5. Chapter 5 #2
Full-on, shamelessly, right at her. Melody lights up and blows one back with both hands. Jace grins, winks, and skates off.
The air shifts, something like static crawling down my spine, heavy and charged.
Dom glides up the boards, powerful and silent, like a storm cloud.
His skates cut a clean arc as he slows for a line change, and then his eyes flick upward.
Straight to Melody, then straight to me.
His gaze is like a physical touch. Embarrassingly hot.
My stomach flips as his gaze holds mine for just a second.
The noise of the crowd fades. All I see are intense eyes burning from behind that visor, locked onto mine.
Dom blinks once, then pushes off and skates toward the faceoff circle, back to war mode.
But not before his gaze cuts back over his shoulder.
Not at Melody.
At me.
Slow. Deliberate .
My pulse stutters, heat crawling up my neck as I swallow hard.
Melody is still smiling, still watching the ice, completely unaware.
I’m not.
Because the way Dom just looked at me?
That wasn’t nothing.
The Blazers win.
The arena is still vibrating with leftover thunder, chants, and the sound of thousands drunk on victory and adrenaline.
My body buzzes too, annoyingly so.
I keep telling myself I am not proud.
I am not impressed.
I am not emotionally invested in the outcome of this man’s sporting event. But Dominic Moreal…
The way he moved tonight? There’s no fighting it. He’s a beast, a force that bent the entire game around him. Watching him dominate the ice did something to me that is both embarrassing and slightly enraging .
Now half the arena has spilled out, but media and players cluster in the tunnel area, lights glaring, cameras flashing, microphones out.
The team’s PR staff buzzes, panicked bees trying to corral everyone for interviews.
Reporters shout questions over each other. Sweat-soaked players weave through the mess while PR girls herd them like wild horses.
I hover behind a crowd of media until I spot him.
Dominic stands in front of a backdrop plastered with sponsors, microphones jammed near his mouth, TV cameras shoved close enough to catch the water still dripping from his hair.
He’s all authority and post-game adrenaline simmering under his skin.
“…full team effort,” he says into a mic, voice low and steady. “We knew what we were up against.”
His eyes shift just a fraction and catch mine for an instant. My stomach drops straight to my knees. His gaze changes, just slightly, and a hint of a smile plays across his full lips. Then he looks away, answering another question.
Reluctantly, I admit this man is hot .
Unfairly hot.
The interview wraps. Reporters shout more questions, but Dom cuts through them with a curt nod and steps away from the backdrop.
This is my window.
I move before I think, while cameras swivel toward him as he exits the interview cluster.
Perfect.
I slip right into his path with a too-sweet smile and fling my arms around his neck like I have every right.
Click-click-click-click-click.
The cameras go feral around us. Dom goes still for a moment before his hands come up automatically, one gripping the small of my back, the other sliding lower than any PR-friendly photo requires. Big, warm, and claiming without even meaning to.
My breath stutters, and I pull back a little before he can feel my heartbeat.
I raise my mouth to his ear, whispering, “Is this what the WAGs do?”
His fingers tighten, and he dips his head just enough to brush his lips along my cheek in a pretend-kiss for the cameras, but low enough that only I can hear the growl that leaves him.
“No. You need to go to Tinnie for some media training.”
But the way he drags me tighter to his chest contradicts every syllable.
I smile wider, letting the cameras catch it.
“Looks like you don’t mind, Captain. Wonder what else I can get away with.”
Dom leans lower, stubbled cheek brushing mine. To everyone watching, we look like a picture-perfect couple having a soft, intimate moment after a win.
“Don’t you fucking dare make a scene,” he warns, all steady captain-command, while his thumb strokes slow, hot circles just above my hip.
Electricity rips down my spine.
“What if I do?”
His hand slides even lower, fingers pressing into my waist.
“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, mouth grazing my ear.
His touch is nothing like his voice. His voice says be careful. His hold says don’t you dare move .
He guides me with a firm hand on my hip toward the next round of cameras.
My bathroom looks like Sephora exploded.
Foundation bottles open, brushes everywhere, bobby pins stuck to the counter like metallic confetti. My curling iron is heating, and I stand in the middle of it all, wearing Spanx, a robe, and anxiety.
My phone buzzes on the sink; Dannie is calling on FaceTime.
I sigh, tap the screen, and she appears instantly with a cocktail in hand.
“Okay.” She points at me with the straw. “Explain the mental breakdown in your voice messages. Slow. Detailed. Start with: ‘Hi Dannie, I’m going to my FIRST. EVER. RED CARPET. EVENT.’”
