Chapter 16 The Claim （Nate）
THE CLAIM (NATE)
The puck’s a black blur streaking toward me. I track it, knees bent, glove ready, but my brain trips for a split second, just enough to almost let it slip through.
Almost.
I snatch it out of the air with the tip of my glove, the impact stinging my palm. Before I can even exhale, Dmitri sweeps in to clear the rebound, firing the puck up the boards with a look that says get your shit together, Russo. The crowd erupts, but I barely hear it over the pounding in my chest.
Focus.
My hip twinges when I push back into position, a reminder of the strain Eden’s been working on all week.
Two sessions with her, following every damn drill she gave me, and the difference is…
complicated. I’m stronger in the right places, but weirdly sore in others.
My body seems to be adjusting to moving the way it’s supposed to.
The next rush comes hard, Boston skating with rockets in their skates.
My body reacts on instinct—pads flashing, stick angled—but my head’s somewhere else.
Somewhere blonde and dangerous, replaying a kiss I can’t shake.
Her taste is still burned on my tongue—whiskey, want, ten years of silence combusting into one perfect, catastrophic moment.
I should be locked in. Instead, I’m gripping my stick, the only thing tethering me to this rink.
The puck streaks toward me, and for a split second, instead of seeing the black rubber disc, I see Eden’s lips parting under mine. By the time I snap back to reality, it’s whistling past my glove into the net.
The red light flares. Boston’s bench erupts. The scoreboard flashes 3–2 with two minutes left.
I slam my stick against the post. Fuck.
I crouch low, mask hiding the storm ripping through me. My hip burns, but not as bad as the anger at myself—for letting one goal slide and for letting her get under my skin.
The whistle blows for faceoff. Liam claps me on the pads as he skates past. “Shake it off, Russo.”
I nod, but the burn in my chest only gets hotter. This game was ours to take, and I let it slip by.
The locker room is quiet. Too quiet. Even the rookies shut up when I slam my helmet into my stall. Wesley leans against the wall, smirking. “Moody as hell today, Russo. Something you want to share with the class?”
Adam glances over with a knowing grin. “This about last night? Jessica told me she had Camille babysit you. That girl’s hot. Don’t tell me you managed to screw it up.”
I shoot them both a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “Drop it, assholes.”
They grin wider, feeding off the tension.
By the time I get home, the city’s gone quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear every thought you don’t want to have.
I toss my gear bag into the corner, crack open an Athletic, and drop onto the couch.
The TV stays off. I don’t need background noise—the game replays in my head with brutal clarity.
The puck sliding past me. The scoreboard flashing the loss.
The look on Dmitri’s face. But underneath all that, louder, is Eden.
A few sessions in, and she’s carved herself back under my skin—only deeper, and in places I didn’t know could ache.
Every time her hands are on me during treatment, it takes everything I have not to flip her onto that table and pin her down.
I can already see it—her head thrown back, lips parted, my name on her tongue as she comes apart beneath me.
And that kiss…fuck, that kiss. It’s on a brutal loop in my head—her taste, the way she melted into me, the way she ran afterward. I can’t stop replaying it. I don’t want to.
I pull out my phone and scroll to her name. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I don’t press it.
What the hell would I even say? Sorry for crashing your night? Sorry for kissing you like I meant it? Sorry you ran and I let you?
Instead, I type:
We need to talk.
I stare at it, pulse hammering, then delete it. Too easy. Too neat. She’d ignore it or throw it back in my face, and neither would fix the burn in my chest.
I set the phone down, but it takes less than a minute before I’m picking it back up. I open a new message, fingers flying before my brain can stop them:
Tell me your address. I’m coming over.
The words glare back at me, reckless and raw and stupid. For a second, I imagine it—her opening the door, eyes wide, me pinning her to the wall and kissing her until she forgets her own name.
My thumb hovers over send.
Too much. Too soon.
I delete it, jaw tight. Try again.
I want to kiss you again.
My pulse is in my throat. The thought of her reading it—her cheeks flushing, her breath catching—almost makes me press send.
With a growl, I delete that too, shove the phone aside, and drag a hand down my face.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll say it to her face.
The glass doors of the clinic hiss open, spilling me into a space that smells of eucalyptus and calm. It does nothing for me today.
The receptionist looks up with a bright smile. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Nate Russo. I’m here to see Eden Carver.”
