Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Thorne
It's pitch black in my room, when I hear Mollie padding up the stairs. Between overdoing it at the rink earlier, low-key avoiding Mollie, and having a faint headache, I am flat on my back in bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it can tell me what the future holds.
Will I get traded to some shittier team while I'm playing through my final years on the ice? Shit, maybe I'll just fuck Mollie. Then when Beck finds out, he'll legit murder me. Problem solved.
Faintly, through the vent high on the wall, I hear Mollie moving around her room.
She sounds like she’s settling in for the night.
I haven't needed to follow her around since she moved in.
Now I know where she is at all times and the idea is soothing and disturbing at the same time.
Faintly, I'm aware that a stalker would probably have the same thoughts.
But Mollie needs me to keep her safe. And aside from stealing her panties and fantasizing about her, I haven't —
"Alex."
My eyes snap up to the vent. Mollie moans again and mutters a curse.
Is she doing what I think she's doing? And using my first name, the one nobody has called me since I was a kid?
That's like four different fantasies all rolled up into one. A fuck-hot woman wants me so bad she touches herself and thinks of me? Calling me by a private name that's special to me? And I get to accidentally overhear her getting off because my house's ventilation is ancient?
Mollie has somehow raided my stash of horny fever dreams and is now acting them out.
This is fine. I'm not freaking out.
My hands aren't even down my pants. That's hero behavior, for sure.
Given the nights I’ve spent outside her building just to make sure her light comes on, it’s practically nothing. This is not worse than that. This barely makes the list of reasons I’m going straight to the fieriest pit in hell.
But that doesn’t stop me from pushing a chair up to the vent and standing on it. Cocking my head, I listen closely. It sounds like she's right in front of me, touching herself. Little gasps and moans escape her.
Is she picturing us fucking? Me taking control and dominating her? Or maybe it's the other way around.
I'd get on my knees for her, eat her pussy so well that she'd be satisfied for days. Maybe she'd realize that I'm the only man who could make her scream. I know her soft little sounds; there would be no awkward fumbling with me.
My eyes close as her sounds come faster and needier. This is spank bank material for years to come. Her sounds are hotter than watching the actual act would be.
I'm about to combust, either way.
"Alex," she sobs. "Fuck, Thorne..."
This girl is trying to murder me. I spread my fingers out against the wall and press my ear against the vent.
She comes with my name on her lips. Her breathing slows and evens out.
Show's over. I climb down and lie back in bed, my mind spinning. I knew Mollie had a little crush on me. A fact which she doubled down on by asking me to take her virginity. But this is the first time since she came to live with me that I'm facing it head-on.
I have never been harder in my life. It's difficult not to whip my cock out and jerk it until I come.
But that would be crossing a line I don't know how to uncross. Dirty fantasies are one thing, if they have no chance in hell of ever happening. But this? Being right next door and knowing I could knock if I wanted?
Too real.
So I lie there in the dark with my hands at my sides like a saint, or possibly a corpse.
Not touching myself right now is the least unhinged thing I've done in a year. I'm choosing to feel good about it.
I don't touch myself, and I don't knock on her door, and I don't do a single thing except stare at the ceiling and slowly lose my mind.
Falling asleep after all that is near impossible. When I do sleep, I toss and turn, restless.
The next morning, I show up at the rink with bags under my eyes and a very specific plan: be professional, be distant, give her nothing to work with.
Rebuild the walls that have been slowly crumbling since the lake house.
Mollie Tate is my roommate and my co-captain's little sister, and that's the end of the sentence.
I spent twenty minutes in front of my bathroom mirror this morning rebuilding my walls.
My voice comes out at exactly the right register when I greet people.
My expression is neutral. I’m so controlled that Beck texts me from across the facility asking if I'm coming down with something, which means I'm overcorrecting.
Fuck. It means if you know where to look, my walls are visible from the outside. Mollie knows where to look, too, so I keep my eyes off her face.
She's already at the empty practice rink when I arrive, set up on the bench with her phone and her shot list and a coffee cup that's already half-empty, looking annoyingly awake. She gives me a look that says she’s clocked the bags under my eyes and has decided not to comment. It’s somehow worse than if she had.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Born ready," I say, which is the dumbest thing that's ever come out of my mouth.
