6. Chapter 6 #2
Jessica shifts again and this time she does it slowly, rolling and seductive.
I slide a hand under her thigh and lift her off my dick and onto my other thigh, away from the throbbing problem she just created.
Her breath hitches and she grabs my forearms for support as I transfer her weight .
The photographer beams. “Oh! I love that placement! Very editorial. Perfect, you two, hold that. Jessica, put your hand on his chest.”
She does.
I can feel her heartbeat through her entire body—loud, fast, frantic.
My thoughts aren’t thoughts anymore.
They’re feral fantasies I can’t shove down.
“Beautiful. That shot was pure chemistry. You two are incredible together.” The photographer finally lowers the camera.
They sit us on a loveseat for the interview. Jessica crosses her legs neatly, her hands folded on her knee. Perfect posture. Perfect smile. Perfect little liar.
I sit beside her like a man awaiting sentencing.
The interviewer beams. “So, Jessica, the world is dying to know… tell us about your first date with Captain Moreal.”
Jessica inhales softly.
Here we fucking go .
“Well…” she begins sweetly, smiling like sunshine. “our first date wasn’t really a date. We ran into each other at a little bakery. It was raining, and I didn’t have an umbrella, so he…” She glances at me lovingly, the lying little menace, “…shared his and walked me home so I wouldn’t get soaked.”
I force a smile, not entirely sure where this is going. We haven’t discussed this, and we most definitely should’ve.
“And while we walked,” she continues, “he told me about hockey. Not the games or the wins, but the way it makes him feel. It was… it was really vulnerable.”
My spine stiffens. She’s doing this on purpose. I don’t talk like that. I don’t get vulnerable.
Jessica lowers her voice, lashes dipping. “And then he walked me all the way to my building. And instead of saying goodnight and leaving like I expected, he waited. Just… stood there with me in the rain. Like he didn’t want it to end.”
I hate this. And I fucking hate that part of me is picturing it. Me, standing in the rain like a dumbass. Walking her home, listening to her talk, letting her listen to me talk .
The interviewer melts. “That is… that’s beautiful.”
Every camera in the room turns to me.
I look at Jessica, and she smiles at me like she didn’t just invent the most disgustingly romantic lie on planet Earth.
“So was the night and so was the girl.” I force my voice steady.
Inside, I’m raging. Because the longer she talks and the deeper she spins this ridiculous dream, the more I want it to be real.
The interviewer beams. “So, Jessica… could you walk us through your first date?”
Jessica lights up, and I brace myself.
“Well,” she begins sweetly, “it started after the day we met at that little bakery. You see,” she continues, “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. It felt like one of those chance moments that just… disappear.”
She glances at me before turning to the interviewer.
“But the next evening, I came home, and he was waiting on the steps of my apartment.”
I bite my tongue and force out a small smile, hoping it looks better than it feels.
“Oh my God… really?” The interviewer melts .
Jessica nods, biting her lip. “He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
This is ridiculous.
This is—
“And he brought food,” Jessica adds, smiling softly. “Like, way too much food. He didn’t know what I liked yet, so he brought everything. Pasta, sushi, fruit, pastries…”
“This is so romantic!” the interviewer squeals.
I stare dead at the camera.
If anyone on my team sees this, I’m done.
Jessica keeps going, her voice dipping.
“And he said he wanted to show me his favorite part of the city. So he took me to the beach. Right at sunset. He’d planned a picnic.”
Jesus Christ.
I don’t do sunsets. I don’t do beaches unless I’m training. I don’t do picnics. I don’t do any of this.
But I can see it. Against my will, I see it. Her hair in the evening wind, her laughing at the waves, me spreading out a blanket.
I shake it off violently .
“And then,” Jessica says, glowing, “he helped me build a sandcastle.”
“Stop it.” The interviewer gasps.
“Not just any sandcastle,” Jessica adds shyly. “He said we should make one big enough to live in someday.”
My stomach drops. I’m mortified.
Who the fuck would say that on a first date?
“And we sat there,” Jessica whispers, “just imagining what our life would look like inside our crooked little sandcastle.”
I stare at her profile, unable to tear my eyes away, because in that stupid moment, I want the dumb picnic and the sandcastle. I want to see her laugh with sand all over her hands.
The thoughts are unwanted and unwelcome.
“So… yeah. That was our first date.” She finishes with a smile so beautiful it almost hurts.
“You two are unreal.” The interviewer looks between us.
“Yeah. Unreal.” My voice is flat, strained.
Jessica just created a dream version of me and, unbelievably, a part of me wants to live up to it.
The second the studio doors close behind us, I’m a goddamn grenade.
My pulse is a roar in my ears.
Jessica walks a few steps ahead, humming innocently.
We make it to the empty parking lot behind the building, and I finally let it out.
“Don’t do that again.”
