19. Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
~JESSICA~
The sun is offensively bright this morning. It pours over everything, sparkling on the pool and the glass pitcher of orange juice on the table in front of me. It glints off the rippling water and makes the breakfast Dom prepared even more camera-perfect: fresh fruit, toast, jam, eggs, bacon.
Maybe it’s Dom’s way of trying to apologize for what he did to my body last night with carbs and protein.
I pick up a piece of toast and take a bite, still wearing my sleep shorts and tank top.
My phone goes off again, loud against the mahogany tabletop. Another notification—one of a hundred this morning. I flip it over and put it on silent, making a note to turn off my Instagram notifications.
Ever since this fake-relationship stunt began, my phone’s been blowing up. People I haven’t spoken to in years pop out of the woodwork with emojis and exclamation points.
But is this thing still fake? I’m no expert, but fake relationships don’t usually end with you pressed against a tiled wall, getting railed under a showerhead while your heart claws its way up your throat.
I nibble another bite, heat crawling up my neck. My face feels like it’s been blushing since last night and hasn’t stopped. I take a gulp of juice, trying to get a grip, but my brain won’t stop whispering questions I hate.
Is there an expiration date on this? What happens when I stop being conveniently helpful for PR? When do I lose him?
I clench my jaw, frustrated with myself. Why do I always expect the worst, daring the universe to prove me right? I’m not letting my brain do this .
The glass door slides open behind me, signaling Dom’s return.
He’s shirtless, carrying a plate of sliced avocado.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the deep cut of his V-line disappearing past the waistband.
His tattooed chest is broad and tanned, his abs shifting with each step.
The sunlight hits his face and he squints, making his eyes even sharper.
When he walks past me, he drags a hand through my hair, a slow caress that makes me bite back a smile. He sets the plate down across from me and sinks into his chair, his large frame swallowing the backrest.
The thought that’s been eating at me slithers in again.
This is what women want. This exact man.
I watch him pour water into my glass and feel a smug, deeply inappropriate satisfaction.
Every time Dom posts, his comments become a thirst pit—women offering body parts, making it painfully clear what they’d let him do.
And when I post anything that hints I might be near him or even breathing his oxygen?
Hate. DMs from women I don’t even know, accusing me of being a clout-chaser, a nobody, a placeholder .
At first, the attention terrified me. The loathing, the knives behind every “just letting you know” message. But now there’s a horrible, wicked part of me that likes it. He has every single one of those women at his fingertips, yet his hands were on my body.
My legs squeeze together instinctively at the memory. The soreness returns—the deep, aching reminder of how thoroughly he took me apart.
But the questions linger. Was that real or just need? A man scratching an itch, using the girl who’s contractually obligated to be in his house? Has he realized he can enjoy himself during this arrangement? Is he really that cruel, or is this crossing into something else for him too?
I pick up my toast and bite down, hoping that chewing will quiet my thoughts.
I eye his plate: granola, avocado, scrambled eggs, and a single dark slice of something that should look like bread.
“You’re really eating that for breakfast?” I ask, squinting over the rim of my glass .
He spears a piece of egg and lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m a hockey captain in season. I can’t exactly eat Fruit Loops.”
“Thank God I’m not a hockey captain, then.”
“Yeah, your diet would be a problem,” he nods mockingly.
“Are you saying I don’t possess the skill to be one?”
“Oh, your skating skills are unmatched.” His mouth twitches.
I scoff, trying not to stare at the ropes of veins on his arms. God, he looks good.
“So… when’s the next game?” I ask, tone light.
“Tomorrow. Didn’t Tinnie send you the schedule?”
“I don’t know,” I admit with a grimace. “I’m scared to open my email.”
It’s a war zone in there. My inbox has become a sentient monster, and I’m not emotionally prepared to face it.
I reach for my phone, already thinking about the posts I have to make for tomorrow’s game. “Can you take a forkful of eggs real quick?”
“What? ”
“For my story,” I explain, opening the camera. “Breakfast shot.”
He stays silent, eyes flicking to my phone.
“It’s my end of the bargain, Captain,” I say, lifting the camera. “Stories, visibility, engagement. Let me do my job.”
“So being a prop is my end of the bargain?”
“Pretty much.” I glance at him over the phone and wink. “Now do it, and don’t look like I’m holding you hostage.”
