brushing a kiss against Ivy’s forehead. The gesture is brief, easy, intimate in a way that makes my jaw tighten. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He just does it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Then they turn, making their way back toward the exit. It looks like they’re leaving entirely, practice be damned.
I tell myself to look away, to stop tracking them with my eyes like some nosy neighbor. But right before she steps out of view, Ivy glances over her shoulder.
Her gaze snags on me.
Her expression is impossible to read—surprise, maybe a flicker of confusion. Like she hadn’t expected to see me here. I know my face must mirror some of that. Because I’m surprised. More than that, I’m unsettled.
Then she’s gone, disappearing with them into the shadow of the concourse.
I’m still staring at the spot where she stood when a voice breaks into my head.
“Landon.”
I turn to see Cam striding toward me, helmet under his arm, hair damp from sweat. His grin is easy, familiar in the way of someone who’s used to charming an audience.
“Glad I caught you,” he says, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it down here this early.”
“I had some time,” I answer. My voice feels steady, but my mind is still caught on the image of Ivy in the bleachers, the way those two players moved to her.
“Perfect. My meetings ended way sooner than I had expected. We can grab a quick coffee before we sit down later. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I let him lead me through the maze of hallways that run behind the rink. The conversation stays light—training schedules, media day logistics, the sponsorship negotiations I’m supposed to be reviewing—but my focus is fractured.
I can’t shake the question forming in the back of my mind.
Who is the father of that baby?
I know she’s with Rhett and Hunter. I know because I’ve seen it, far more intimately than I should have.
But nothing about what I just saw felt like some casual arrangement. There was too much instinct in the way they went to her, too much familiarity in how Hunter held the baby.
The possibility that one of them is the father isn’t exactly far-fetched. But the way they both moved, how they both seemed equally invested—it leaves the question unsettled.
I keep it to myself, but it festers. Every time Cam says something about the team, about their camaraderie and unity, I picture that moment again.
Ivy in the stands. The baby in her arms. Rhett’s kiss. Hunter’s quiet sway as he held the little girl.
By the time we make it to his office for the meeting, my brain is miles away from the sponsorship clauses and contract amendments I’m supposed to be discussing. I nod at the right points, ask the necessary questions, even make a few notes. But beneath all of it, the question gnaws at me.
Is Ivy really dating both of them?