Chapter 4 Heat Without Fire （Nate）
HEAT WITHOUT FIRE (NATE)
The bass hits so hard it rattles the ice in my glass.
It’s the kind of beat that dares you to stay still.
Impossible in this flashy downtown Manhattan club, lit up and showing off.
Neon strobes slice through the haze, glass walls catch every shimmer of the skyline, and the crowd sways in time with the music.
We’re celebrating. Media scrum cleared, the city’s still awake. The girlfriends and wives showed up. Sophie swipes Liam’s glass, Jessica tucks under Finn’s arm, Erin settles at Dmitri’s side. I claim the edge and pretend I’m not the third wheel tonight.
Liam lifts his glass. “To burying the Titans.”
Finn taps his beer. “And to Russo stopping a puck with his face.”
“Better than letting one slip under your stick in the second,” I say.
The table cracks up. Finn flips me off; Jessica says something in his ear that puts trouble in his smile.
Adam and Wesley go full peacock, their shirts half undone, drawing a radius of Vogue-ready women and hamming it up on the dance floor. They’re loud, charming, and determined to make content out of oxygen.
“Rock stars,” Sophie says, kissing Liam.
“Let the rookie enjoy it before Coach tears him a new one,” Finn drawls. “Adam’s got no excuse, he just loves an audience.”
Jessica smirks over her glass. “And the women clearly like giving him one.”
Laughter rolls through the group, and I take a sip of my drink, the taste sharp as the memory of tonight’s game.
We didn’t just beat the Titans. We owned them.
Liam dominated the faceoff circle, Finn ripped one past their goalie on a shorthanded breakaway, and Adam sealed it with a wrister that left Blake White—Philly’s cocky winger—flat on his ass.
Dmitri was a wall on defense, dropping anyone who dared cut through the slot.
And me? I stuffed Ken Edwards twice on the power play, stretching out into a full split to snag one glove-side. I felt the familiar twinge in my hip when I popped back up. It’s been nagging me for weeks, the kind of thing you ice after every game and hope doesn’t get worse.
This morning it was the same as always: tight, sore, that dull ache when I take the stairs too fast. Manageable. As long as no one’s asking questions.
A ripple moves through the crowd, and I spot him—Leo Carver.
U.S. heavyweight champion, his face is on billboards and magazine covers for a reason.
Six-three, broad through the chest and shoulders, all fight-hardened muscle.
Dark hair cropped close, a faint scar at his brow that adds just enough menace.
Heads turn, women peel off to follow. He gives them an easy smile that disarms without promising a thing, then keeps walking straight toward me.
“Russo.” He claps my shoulder, half greeting, half challenge.
“Carver.” I grin back, and in that split second we share the look—shorthand for summers on Fire Island, sand between our toes and bruised knuckles from fights that were more about pride than pain. A friendship that’s weathered everything. “Thought you’d get lost in the crowd.”
“Not a chance.” He glances around, taking in the lights, the music, the heat of the place. “You promised a celebration. When do we ever line up our schedules like this? I wasn’t about to miss it.”
Jessica steps away from Finn, her champagne glass catching the neon. “And here’s our future champion,” she says, her smile warm but assessing—and I know for a fact that she’s running story angles in her head.
Leo tips his glass toward Jessica, grinning. “Hard to believe you actually married this guy. Brave move.”
Finn slides a hand to the small of Jess’s back, smirk set. “You sound jealous, Carver. You still sore from the last time we moved around?”
Leo laughs. “I carried you three rounds to entertain Jess.”
“Three and a half,” Finn says, tapping his bottle to Leo’s. “And I still tagged your ribs.”
“You tagged air,” Leo comes back, easy. “You want a real round, you sign a waiver.”
Jessica rolls her eyes, smiling. “I don’t care who bruised who. I care about your brand.”
Leo leans in, listening with genuine interest, no trace of the cocky fighter act. “Just point me where you want me.”
I lean back, watching them fall into an easy rhythm, the music pounding around us.
“Setting your buddy up with the best?” Finn mutters to me with a smirk.
“Just making sure he’s got the right team behind him,” I reply.
The beat surges, and the rooftop vibrates with energy. The crowd gets louder, and the city burns bright around us. Finn drains the rest of his beer, then loops an arm around Jessica’s waist. “Come on, Red, I’m not letting the kids have all the fun. Let’s show them some cool moves.”
Jessica laughs, letting him pull her toward the dance floor. “Try not to throw your shoulder out, Carolina.”
“Not a chance,” he drawls, and they disappear into the crush of bodies.
Leo leans against the bar beside me, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s sharp,” he says, nodding toward where Jessica disappeared.
“Yeah,” I agree with a half-smile. “Keeps O’Reilly in line. Not easy to do.”
Leo chuckles, shaking his head as Finn leads Jess onto the dance floor. “Guy never misses a chance to rub it in.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure he lives for it.”
“Yeah, well, next time I’m not letting him off that easy.” Leo’s grin is sharp with promise. Then he tilts his head, shifting gears. “How’s the season treating you? You guys are on fire.”
“Top of the division,” I gloat. “But it doesn’t mean much if we don’t keep it going. We’ve got Boston next week. Big stakes.”
Leo nods. He gets it. “Pressure’s good. Makes you sharper.”
“What about you?” I ask. “When’s the next fight?”
“Six weeks.” He rolls his shoulders. “Big one. Title shot’s on the line. Hoping Jessica’s gonna make sure people care.”
