Chapter 18
The night air is cool against my skin as I step out of the facility, my gear bag hanging over my shoulder.
Practice ran late, the kind of grind Coach likes to throw at us before an upcoming game and the parking lot is nearly empty now, just a few players heading to their cars, exhaust clouds curling into the dark.
I spot her before she sees me.
Rochelle leans against her car, phone in hand, hair loose around her shoulders instead of knotted tight like it usually is after a long day.
There’s something different in the way she carries herself tonight. She’s not holding a notebook like it’s a weapon, no sharp angle to her shoulders like she’s preparing for a fight.
Instead, she looks calm, and probably tired. She seems deep in thought too. Seeing her like this unsettles me more than her usual fire ever does.
I slow my steps, scanning the lot for an excuse to keep walking, but my feet carry me closer anyway.
Part of me expects the usual reception. A pointed question, a cold statement disguised as professionalism but when she looks up, her expression doesn’t have the usual bite.
Her eyes find mine, and they linger there.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
“Late practice?” she asks finally, her voice lower than usual. It’s not sharp or challenging.
“Part of the job,” I reply, dropping my bag by the end of my truck. “What about you? I thought the vultures cleared out hours ago.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to snap back, but instead she just shrugs. “Figured I’d get some work done.”
I study her face in the dim light spilling from the overhead lamp. There’s a quiet edge to her tonight, a shift I can’t name. Suspicion prickles in my skin. Did she find something, dig up another scandalous story about me or is this just another one of her games?
“You seem different,” I say before I can stop myself.
She arches her brow. “Different?”
“You’re not out for my blood,” I murmur, stepping closer. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of her shampoo, to see the shadow of a smile tug at her lips.
“Maybe I’m just tired of fighting with you,” she says, and it comes out pointed.
The tension between us isn’t the same kind that usually sparks whenever we’re this close. This isn’t the heat of an argument waiting to happen, it’s quieter and heavier, with a pull that settles low in my chest.
I know I should grab my keys, get in the truck, and drive home before I start reading too much into the way her eyes are still lingering on mine.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean one arm on the truck bed and let my voice drop, just enough to match the current running between us.
“Careful, Winters. You keep showing me this side of you, and I might start thinking you don’t hate me after all.”
Her lips part, and I’m expecting a smart mouthed response, but she stays quiet.
Her eyes travel from my eyes to my lips and back to my eyes again. I catch a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before she looks away, the corner of her mouth curving faintly.
The garage feels suddenly too quiet. A car hums past in the distance, its headlights sliding over the concrete pillars before vanishing.
“So tell me,” she says finally, her voice lower now. “Was it hard? Losing him?”
The question hangs there, heavier than it has any right to be. My brows furrow in confusion as I try to understand what she’s talking about.
I blink. “What?”
“Coach Reynolds,” she clarifies, her tone careful. “He wasn’t just a coach to you, was he?”
My jaw tightens. There it is, a question I should have watched out for, even if I didn’t expect it tonight. The air between us becomes colder, sharper.
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask.
“I told you. I’ve been looking at more than just the headlines,” she says. “He raised you, didn’t he?”
I take a step back, my hand curling around the strap of my gym bag. “This is the part where you write your tragic little side story? The Hockey star with the dead coach?”
Her face doesn’t flinch, but her voice softens. “No. This is the part where I try to understand you as a person, not just some hockey bad boy headline.”
Something inside me resists the approach. My instinct is to shut down, say nothing, walk away and let my walls swallow the moment. But her gaze stays steady, not sharp, not invasive. Just…waiting.
“You’re right. He was more than a coach,” I say at last, the words rough, reluctant. “He was the first person who ever gave a damn. Taught me how to drown out the noise and focus on the game instead.”
Rochelle doesn’t move, but I see her fingers twitch, like she wants to reach out, but is holding herself back. I really wish she wouldn’t right now.
“And how did you handle it when he died?”
I exhale through my nose, a bitter laugh slipping out before I can stop it. “When he died, everything went dark. Too dark. I didn’t know what to do with all the darkness.”
There’s a pressure building behind my ribs, the kind I hate, tight, crawling and strangely familiar. My pulse trembles once and hard.
