Chapter 11
Jefferson
Hours later, after the arena finally kicked us off the ice and out of the locker room, we’re back at the hotel, the team’s celebration in full swing.
Exhausted but still humming with adrenaline, I sink onto one of the couches in the lounge, letting the noise wash over me.
Plates of food litter the tables. Drinks flow for the over-twenty-one crowd.
The guys are loud, laughing, replaying moments from the game with that messy, joyful energy only winners know.
My parents were at the game, proud and congratulatory, and after catching up, they went back to the hotel with some of the other families in town.
My phone has been buzzing all night. Family and friends sending their congratulations.
Old teammates from the Junior’s league, my high school coach, and a dozen puck bunnies back at Wittmore.
The latter is letting me know they’re up to celebrate when I get back to town.
Those aren’t the messages that catch my eye.
They’re nice enough, but the alerts I’ve set up keep flashing.
Ingrid’s name pops up, over and over. The news that she was at the game tonight, sitting with the WAGs, has ignited a wildfire online.
Comments, articles, gossip–the level and speed that it traveled… well, it’s fucking insane.
“Me!” I want to shout. “She came to see me!”
There’s not a goddam thing I can do or say about it. Not if I want her to trust me.
Not if I want to see her again.
I keep going back to the last text she sent me. If you win the game tonight, I’ll show you what I’ve been thinking about in person.
That line alone makes my chest tighten. Makes the entire night sharper, more electric.
A coach from Florida, the team I’m committed to playing professionally next year, sidles up. “Congrats, Parks. You were on fire tonight. Bring that kind of energy down to the Surge and you might have a second trophy to your name.”
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “There’d be no bigger honor than winning the Cup for the team, sir.”
The truth? I was on fire tonight. Every shift, every hit, every sprint down the ice had a purpose beyond just the team. Winning for Wittmore, giving Reese the victory that slipped through our fingers last year, making Coach proud of taking a chance on me four years ago… that was all part of it.
But the real fire? That came from her.
The girl up in the stands, the one with the pouty lips, the purple hair tucked under a hat. The one who had my attention the moment I saw her. I wanted to impress her. Prove that I was worth noticing. Worth showing up for, risking exposure.
Worth her.
I can still see her, mid-cheer, eyes wide, hands gripping the glass, energy spilling into the arena like it was part of the game itself.
The goal I scored tonight was for her. Every shift I threw my body into, every hit I took, every sprint.
I wanted her to know I was capable. That I could rise to the challenge.
That I was worthy of someone as special as she is.
And now, sitting here, surrounded by food, laughter, and the leftover chaos of our victory, I can’t stop thinking about what happens next. About that text. If that was serious or just part of the game.
I scroll my phone again, trying to stay casual, but the thought of her has me wired tighter than any game-winning buzzer. Tonight isn’t just a win for Wittmore. Tonight is personal.
I watch her across the lounge, sitting at a table with the girls, laughing and leaning into Madison as she tells some ridiculous story. The guys on the team are slowly filtering over, one by one, to say hi, grab a selfie, or just hover with that easy, athletic charm.
Blood pumps in my veins–I won’t deny it. Why can they talk to her and I can’t? Because I don’t want them talking to her. Making her laugh. Making her smile. I want her sitting with me. Touching my hand. Kissing my mouth. Sucking my–
I clamp my jaw shut, forcing the thought back down.
“Dude,” Reid says, dropping into the empty spot next to me. “Just go talk to her.”
I glance at him. “What?”
“Go talk to her. Everyone knows you have a crush on her, and I don’t blame you. She’s hot and really fun. I like her.”
“I don’t need your permission to talk to a woman, Wilder,” I snap, though my voice is quieter than I want it to be.
He rolls his eyes. “Stop being a pussy and go, because there’s only one reason you haven’t found another chick to spend the night with and she’s sitting over there with my girlfriend.”
He’s not wrong. I am being a pussy. And if Ingrid wasn’t here, I’d be balls deep in one of the girls hanging out in the main bar, chasing the high from the win a little bit longer.
I stare back at her, the way her hair falls over her shoulder, the way she tilts her head, caught mid-laugh.
I know what I want. Wanting her is the easiest thing in the world.