Her brows lift slightly—recognition, but professional and cool. “She’s with a client. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’ll wait.”
She turns to her monitor. “Her next appointment was canceled. Do you want to take that slot?”
The universe is on my side. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, the treatment room door swings open and a willowy brunette in warm-ups glides out—one of her dancers. I know because I’ve seen the thank-you reel on Eden’s grid and the tag she didn’t bother to hide. Research, not stalking. Mostly.
Then Eden steps into view.
Hair knotted into that strict bun. Those infuriating navy scrubs that somehow manage to be sexier than anything short and black. Her stare lands on me, widens, and for a second there’s a soft flicker there.
“Nate, are you okay? Did the hip—”
“I’m fine.”
Relief crosses her face before she clocks why I’m really here. Her shoulders square, professional mask sliding into place. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I’m your eleven o’clock.”
Her jaw tightens. She glances at the receptionist—who’s already turned back to her screen—then back at me. Nowhere to run. She spins on her heel and walks into the treatment room.
I follow, shutting the door behind me.
“Why are you here, Nate?” Her arms cross so tightly her shoulders strain.
“To finish our conversation.” My tone is steady, but my pulse pounds. I take one slow step toward her.
Her gaze widens, glossy. “Nate, don’t. This isn’t the time or place.”
“It’s as good a time as any.” Another step. “And I didn’t come here to apologize. I’m not sorry for kissing you.”
That throws her. She blinks, caught off guard. “Then what do you want?”
I hold her stare, letting the silence stretch. “I want to kiss you again.”
She exhales sharply. Then, simply, “No.”
“Why not?” I step closer. “You married?”
Her brows knit as she shakes her head. There’s a low rumble in my chest. “Good. Because even if you’d erased me from your life for ten years, Trouble, I hope I would’ve gotten an invitation to that wedding.”
Her breath catches, her stare guarded. There’s hurt, surprise, and guilt there.
“So tell me. What’s really stopping you? Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You’re not interested in men?”
A breathy, nervous laugh. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?” My tone dips lower. “Because that kiss was everything I imagined it would be. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was sixteen, standing next to you on the dock doing magic tricks.”
There’s a shadow crossing her expression for a second, then she looks away. Whatever I said hit wrong. I’ll figure it out later.
Then Leo’s face flashes in my mind. He’d gladly snap me in two if he knew I was trying to get his little sister into my bed—and let’s be honest here, that’s exactly what I’m doing—but I shove it aside. I’ll worry about the heavyweight champion later.
She clutches at her last excuse. “I’m your PT. This is unethical.”
“That’s not why you’re trembling,” I murmur, leaning back against the treatment table. I reach out, gently tugging her closer by the wrist. She doesn’t stop me. “You think I can’t feel that you burn for me?”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t. Your ego can’t fit into this room with how big it is,” she scoffs, trying to distract.
“Liar.” I let my hand drift to her neck, then slide my fingers into her hair, finding the tie. I tug it loose, blonde strands spilling over her shoulders. I can see her pulse jump in her neck.
“You hide behind this,” I murmur, fingers sliding through the silk. My palm finds the back of her neck, warm and sensitive, tugging her to me. Her chest rises and falls fast. “The neat bun, the professional mask. But I see you. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Her voice wobbles. “You think you know me?”
“I do.” I keep my mouth a breath from hers. “Not the résumé. You. And since I tasted you the other night, I haven’t stopped thinking about doing it again. About how my hands would feel on your skin, on the curve of your waist, the inside of your thighs, the sounds you’d make when I don’t let up.”
The air goes tight between us.
“Let me be clear.” My voice drops. “I want you in my bed.”
Her breath stutters. Fingers knot in my shirt—half pull, half push.
“No,” she whispers, shoving at my chest, panic threading the word. “I can’t. Please, Nate…you have to let this go.”
I ease back an inch, then another, giving her space even as every part of me wants the opposite. Her grip lingers. The pulse at her throat kicks. Her breaths come short and uneven.
I couldn’t get her out of my head when we were kids; I didn’t even know why. Now I do. Now I know exactly what I want with her.
“Tell me why,” I say, low, coaxing. “What are you holding back?”
I know the signs when want is right there under the skin. With her, it’s bright and close. If I slide my hand under those damn scrubs, I know what I’ll find—heat, slick need, all of it for me.
So why the hell is she saying no?
“Eden…” Softer now. “Talk to me.”