She bites down on a smile. "Sure you are."
We get on the ice. I give her what she needs for the content without handing over anything real, which is a skill I've been honing for thirty-two years. She calls directions and I follow them, and we don't touch each other, and it's completely fine.
"Can you do that again, but actually look like you're enjoying yourself?" she calls from the boards.
"I am enjoying myself."
"You look like you're filing taxes."
I do it again. She sighs, but doesn't push it further. Which means either the footage is acceptable, or she's given up on me. Honestly both are fine.
We're about twenty minutes in when Erica, Moose’s wife, materializes at the rink entrance with her daughter in tow. The little girl is already vibrating out of her skin. Erica catches my eye and waves. I skate over.
"Sammy has been talking about this all week," Erica says, nudging her daughter forward.
The kid looks like she's been struck by lightning. She's maybe eight, gap-toothed, wearing a Havoc jersey that's three sizes too big. And she is staring at me like I hung the moon.
I crouch down to her level. "Hey. I'm Thorne."
"I know," she breathes. "I'm Sammy. I want to be a center just like you."
"Yeah? You play for a team?"
"The Seattle Sabretooths." She straightens up proudly. "I scored two goals last season."
"Two goals?" I hold up my hand and she high-fives it so hard it stings. "That's a big deal. Does your dad skate with you outside of practice?"
"He coaches sometimes." Her whole face lights up. "He says I have good hands."
" Your dad has an amazingly big heart and he leaves it all on the ice, every single game. And if you’re half as good as your dad, you could go pro if you want.” I tap her jersey, right over the Havoc logo. "Something to think about."
She nods so hard I'm worried about her neck. Erica is watching me with this soft expression. It's only when I stand back up, sign the girl's jersey, take a photo, and wave them off that I notice Mollie has been filming the whole thing.
She lowers her phone when she sees me looking.
"You didn't ask," I say.
"You would've said no." She doesn't apologize. "That's the content that makes people care about you as a person, not just a player. I need it."
I want to argue but she's not wrong, which is its own kind of annoying. "Fine."
"The brand stuff is working, Thorne." She tucks her phone away. "You are the Seattle Havoc. You’re on every poster. You have a huge fan club. You touch hearts. You’re more than just those golden-boy good looks. Right? I’m just highlighting those qualities for a new audience.”
"Huh." I rub the back of my neck. "I guess that’s helpful."
"How do you think players your age stay relevant? You're caught between being young enough to have your own TikTok, and being a venerated veteran. I'm here to close that gap." She tilts her head. "You're welcome, by the way."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. A text from Beck.
Beck
Jimbo called a meeting. Locker room. Now.
I show Mollie the screen. She reads it and looks up at me. "Go. I'll pack up."
The locker room is quiet when I get there. Most of the team are here. Beck’s already on the bench, dressed casually, wearing a tight expression. I drop my bag and sit, looking around.
"Did you know about this?" I ask Beck.
"Got the text twenty minutes ago." He rolls his jaw. "Jimbo doesn't come down here unless something's happening."
"Could be nothing," Moose offers.
Beck and I look at him.
"Okay, probably not nothing," he admits.
Jimbo Greene, the team owner, walks in two minutes later.
He’s in his cowboy hat, cowboy boots, the full look.
He has a potbelly, speaks with a drawl, and always seems as though he’s ready to start a gunfight at any moment.
He pulls a chair out, sits in it backwards, and surveys the team with cool blue eyes.
"Well, boys. Grayson Reed is gone," he says. "Traded to Denver this morning. Clears cap space, opens a roster spot."
The room goes very quiet.
"The ownership group is evaluating the direction of the franchise.
That means the roster, contracts, everything.
" His eyes rove across the team and land on me.
"Tate, Thorne, you’re the core of what this team is.
I want you to hear it from me directly: nothing else is set in stone.
In fact, nobody in this room is going anywhere without a conversation first."
"Appreciate that," Beck says.
"I mean it." Jimbo stands, replaces the chair. "Keep your heads down, keep playing well. That's the best thing any of you can do." He points at me. "And Thorne. The social media stuff has been noticed. Duke's been showing those videos to the ownership group. Keep it up."
Then he's gone, boots echoing down the hall.
Nobody says anything for a second.