She stops and turns to me.
“Do what again?” Her eyes are wide and confused.
“That.” I stalk toward her, voice low, lethal.
She blinks. “Be specific, Captain.”
“The story,” I spit. “The picnic. The sandcastle. All of it.”
“That’s what you’re angry about?” Her brows lift, insulted.
“No one who knows me will believe that shit. Not my team, not the fans, not anyone. They’ll call it out the second the article drops.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You’re unbelievable. ”
“You should’ve let me answer,” I snap. “From now on, I’ll handle questions like that.”
“From now on,” she fires back. “Maybe you should learn how not to sound like a hostage.”
“Well, sorry I can’t lie through my fucking teeth like you.”
“You know what?” she says, stepping closer, voice rising.
“You think I don’t know you’d never do that?
That you’d never walk in the rain with a girl?
Or wait outside her building? Or bring too much food because you care?
Or build sandcastles at sunset because you wanted to make her laugh? You don’t have it in you. None of it.”
Silence slams between us.
My anger spikes through me.
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that you talk too much when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Her face falls, and it makes me want to punch myself. Fuck, I hate seeing her like that. I’m crumbling. I didn’t want to say that. I don’t want that flicker of sadness in her eyes .
Jessica’s voice drops to something trembling and furious. “I’m sorry I don’t have the emotionally constipated script you prefer.”
Inside, I want to grab her face and tell her she deserves the damn sandcastle.
Inside, I want to tell her I pictured it and... I didn’t hate it. I shouldn’t want to reach out and wipe the hurt off her face.
Instead, I do the thing I always do.
I get mean. I throw up the last shield I have left: my words.
“Well,” I drawl, “next time you make up fantasies, try ones that don’t make me sound like a pathetic idiot.”
Her brows furrow and her face falls, and that’s the exact moment I stop being angry at her and start being angry at myself.
She scoffs, furious and hurt.
I want to apologize. But something stupid and stubborn punches the thought away.
So I yank open the passenger door and hold it open for her, my voice rough.
“Just get in the car.”
The locker room is loud, but inside my head, it’s even louder.
I sit on the bench with a skate on my knee, thinking about the drive to Jessica’s place.
Every second of that car ride burns behind my eyes like a brand. She sat there, angled toward the window with rigid shoulders, staring out at the city like she wanted to open the door and roll out onto the asphalt just to get away from me.
And I kept stealing looks at her—how her hair fell over her shoulders, full lips that weren’t smiling.
Even pissed at me… she looked like something I shouldn’t touch but desperately fucking wanted to.
I pull the laces of my skate and tighten them.
I opened my mouth to apologize.
Twice.
The words were right there.
Jessica, I didn’t mean that.
Jessica, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.
Jessica, I’m sorry .
But my pride—my stupid, rabid, useless pride—shoved the apology so far down my throat I couldn’t force it out if I tried. I felt it rising, burning, clawing up my chest, and then dying before it hit my tongue.
I drag a hand down my face.
She deserves the apology, not me dropping her off like some asshole Uber driver and letting her walk away thinking I didn’t care.
I ghost my thumb over the skate lace, staring at it blankly.
I should’ve said something besides the bullshit I said earlier. But I didn’t because I’m an emotionally stunted asshole, and I’ve gone too long without being held accountable for it.
The room slowly empties, players heading out, chatter fading down the tunnel.
The only two people left are me and Zed, who’s currently tying his skates.
I sit across from him, and for a moment try to see the kid he used to be.
I clear my throat .
“Nice strategy against the Lions last week,” I say. “That glove-side bait was smart as hell.”
He simply nods once, so I try again.
“Remember when we used to run traps in junior?” I chuckle. “Coach Thompson used to lose his mind.”
“That was a very long time ago, Dominic.”
He says it without venom, just a flat fact.
“Yeah. Guess it was.” I nod, looking down at my skate.
He finishes tying his and starts on the other, and something— I don’t know why— pushes me to ask about his baby brother.
“How’s Noah, by the way?”
Zed tenses. It’s not dramatic or obvious, but I see the shift. It’s so small it’s almost nothing, but his eyes freeze and a muscle in his jaw dances.
Then his eyes lift, and when he looks at me, his gaze isn’t cold. It’s an absence of anything.
I try to play it off. “He still playing? Or did he decide to retire at twelve?”
Silence. A thick one.
Zed goes back to tying his skate before finally speaking.
“No.”
I blink. “No… he doesn’t play anymore? Or no, he didn’t quit?”
Zed rises to his full height and closes his eyes as he draws in a long breath through his nose.
He closes his locker door with a soft click, then turns to me, holding eye contact for too long—long enough that something cold slides down my spine.
“No,” he repeats.
He walks away without elaborating, and I stand there with a heavy feeling creeping up my chest as the silent shape of him disappears down the corridor.