It’s an urge I’ve had since I hit puberty.
And if this was just about sex, it would be a no brainer.
I could get in her pants, make her feel good, and walk away without another thought.
But that’s not where my head’s at. The timing, the expectations, the unspoken rules we’re dancing around–it’s confusing.
And yet, the longer I stay here, frozen, the longer I watch other guys inching toward her, the more I realize that hesitation isn’t going to make it any easier.
I inhale, pushing the adrenaline and nerves down into my chest. My eyes flick to Reid, who smirks knowingly, and then back to her.
Tonight is chaotic, loud, messy, and perfect.
And then everything kicks up a notch.
One of Ingrid’s songs comes on and everyone notices.
Heads turn. Some people clap, some whistle.
Me? My stomach drops. This could be weird.
Embarrassing. But not for her. She’s too fucking classy for that.
She grins, hops up from the table, and without hesitation pulls the other girls with her.
Shelby, Twyler, Nadia–they squeal like teenagers as Ingrid drags them onto the dance floor.
And just like that, the room shifts. The energy spikes.
She doesn’t just own the moment–she is the moment.
Wearing a midriff bearing black sweater and a thigh-skimming plaid school-girl skirt, and a pair of thigh-high boots that have my cock at a perpetual half-mast. She throws her arms up, hips swaying, mouth open on a laugh, singing her own lyrics like they belong to the entire room.
The crowd eats it up. Guys slip in around her, trying to join the circle, sliding closer than they should.
My blood heats.
It’s not the dancing. It’s them making her laugh.
Making her smile in ways that I want to claim.
Before I’ve fully decided to move, I’m on my feet, threading through bodies, ignoring the slaps on the back and lures to get into other conversations.
The closer I get, the tighter the knot in my chest pulls.
Some asshole tries to put his hands on her hips and I shove past, knocking into his shoulder hard enough he stumbles.
“What the fuck, dude,” Mitch, one of the younger defensemen, snaps at me.
I don’t care. My fingers are already at her waist, sliding against the hem of that short skirt. I spin her, and she collides into me, all heat and soft curves slamming against my chest.
She’s tall in those heels, almost eye level. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to feel her breath on my mouth. I like it.
The song fades into a new one, but I barely hear it. My hands tighten on her waist, and I bend to her ear.
“Before this goes any further, I need you to understand something about me.” My voice is low, rough.
“I’m a player. I spend my nights on sorority row hooking up, moving from one girl to the next.
I’ve got every puck bunny on campus on speed dial.
I don’t do relationships. I’m focused on my future.
I have six weeks of school left, exams, and a contract waiting for me in Florida.
I left you that message before your concert hoping that you’d give me a call and I could fulfill a fantasy. ”
She looks up at me, not with anger or even rejection, but with this sharp, curious spark, like she’s dissecting me the way she does a song. “And?”
“And,” I swallow, pulling her tighter against me, “I didn’t take my shot that night, not the way I planned, because you’re different than I expected.
Fun. Smart. Talented.” A shudder rolls down my spine and settles in my balls.
“Sexy as fuck. And I think if I get a taste of you, a real taste, it won’t be enough. ”
The confession hangs heavy, drowning out the music and the crowd.
Her brows lift, amused, deliberate. “So you’re saying you’ll ruin me?”
“Other way around. You’ll ruin me.” I release a humorless laugh.
“I don’t get ruined, Angel. I’m the guy who keeps things casual, easy, forgettable.
A quick night of fun for everyone. But the way you’ve been looking at me?
The way you’ve got me waiting on the next text, the next contact?
It’s driving me fucking crazy. And just when I think I’ll never see you again, you show up in my team colors, wearing short skirts and painted red lips.
Yeah, what I have in mind isn’t casual.” My pulse is hammering so loud I can feel it in my ears.
“So before we do this, you need to know the truth. I’m selfish.
I’m entitled. And if I get you, I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to pretending I don’t want you again tomorrow. ”
Her lips curl slow, dangerous, deliberate. Like she knows exactly how much power she has and how much of it I just handed her. “You make it sound like a warning.”
“It is.”
She leans closer, so close her tits press against my chest, so close the lights flash in her eyes like fire.