“Hi Dannie, I’m going to my first ever red carpet event.” I grin and prop my phone up on the sink.
“This is insane, Jess.”
“They’re sending me a car, Dannie. With a driver. ”
“You’re officially famous-adjacent. Don’t forget us peasants when you start wearing sunglasses indoors.”
Laughter bursts out of me despite the stress coiling in my stomach.
“I’ve never done anything like this. And I’m about to see him again, and…”
I cut myself off before I say it.
Dannie raises an eyebrow.
Tinnie had come up to me during the post-game chaos and told me I’ll be accompanying the captain to a formal red carpet event for some sportswear launch tonight.
“I’m freaking out. What if I trip? What if I take a weird photo and end up on a meme page? What if he looks at me and regrets everything? He hasn’t even responded to my conditions.”
Dannie rolls her eyes.
“Do we need to have that conversation again? You need to breathe. Stop pacing. And do your eyeliner before the car arrives. Now show me the dress you’re wearing. ”
“It’s simple,” I start, even though it’s not. I spent a whole month making it. It’s been sitting unused for over five. “Kind of.”
My dress is a deep mulberry-black, cut in a column silhouette. The top is where I let myself show off. The bodice curves up into a structured one-shoulder mesh detail that wraps around my collarbone like a sculpted wave.
“Oh my God, that slit,” Dannie squeals.
I look down at it. It’s subtle, but high enough to show a flash of leg when I walk.
“It’s just a little one,” I say weakly.
“It’s thigh-high, babe.”
“It’s tastefully high.” I bite my lip.
“You’re going to ruin that man, Jessica.”
The building’s front lights blur against the shiny black hood of the car waiting at the curb.
A driver stands beside the back door, waiting for me.
Which is insane, because I sew dresses in my living room and I use coupons.
And now I’m being escorted into a car to attend a red carpet event with the captain of the reigning NHL team.
“Ms. Brooks.” The driver opens the door.
“Good evening,” I offer.
I swallow, gather the skirt of my dress, and slide inside.
The moment my ass hits the leather seat, I freeze.
Dominic is already waiting inside in a full suit. Black on black on black.
He’s freshly shaved and his dark hair is styled back loosely, a strand falling over his brow. His thick thighs are spread, and the outlines of his muscles show under the fabric.
He looks absolutely sinful.
He looks up slowly, and something in his eyes flickers as he takes me in from head to toe.
My cheeks heat instantly. I’m embarrassingly flushed.
The door shuts with a quiet thud, trapping us in a silence thick enough to choke on.
I clear my throat. “No hello? No ‘nice to see you’?”
“Hello,” he says, looking straight ahead.
Disappointment and hurt jab at my ribs from his dismissiveness.
The car starts rolling.
I peek over, irritated. “Thought fake boyfriends were supposed to try harder.”
Dom finally turns his head toward me.
“If you’re waiting for flowers and sweet talk,” he says, his voice flat as concrete, “you picked the wrong man.”
“I didn’t pick you, remember?” I lift my chin, smiling even though this man is starting to ruin my night.
His jaw ticks once, barely visible, but oh, he didn’t like that.
“Right,” he mutters .
His knee bumps mine, maybe by accident, but neither of us pulls away.
Dom turns back to the window, voice low. “It’s a red carpet, not a date. I’m not here to impress you.”
“I don’t want you to impress me.” I add, sweetly, “You couldn’t.”
His head snaps back toward me.
Oh. I hit something.
His gaze drops to my mouth, my throat, my legs. The air turns electric. But just like that, he turns away and leans his head back against the seat, like he’s already won.
The car hits a bump, and our knees press together again. The silence stretches.
He turns back to the window, jaw tight, eyes fixed on something far beyond the glass.
I pretend I don’t notice the way his leg stays pressed against mine. The longer the silence goes on, the heavier it gets.
And the heavier it gets, the more something awful and stupid forms in my chest. An ache. Embarrassing and raw, rising without permission.
I steal a look at him. His profile is unfair. Every angle of this man looks flawless.
My voice slips out before I can stop it.
“Do you really dislike me that much?”
He turns immediately. Brows pinched, eyes scanning my face.
I regret it instantly. I look away, forcing a laugh that sounds brittle.
“Forget it. I didn’t mean—”
He lifts a hand and turns my chin toward him.
I go still, my pulse kicking at the contact. My heart stutters when his thumb moves across the line of my jaw.
Then, instead of answering my question, he gives me something I never would’ve expected.
“You look breathtaking.”