“That’s when the panic attacks started?” she asks, so quietly it almost doesn’t echo.
My hand flexes against the tailgate. “Yeah,” I admit, staring at the floor now because her eyes are too intense for me. “After the funeral. The first attack hit me two days later. I thought I was having a heart attack at twenty-three.”
Rochelle’s expression shifts, less professional and more something else.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and I almost believe it’s not for the story.
The garage is dim, the air smelling faintly of oil and cold metal, and for once I’m not thinking about cameras or making the headlines.
I’m thinking about how vulnerable I feel around her, standing here cracked open, and how she’s making damn easy it to forget why that’s dangerous.
We stay quiet after that. Neither of us says much. Her hands shoved into her coat pockets. I’m about to unlock my truck when she stops me.
“Kai?”
I glance over my shoulder. Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“You don’t have to be alone tonight.”
It’s not a plea and it does sound like a trap. Rochelle is offering me her presence.
I should say no. I should climb into my truck, drive off, drown this tension in protein shakes and tape reviews like every other night.
But the memory of her hand brushing my sleeve, the way her eyes softened when I mentioned the funeral, lingers like a hook.
She’s looking at me with a mix of desire and concern, making it so damn hard to resist her offer.
So instead, I clench my jaw and nod once. “Lead the way.”
In no time, we’re standing outside a hotel room.
Rochelle unlocks the door and steps aside, letting me in first. The room smells like cheap vanilla lotion and warm coffee. City lights spill through the window, throwing thin gold lines across the bed.
She shrugs off her coat. “You want a drink?”
I shake my head. My mouth’s too dry for anything anyway.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she closes the door gently and leans against it, studying me like she’s trying to find something.
“I’m not trying to get information out of you tonight, so you can relax,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
Something eases in my chest. I close the space between us, slow steps, every inch deliberate. My hand finds her cheek, a thumb brushing her jaw. She doesn’t flinch.
I’ve been waiting for this moment since the last. I can’t recall the last time I wanted someone this badly.
I lean down, seeking permission. She closes the distance.
The kiss starts slowly, like we’re being cautious. Her lips feel warm, familiar, and I ravish the taste of it.
No mind games or power play. All that’s between us is the heated desire that we can no longer ignore.
Her fingers slip beneath my hoodie, tracing the line of an old scar along my ribs. “What’s this one?” she murmurs against my mouth.
“First year in foster care. A cut by a broken bottle.”
She let out a low hum, not out of pity, just acknowledgement, and then she keeps going. Each mark she touches feels less like an exposed wound and for the first time, it’s not a story that she’s chasing after.
By the time we reach the bed, my hoodie’s gone, her hair’s a mess, our lips are swollen and warm. The air feels thick with heat and raw hunger.
She pushes me gently and climbs over my lap, kissing me again. It’s slower now, like she’s mapping the shape of my breath.
My hands find her hips and slide up her back, feeling every inch of her without the usual rush of anger. Every sigh she lets out sinks deeper than the moans we’ve torn out of each other before.
Her dress slides off her shoulders instantly. I press my mouth to the curve of her neck and follow the path down to her collarbone, her chest. She gasps when I suck gently on a nipple, then laughs quietly, her fingers threading through my hair.
“You’re different tonight,” she whispers, mocking me.
“Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t want you, because I do.”
Our clothes start to fall away piece by piece. We move with a strange patience, like neither of us wants to break whatever spell is holding us at this moment. Our naked skin presses against each other, slowly grinding, breaths mingling in the dark.
I’m rock hard now, and she can feel me so close to her groin. I swipe one hand between her legs and her grip on my hair tightens.
She’s so moist, that the thought of feeling every inch of her causes a soft grunt to escape my lips.
When I finally thrust into her, it’s not frantic. It’s a slow, steady rhythm, her nails dragging down my back, my forehead resting against hers.
I keep my strokes steady, gently thrusting in and letting the sound of her gasps for every thrust fuel my desire even more.
Every movement feels like a step closer to the climax, and I increase my pace, her hips moving in circular motion, while I feel every inch of her.
She whispers my name once, no sharp edge to it, just pure need. Her eyes lock in on mine, and I can tell she wants me as much as I want her.