“They already do.” And I mean it.
There’s a pause while the music swells, the bass vibrating under our feet. I take a sip of my drink, then glance at him, trying to sound as if it’s an afterthought. “How’s the family? Your parents good?”
“Yeah, they’re good.” He gives me that crooked smile I remember from when we were kids softening his fighter’s edge. “Dad’s still trying to convince me to retire early; Mom’s planning another trip to Portugal. Same old.”
“And your brother?”
“Busy as hell, but he’s fine. Sends me kid videos every other day. And yours? Still spending summers on Fire Island?”
“Without fail. Me too, most of the off-season.” I keep it easy and slide in, “How’s Eden? Haven’t seen her since the wedding.” I don’t ask if she’s seeing someone. I don’t mention last week—the Kiss-Cam blink, the word I typed into her DMs and yanked back.
Leo doesn’t clock the hook. “She’s good. Bad breakup a couple years back hit harder than she let on. But she’s herself again. Working nonstop, still rolling at the gym, talking about opening her own place.”
Pressure clamps under my ribs. Eden, hurt. The thought sits wrong. I drain my drink; it doesn’t touch the memory of green silk in the firelight, or the way it felt to dance with her last summer as if no time had passed.
“Good to hear,” I say nonchalantly. Leo doesn’t press, and I don’t offer more. The music swells again, wrapping around us.
Then I clock her—tall, blonde, moving with purpose.
Silver dress catches the light as she threads straight toward me, eyes skimming until they land.
The smile is an invitation. A brunette shadows her shoulder.
She trips the same wires—hair, height, that self-possessed walk.
Close enough to the shape my brain keeps chasing.
Polished, fair. My usual distraction. The opposite of me—dark skin, darker moods.
“You boys look like you’re standing around too much,” she purrs, her voice sliding over the bass. Her fingers skim along my forearm, a light, teasing touch that sends a quick jolt of heat up my spine.
She doesn’t wait for my answer, just takes my hand and pulls me into the crush of bodies.
The dance floor swallows us—all pulsing bass and strobing lights.
She presses into me, moving with the music.
She smells of bergamot and champagne, her hands sliding up my chest as she sways her hips against me.
The brunette’s got her arms hooked around Leo’s neck, kissing him without coming up for air. I catch a flash of her dress riding higher with every turn, and Leo’s hands gripping her waist, pulling her closer. They’re lost in their own rhythm, and I can’t help the grin that tugs at my mouth.
My dance partner looks up at me through her lashes, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Come with me,” she whispers against my ear, her lips brushing my skin.
Before I can answer, she tugs me toward the edge of the dance floor. I follow, because why the hell wouldn’t I? We slip into a narrow hallway, the bass still pulsing through the walls, and she pushes open the door to one of the private back rooms.
The lights in here are dim, golden, the air thick with perfume and desire. The door clicks shut, and for a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then she’s moving, closing the space between us. Her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping lightly through my shirt.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” she whispers against my throat.
I cup her face, thumb tracing her bottom lip before I slide my tongue over it—slow at first, probing, making sure she’s all in.
She melts into me, soft and willing, and I lose myself in her sweetness, the way she sighs when I deepen the kiss.
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her back arches, and I press her against the wall, my mouth trailing down the column of her throat. She tastes of champagne and something I’ll regret forgetting.
Outside the thin wall, Leo’s voice carries—low, amused—followed by a brunette’s breath catching.
We’ve run this two-lane before: two pros, easy smiles, women choosing the same uncomplicated night we are.
No chase, no promises. Clean exits, quiet phones.
It’s not new; it’s just what happens when the score’s good and the city says yes.
The blonde’s dress hikes up under my hands as she wraps her legs around my waist, and I press into her harder.
She cries softly into my mouth, fingers clawing at my shoulders.
I let myself go with it—the heat, the rush, the feeling of being wanted without strings.
My hands roam, my mouth trails down her neck, tasting her skin.
She moans, her exhale hot against my ear.
The rip of a condom, impatient hands sliding it on my length, and I give her everything she’s asking for, her ragged breaths filling the small space between us.
We lose ourselves in each other, in the urgency of the moment, in the desperate press of our bodies.
For a little while, everything else fades—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of being Nate Russo, starter goalie.
But even as she rides me, even as pleasure builds, there’s this weird disconnect, as if I’m watching it happen to someone else.
It’s everything tonight promises, and nothing I need. This should be enough—the rush, the release, the way this woman mutes the world. It’s what I came for. So why does it feel like I’m only going through the motions?
When it’s over, she leans against the wall, lips swollen, dress rumpled. I let her slide her legs down and steady her, and she gives me a hopeful smile, but I don’t ask for her number or her name. I don’t make promises I won’t keep.
“Take care,” I murmur instead, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple because I’m not a complete asshole.
The hallway feels cooler after the heat of the room.
I straighten my shirt, run a hand through my hair, and step back into the chaos of the club.
The music hits me in a wave, bass vibrating through my chest, and I scan the crowd for my teammates.
There’s Finn, spinning Jessica on the dance floor.
Dmitri’s got Erin pressed against the bar.
Everyone’s exactly where they should be, doing exactly what they want.
This is the life. This is what every guy dreams of. The upside of being a famous hockey player.
The city burns, the music pounds, and a blonde I’ll never call walks away. But all I can see is a girl from ten summers ago—the one I thought would be mine.