Chapter 1 #2
My mouth goes dry. That little ring is illegal. I’m going to be thinking about it for the rest of my actual life.
Tanner coughs into his fist, covering a sound he doesn’t want on camera. Adam mutters a curse. Dmitri crosses himself. Nate laughs under his breath and lifts his phone—not at her, at me.
“Heads up, Kane,” Finn drawls, lazy and lethal. “Your edges are chewed.”
Translation: pull it together.
Joy doesn’t clock the jab. She’s all angles, exposure, audio—pure pro. Everyone pretends to breathe normal air.
Has this version of her been hiding under those oversized layers this whole time? A hard weight lands low. I half-rise, catch myself, and sink back into the couch, pretending I didn’t just lurch forward.
This is dangerous. Not just because she’s gorgeous—half the women in New York are gorgeous. It’s the way she moves through the space. Unbothered. Confident. Like she doesn’t need anyone’s permission to exist.
I’ve never wanted anyone more.
Nate keeps his voice mild. “You good, Alaska?”
Dmitri, helpful and cruel, “Need towel. Cold one.”
Tanner, grinning wide, “Cardio’s about to spike.”
Locker room code. Not for her to hear. Possession burns—hot, mean, urgent. Mine isn’t a word I get to use, but my body chooses it. And my teammates read me.
Joy sets the remote on the table, finally looks up. “Ready?”
She has no clue what she did to us. No clue what she did to me. She steps into the center of the lights and lifts her hands for frame marks. “Wesley?”
My name in her mouth is a problem.
I stand. My pulse punches at my throat. Every guy I’ve bled with is watching and pretending not to.
Nate’s smile is all teeth. “Showtime.”
Finn taps his wrist. “Shift clock’s running.”
Dmitri folds his arms, adding fuel. “Do not screw partner.”
Joy glances between us, amused by nothing she can translate. “Okay, Alaska.” Her heels click as she comes straight at me, hips in rhythm with the bassline of “Treasure.”
“Hold my hand.”
My pulse riots. “What?”
Too late. Her palm slides into mine, warm and certain. Her other lands on my shoulder, light as fire.
Fuck.
Someone has blowtorched my nerve endings. This close, I can see the freckle on her collarbone, the way her pulse jumps in her throat.
“Basic steps first. Slow, slow, quick-quick.” Her voice is calm. My brain is chaos. “Count with me.”
I try. I really do. But the first step I take crushes her foot.
She winces. “Ow.”
Everyone explodes.
“Penalty!” Tanner hollers.
“Disaster Kane!” Finn piles on.
“Strong legs, weak brain,” Dmitri declares.
I growl, face on fire. “Shut up.”
Joy squeezes my hand, eyes bright. “Reset. Don’t skate. Walk. With rhythm. One, two, three, four. Let’s practice a few steps.”
I focus—on her hips shifting, her laugh under her breath, the way her hair brushes her waist. Somehow my feet follow.
She spins under my arm, skirt flaring, sparkles catching light. She settles into me—smooth, inevitable.
And then it isn’t my teammates, or the camera, or the chorus. It’s her. Only her.
A whoop cuts across the floor.
“Dip her, Kane!”
“Show hips!”
Background noise. She’s pressed to me, heat syncing to the beat.
“Not bad.” Breathless, grinning. It hits me low. “You’ve got potential.”
I swallow. Potential isn’t the problem. Containment is.
She kicks it up—spin, pivot—skirt flashing toned legs I can’t stop tracking. She returns to me, chest to chest, eyes daring me to lose it.
I swell hard against her thigh; ballroom hold offers zero camouflage. I lock my frame and breathe. On the ice, I own my edges. Here, I’m riding hers.
“Let’s go,” she murmurs.
Oh, I’ll go anywhere with you.
We launch. Chorus pounding. Her hips roll; her laugh spills over the beat.
I’m dizzy with it—her waist under my hand, the curve of her body against me, the way she looks up through her lashes.
She drags me through spins and a quick dip that nearly wrecks me when her hair brushes my jaw. I hold on for dear life.
By the last beat, I’m drenched, heaving, one heartbeat away from hauling her against the wall.
The team erupts. Finn whistles. Nate’s choking on his laugh. Dmitri roars, “Kane goes viral!”
Joy’s grinning, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled in the best way. She shrugs back into her hoodie like she didn’t just torch me in front of the boys.
“You clean up nice, Kane. Gonna make someone very happy one day.” Smiling—sweet, harmless, lethal—she steps out of the heels and into sneakers. “O’Reilly, you’re up.”
Finn rises, flicks off his jacket, cocky dialed to eleven. “Hit me.”
We fold onto the sofa again, lined up like good pupils while the next show starts. Music up. Joy’s focused on Finn and the screen, not us.
Tanner leans in, voice low. “Oof. Textbook friend zone, bud.”
Dmitri’s laugh is a quiet cut. “Our Alaska bear—tamed before Christmas.”
Nate, mild as milk, not helping at all, “You’ll bounce back.”
“Shut it,” I mutter, not looking away.
They snicker into their fists, keeping it contained. Joy doesn’t hear a thing. She’s cueing Finn, all business.
I still can’t move. My hands are burning where I touched her. Every part of me aches with what I didn’t do.
One thing’s brutally clear.
I’m fucked.
When I get home, sleep’s a rumor. I end up doom-scrolling and stumble onto a channel I shouldn’t know about—short dance cuts, Joy in a studio, hips loose, staring down the camera.
She’s not the hoodie girl we see around the Defenders complex. She’s the other one. The one who counts under her breath—slow, slow, quick-quick—then laughs when she nails the spin.
I watch three, then five, then all of them.
An hour later, I put the phone away and stare at the ceiling.
Dmitri’s voice echoes in my head: You need a big dream. Big girl. Big life.
I think about Joy. The way she moved tonight. The way she looked at me like I was more than decoration, even when she called me exactly that.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe what I need isn’t to prove something to Hannah, or my hometown, or my dad. Maybe what I need—who I need—is sitting three floors down, editing TikToks, not knowing she wrecked me.
I don’t just like her.
I’m gone for her.
And she friendzoned me.
Guess I’m starting the game already three goals down.