Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
CONNOR
If there’s a worse time to think about kissing someone, it’s during a mid-practice lactate set. Unfortunately, that’s where my brain currently lives.
Whitney. On the couch. Sliding into my lap like it was inevitable. The way her mouth went soft and then sure—like she’d decided she was done waiting for me to make the first move. My hands on her waist, my tongue ring catching on her lower lip, the sound she made when I pulled her closer.
And fuck, the feel of her legs bracketing my hips me, the warmth of her pressing down on me while I fought every natural instinct to not thrust my hard cock up against her.
Hot doesn’t even cover it.
My arms are burning. My lungs are on fire. And none of it does a damn thing to pull my head out of last night.
Which would be inconvenient enough on its own, except my phone has been buzzing in my bag like a ticking bomb ever since I left her house.
I stopped checking it after the second message. I don’t need to check in order to know who they’re from.
The first one was all it took.
Nico
Guys like you don’t get fresh starts.
It shouldn’t get under my skin anymore. I shouldn’t let it. I’m desperately trying to not be that guy anymore.
But my body still remembers what it felt like when he had access to all the worst parts of my life—every mistake, every headline, every clip somebody recorded for fun and kept for leverage.
Whitney’s laugh and Nico’s text should not exist in the same universe.
After I left Whitney’s last night, I logged on as DreamBoat.
Whitney wasn’t there, but our old buddy Walrus was.
During a cathartic shipwrecking mission, I told him everything.
I thought I’d feel better, but it only made me realize how badly I’ve fucked up.
Didn’t help that those were Walrus’s exact words: You fucked up.
Now here I am, choking through a butterfly set like my past is drafting behind me in the next lane.
At the wall, Coach blows the whistle and announces an interval so cruel Logan actually says, “Rude,” under his breath. Charlie snorts. I cough up part of my soul and try to pretend I’m not actively dying.
“Fisk,” Coach calls. “Eyes up. Mind in the pool, not wherever you left it last night.”
It’s a miracle I don’t combust on deck.
I nod, trying to refocus on the feel of the water surrounding my heated muscles. I’m definitely not thinking about Whitney’s weight in my lap. Or about how she kissed me first because I was about to say something and she didn’t want to hear it—or maybe she didn’t want to wait.
And I’m definitely not thinking about how I wanted to tell her everything until my phone buzzed and the air turned sharp and my instincts kicked in like they always do.
Run. Cut it off. Don’t give anyone a clean shot at you.
Or worse. Go on the defensive and attack first.
I push off for the next rep and try to focus, but my brain is a traitor with a very specific agenda.
I kissed Whitney. I kissed her back like I meant it. I’m still hiding who I am. Not just Connor Fisk in headlines, but DreamBoat in her headset—the guy who didn’t show up, then ghosted like she’d imagined the whole connection.
Now I’ve added proof—physical, undeniable proof—that makes the lie heavier.
And underneath all of that is the gut-deep certainty that Rory would rather swallow a cactus than talk to me.
By the time the set finally ends, we haul ourselves out for stretching, muscles trembling. I towel off while very much pretending I’m not scanning the deck for Whitney.
I’m absolutely scanning for Whitney.
She’s not here. Morning group must be staggered, or she’s with Winnie getting taped, or she’s actually sleeping in for once—which, frankly, she deserves. She probably wasn’t the one up at 1 a.m. replaying a kiss and trying to decide if being honest is brave or just catastrophic.
My phone buzzes again from inside my bag.
I ignore it.
I can almost feel Nico on the other end of that buzz, smug and persistent, like he doesn’t even need me to answer to get what he wants. Like the reminder is enough.
My focus drifts anyway, snagging on the ridiculous little mental list I’ve started keeping without meaning to: Whitney’s laugh.
The little twitch of her nose when she’s being extra and proud of it.
Her Pop-Tart opinions. The way she looked up at me right before she kissed me, like she was choosing me.
Then my brain does the thing I hate most—tries to fast-forward.
The Golden Lane Project Gala tonight. A room full of donors and cameras and people who love a story. Whitney in a dress. Me trying not to stare. Nico doing his best to make me believe my past controls my future.
I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see stars.
“Yo,” Logan says, flopping down beside me and shoving a protein shake into my hand like I’m a plant in need of watering. “You looked like your soul left your body during that last fly set.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Great compliment.”
“I mean it was impressive,” he adds, tipping his head. “Didn’t even know a human face could express that much regret.”
Charlie lumbers up behind him and drops a hand on my shoulder like I’m livestock being reassured before branding. “Yeah. Good hustle, Fisk.”
I squint at them. “What do you want?”
Charlie grins, which is alarming on a man his size. “Team bonding.”
“Pass.”
“Too late,” Logan says, already pleased with himself. “We signed you up.”
“For what?” I demand.
“A spa treatment,” Charlie announces cheerfully. “We’ve got to get you ready for the gala tonight.”
My eyes narrow. “Define spa.”
“Full-body renewal,” Logan says, like he’s quoting a brochure that doesn’t exist. “Exfoliation. Warm towel service. Hair removal.”
Hair removal.
I stare at him. “Wait—what—”
Logan is already digging in his bag and producing a waiver form like this is a normal Tuesday. Charlie’s grinning like a golden retriever who knows exactly where the shoes are buried.
“You’re messing with me,” I say.
“Come on, man,” Logan says solemnly, hand over his heart. “Team unity.”
“It was Charlie’s idea,” Logan adds, as if that’s somehow better.
Charlie nods once, proud. “It builds trust.”
“Waxing builds trust? That sounds like something people with waxing trauma would say.”
Logan’s grin widens. “And as team captain, Rory signed off on it.”
Rory.
Right. Him.
My stomach twists for an entirely different reason. The one person I need to talk to. The one person I’m not sure will ever want to.
Logan waggles the waiver. “So. You in?”
I stare at them. I stare at the form.
If I say no, I’m the uptight asshole who doesn’t mesh with the team. If I say yes, I’m a consenting participant in pain and humiliation—an experience which, honestly, isn’t that different from being emotionally invested in Whitney Shields while actively lying by omission.
“Fine,” I mutter, snatching the form. “But if I die, put on my headstone that I was coerced.”
Charlie claps my back. “Love the spirit. Bonding day at three. Don’t be late. Bring water.”
I blink. “Why would I need water—”
But they’re already walking away, laughing like criminals.
I came to Coral Cove to swim, keep my head down, apologize to Rory, and not ruin anyone’s life.
Instead, I’m kissing a girl I’m not being fully honest with, getting haunted by a man who thinks he still has access to my worst moments, and apparently about to let Logan and Charlie make decisions about my body hair.
I jam my feet into my slides and head for the recovery room anyway.
An ice bath is exactly the kind of jarring sensation I need to drag my brain back into my body—back into the present—back into the version of me that’s trying to do things differently.
Because the other version?
The one Nico wants?
The one the internet loves?
He’s still in there.
And after last night, I’m not sure how long I can keep him from messing everything up.