Chapter 17
Reese
Hockey night at St. Charles means I'm freezing my ass off in the stands for the third time this week. But fuck if I'm missing Ramsey play.
I've got the best spot in the arena—front row, center ice, right behind the players' bench where I can see everything.
I'm bundled up in Ramsey's old jersey, the one he wore sophomore year before he bulked up another fifteen pounds of pure muscle.
It still swallows me whole, hanging to mid-thigh over my leggings.
The smell of sweat, ice, and testosterone fills the air as the teams warm up. I watch Ramsey skating hard, his powerful body moving with lethal grace across the ice. Every time he circles back toward the bench, his eyes find mine for just a second before he's off again.
Since that kiss a week ago, something's shifted between us. We haven't talked about it—haven't done it again either—but there's this new tension humming in the air whenever we're alone together. Like we're both just waiting for the other to make a move.
My thoughts are interrupted when a massive shadow falls over me.
I look up to see Copeland Astor looming above, his hulking frame blocking the overhead lights.
His hockey captain jersey stretched right across his shoulders that could double as a fucking aircraft carrier.
Behind him are two girls—one with bright pink hair, the other with purple locks, both twisted into space buns.
Ugh, they look so cute, and it kinda makes me wish my hair was a bit longer so I could do that hairstyle also.
"Sup, little dancer," Cope says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "This is Delaney and her cousin Demi. They cool to sit with you for the game?"
I smile up at them, scooting over to make room. "Yep, the more the merrier. Gives me someone to talk about your guys' asses with."
Copeland's mouth quirks up in a predatory smirk that would scare the shit out of me if I wasn’t surrounded by Blackwood men. "Don't let Blackwood hear you're checking out anyone's asses."
He turns to the pink-haired girl—Delaney—his voice dropping to something harder, more commanding. "Sit. Stay. Behave."
Delaney barks, actually fucking barks, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Guess you think I'm a fucking dog. What're you gonna do next, collar me?"
Copeland leans in close to her, their faces inches apart, tension crackling between them. "Don't fucking tempt me, sis."
Holy shit. The way he says "sis" makes it sound like anything but brotherly. There's something dark and possessive in his posture that makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
Delaney holds his stare for a beat longer than necessary before dropping into the seat beside me, her cousin Demi settling in on her other side.
"Good girl," Cope murmurs, just loud enough for us to hear.
"Stepsister, unfortunately," Delaney clarifies, catching my confused expression.
"Even more unfortunate for me," Copeland retorts, checking the time. "I gotta go. Coach King is gonna chew my ass out even more than he did a few fucking weeks ago."
As Copeland walks away, Delaney flips him off behind his back, and I can't help but snort.
"Fucking asshole," she mutters, then turns to me with a bright smile that completely transforms her face. "Thanks for letting us sit with you. I'm Delaney. This is my cousin Demi."
Demi waves, her purple space buns bouncing. "Hey."
"So, you're Reese," Delaney says, turning to me with a smile that transforms her whole face. "Cope talks about you sometimes. Well, more like he mentions you when he's bitching about Blackwood being obsessed with you."
I laugh, feeling my cheeks heat despite the freezing arena. "Yeah, that's me. The dancer who hangs around with hockey bros."
"So," Delaney says, nudging me with her elbow as she pulls a flask from her coat pocket, "let's talk about these hockey boys and their assets, shall we? Want a sip?"
I take the flask because why the fuck not and grimace as cinnamon whiskey burns down my throat. "Jesus, what is this, liquid fire?"
"Fireball," Demi confirms, taking her own swig. "Del's poison of choice."
"Okay, so ranking system," Delaney says, getting down to business as she points to the ice. "That one there, number fourteen. His ass is like a fucking peach. I'd take a bite out of that."
I snort, nearly choking on my second sip. "That's Cross Bettencourt. And yeah, he does squats like his life depends on it."
"What about number fifteen?” Demi asks, pointing to a tall, lanky player. "He's cute in that boyish way."
"Foxx Montgomery. Nice guy, but total fuckboy. Slept with half the cheer squad last semester," I inform them, falling easily into the rhythm of girl talk.
Delaney’s eyes flick between me and Ramsey as he barks out orders at his teammates.
"Oh, we're not together," I clarify quickly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "We're just best friends. Have been for four years now."
Delaney and Demi exchange a look that I can't quite decipher.
"Bullshit," Delaney says bluntly. "You're wearing his jersey."
I roll my eyes. "It's just a jersey. We live together, we're roommates."
"Roommates," Demi repeats, making air quotes with her fingers. "Right."
"Seriously," I insist, feeling my cheeks heat up despite the cold. "We're just friends. Really good friends."
"Honey," Delaney says, patting my knee patronizingly, "no guy looks at his 'just friend' the way Blackwood looks at you. Like he wants to fucking consume every bit of you."
The whiskey suddenly feels warmer in my stomach, spreading heat through my limbs.
I take another swig from the flask, liquid courage burning down my throat. Maybe it's the Fireball or the way Delaney's looking at me like she can see right through my bullshit, but suddenly I feel like I might explode if I don't tell someone.
"Okay, fine. I kissed him," I blurt out, immediately covering my face with my hands. "Last week. In his bathroom after spa night."
Demi squeals so loud a couple heads turn our way. "I fucking knew it! How was it? Is he good? He looks like he'd be good."