He raises a brow but obliges, stabbing his fork into the eggs and lifting them to his mouth. I snap the pic, adjusting the angle until he’s perfectly visible in the corner—sunlit abs and all.
“Great!” I crop the photo three times to get just the right amount of shirtless Dom in the background, add a caption about tomorrow’s game, hit upload, then immediately brace for impact.
Can’t wait for the hate DMs to flood in like they always do. Yet the worst part isn’t what they send me. It’s what I imagine they’re sending him. If I’m getting dozens of messages a day, he’s getting hundreds .
I stare at my screen, suddenly in my head. Does he open his DMs and scroll through the offers? Does he reply or flirt back?
My throat tightens, and I put my phone down.
“What’s that face?”
“What face?”
His eyes narrow and I force a smile, shaking my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,”
I huff a small laugh that dies on my lips. The thought of him being accessible to other women is not funny.
He rests his fork against his plate, his eyes are on me, waiting in that unsettling way that makes me feel like he already knows what I’m about to say.
“I told you,” I say again, quieter. “It’s nothing.”
His brow lifts a fraction.
I want to be the chill, the unbothered girl who doesn’t ask questions she has no right to ask. But then reality checks me. This man took my virginity. He took me on a date and bought me coloring pencils. Last night, he had sex with me in his shower and cooked dinner afterward .
I do have the damn right to know.
“Actually,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel, “there is something.”
He straightens, attention sharpening.
Words spill out before I can organize them. “It’s just… everywhere we go, women stare. They talk. At the clubs, at events, online.” The words tumble out. “Your comments are insane. Tons of women offering themselves up like it’s an audition.”
His mouth twitches.
“And whenever I post anything even remotely related to you or the team,” I continue, picking up speed, “my DMs turn into a disaster. Hate, warnings, girls telling me to enjoy it while it lasts—like I’m borrowing something that’s theirs.”
I pause, “And I don’t want to picture it. Women throw themselves at you all the time, getting threats just for being with you. I keep thinking,” my hands curl against my thighs, “if they’re that bold with me, they must be twice as bold with you.”
I finally suck a breath in, and Dom cuts me off. “Jessica. “Where is this going? ”
I take a deep breath. “How many women are you texting?” I ask, meeting his eyes. I phrase it to avoid a yes-or-no answer; I want a number. A man can’t resist attention like that, ice-cold NHL captain or not.
The question hangs between us, getting heavier with each silent second. Does he even know how many women he’s texting?
He picks up his fork, unbothered and unhurried. He stabs into his eggs and avocado, lifts the bite to his mouth, and starts chewing with a tiny, insufferable grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
I stare, unblinking, growing more confused. He keeps chewing, watching me like it’s a mildly entertaining circus act. His silence says it all. I got my answer loud and clear.
I scoff and roll my eyes, looking out at his infinity pool. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slip a hand into his pocket and pull out his phone. He unlocks it casually and slides it across the table, screen up, without a word. Then he leans back, still chewing, still watching.
“What? ”
I glance at the phone, thinking he’s cruel for making me look at all the women he’s talking to. The Instagram app is open to his DMs, the chats visible. I don’t dare look down, but the curiosity burns. I stare at him with every ounce of apprehension I feel.
“Go ahead,” he nods toward the phone. “Check.”
“I can’t. I’m not— I can’t invade your privacy like that.” I shake my head, stunned.
“It’s not an invasion if I’m telling you to do it,” he counters.
I hesitate, fingers twitching. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
“Jessica,” he says, firmer. “Look at the chats.”
I swallow and glance down. The first message at the top is mine from moments ago—the automatic note that pops up when you mention someone in your story. He watches me as I scan the chats, noting the blue ticks next to names.
“Read them out loud,” he orders.
I hesitate, then slowly do: “Me, Jace, team’s group chat, Melody, Tanner, Zed, Tinnie… um, Nike, and, uh, Voss?”
“Open Requests,” he says.
I press the tab and the floodgates open. A sea of messages from women with glossy profile pictures, blue checks, and depraved previews. My eyes skim the latest: ‘It’s pulsing your name in morse code, Captain.’
What’s pulsing…
Oh. Oh! Jesus Christ.
He hasn’t opened a single message from any of them.
“Have I replied to any of them?”
I glance up at him and give a guilty, “No.”
“Now iMessage,” he says, tapping his water glass.