I peek through my fingers, feeling my face burn hotter than the whiskey. "It was...fucking incredible. Like toe-curling, mind-melting good. And that was just kissing."
I hesitate, then decide, fuck it. These girls don't know me, don't know us. Maybe that's exactly what I need right now—an outside perspective.
"I made this bucket list," I explain, lowering my voice. "Just stuff I want to do, experience. Things I've been too scared to try. And kissing him was number one."
"What else is on this magical list?" Delaney's eyes light up with mischief.
"Swimming at midnight, getting a tattoo, riding a motorcycle myself," I tick off on my fingers. "Having sex—like, really good sex. Being chased. Finding something worth breaking rules for."
"And Ramsey's going to help you with all this?" Demi's eyebrows shoot up.
I nod, feeling a rush of excitement just thinking about it. "He said we'd do them all together. That he didn't trust anyone else with me."
"Girl." Demi grabs my arm, shaking me slightly. "You need to climb that tree as soon as fucking possible. Why wait? The man is a fucking redwood, and you're over here making lists when you should be making babies."
Delaney doesn't laugh with her cousin. Instead, she's watching me with an intensity that reminds me suddenly of Copeland.
"You can say all you want that you're just besties and roommates," she says finally, her voice dropping to something more serious, "but I'm telling you right now, that boy rises and sets on your ass. So just be careful with your list."
I blink at her, caught off guard by the shift in tone. "Careful how?"
Delaney's eyes drift to where Copeland is now.
"Guys like him and Copeland, they have darkness in them," she says quietly. "Urges and needs that push boundaries. They're not like regular guys who just want to fuck and cuddle. They want to possess. Control. Own."
A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the arena's chill. "What do you mean?"
She leans closer, her voice dropping even lower. "I've seen the way Blackwood watches you when you're not looking. Like you're oxygen and he's been drowning his whole life. That kind of need...it's not normal. It's obsessive."
"He's just protective," I argue, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Protective?" Delaney snorts. "Honey, there's protective and then there's whatever the fuck that is. Does he know where you are at all times? Does he check in when you're out without him? Has he ever scared off guys who were interested in you?"
"Holy shit," I whisper, realization dawning. "You think he's…like obsessed obsessed with me?"
"I don't think, I know," Delaney says firmly. "I recognize it because I live with it every day." Her eyes flick to Copeland again, something complicated passing over her face. "The question isn't whether he's obsessed. It's whether you're okay with it."
"I've known Ramsey forever," I say, but my voice sounds uncertain even to my own ears. "He'd never hurt me."
"Not physically, maybe," Delaney agrees. "But emotionally? Psychologically? Those types of men devour you until there's nothing left that isn't marked by them."
I watch Ramsey with new eyes as he dominates the ice, his body a weapon of precise destruction. I've always known he was intense, protective, possessive a little bit even. But obsessed? The word feels both terrifying and thrilling.
"You're not scared?" I ask during a break in play.
Delaney gives me a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of Copeland? Terrified. Turned on. Both. It's fucked up."
"And you stay anyway?"
"We all have our addictions," she shrugs. "Sometimes the darkness calls to something inside you that you didn't even know was there."
My eyes drift back to Ramsey as he scores, his fist pumping in the air before he turns to find me in the crowd. When our eyes lock, he taps his chest twice.
Do I have a darkness in me? Do I want it?
The thought hits me like a fucking truck. I've spent my entire life running from the shadows—my father's rage, my mother's death, the constant fear of not being good enough. Dance was my escape, my light. But what if there's a part of me that craves something darker?
Ramsey scores again, and the crowd erupts around us.
I watch him—really watch him—as he celebrates with his teammates.
The way his eyes immediately seek me out, like I'm his true north.
The possessive gleam when he spots me sitting with Delaney and Demi.
The subtle tension in his jaw when other guys look my way.
"I can see the little hamster wheel turning in your brain," Delaney says, nudging me. "Having your awakening?"
He's always watching me. Always aware of me. Always putting me first.
"You know what's really fucked up?" I say, taking another swig from the flask. "I think I've always known. I just didn't want to admit it to myself."
"Because then you'd have to admit you like it," Demi chimes in, unexpectedly perceptive. "That it turns you on knowing someone wants you that badly."
"Yes." The word comes out almost involuntarily. "God, yes. Is that fucked up?"
Delaney laughs, but it's not unkind. "Baby, we're all fucked up here. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to stop pretending," I decide. "Stop acting like I don't see it. Stop acting like I don't want it, and I’m going to use my list to get what I want. I want him."
The buzzer sounds, ending the second period.
St. Charles is up 4-1, with Ramsey responsible for three of those goals.
As the players file off the ice toward the locker rooms, Ramsey's eyes lock with mine again.
This time, I don't look away. I hold his gaze, letting everything I'm feeling show on my face.
His step falters. Just for a second, but I catch it. His eyes darken, and something primal flashes across his face before he disappears down the tunnel.
"Oh shit," Delaney murmurs beside me. "You just fucked with the beast."
"Good," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "I'm tired of pretending."
Demi hands me the flask again. "One more for courage?"
I take a long pull; the cinnamon burn feels like liquid courage sliding down my throat.
Shit, I can’t drink anymore of this. I can already hear the rant coming my way for drinking without him around to keep watch.