Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Noelle
I can’t feel my toes.
Or maybe I can, and they just hate me for making them stand still this long in these damn heels.
Either way, I’m starting to regret everything about this plan—starting with the shoes, ending with the fact that I’m standing outside Cal Reid’s SUV like a woman in a movie scene she doesn’t have the right to be in.
The arena’s back entrance is quiet now, the crowd gone, the buzz faded. Just a few muffled thumps echo from inside. The kind that feel far away and close all at once.
My breath fogs in the air, nerves curling it tighter around my face every time I exhale. The warmth of it slips beneath my collar and disappears before I can hold on to it.
I should’ve brought gloves. Or a backup plan.
Or, at least the guts to say what I need to say without shaking in my skin.
But I’m here.
Wrapped in a coat that felt like a power move when I left my apartment. Now it just feels like armor I don’t know how to wear.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Try to find a posture that says I’m fine, this is fine, I do this all the time—wait by strange SUVs in the dark for the man who short-circuited my entire emotional nervous system in two days time.
No big deal.
My whole body is tight. That familiar sting, right beneath my sternum, hasn’t gone away since I left him that morning.
It’s become its own rhythm. Something I carry with me now. A beat between heartbeats.
I told myself over and over it wasn’t a breakup.
But God, it felt like one.
I still see his face when we said goodbye—kind and quiet and full of everything we weren’t saying.
When I walked out the door, I didn’t look back. I just couldn’t. Not without crumbling.
And I haven’t heard from him since.
But how could I? I didn’t give him a way to reach me. No number. No invitation. No sign that I wanted more.
Even though I did.
Even though I do.
Because I miss him.
The way he looked at me when I wasn’t talking.
The way his voice dipped when he told me to take what I wanted.
The way he made me feel like the bravest and softest version of myself at the same time.
I miss all of it. And I don’t even have his detergent scent to cling to because I stopped washing my clothes in it when all I did was stand around and snuff the fabric.
I told myself to grow up. Move on.
But I’m here anyway.
Because for all my control, for all the neat lines I draw around my heart, I can’t stop the ache that settled there.
A door creaks open to my right.
Light spills across the concrete, and my breath catches like it’s snagged on the cold air.
There he is, my Cal.
Mine.
He’s fresh from the locker room shower, hair damp, curling slightly at the ends.
Game-day suit clinging to the sharp lines of his shoulders, his tie hanging loose around his neck like he hasn’t decided whether to keep pretending the night’s over.
He’s got a duffel bag slung over one arm. His head is down, steps slow, like he’s walking through fog only he can see.
And for one breathless second, I get to look.
No filter. No pressure. No countdown.
Just him.
God, he’s beautiful.
That quiet kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. The kind that doesn’t need flash because it’s built from something sturdier—strength, honesty, the kind of tenderness you don’t expect from a man with hands like his.
I forget the cold. Forget my heels. Forget how hard I’ve tried to build a life where no one could crack the walls I put up around my feelings.
Because here he is.
And every wall I ever built is like paper in the wind.
He still hasn’t seen me, but he’s coming closer. Step by step, each one louder in my chest than it is on the pavement.
The world narrows to the sound of his shoes, the hitch in my breath, the silence between us straining to break.
And I know.
I know I’m not ready.
But I’m here.
And so is he.
His steps falter when he sees me.
It takes a beat—one, maybe two—for his eyes to adjust to the dark and realize I’m not just a shadow leaning against his SUV.
And then he stops, a soft puff of white leaving his mouth.
And he just…looks at me.
No swagger. No smirk.
Just a knot of something heavy in his gaze that lands square in my chest and coils tight.
We don’t move.
Not at first.
He blinks, like maybe he’s not sure I’m real. Then shifts his bag on his shoulder and slowly closes the distance between us.
Every step scrapes against my nerves. My breath hitches, my fingers curling tighter around the keys in my coat pocket, digging into my palm like I need the reminder to hold still.
He stops a foot away.
Close enough that I can smell the clean spice of his aftershave, still clinging to the collar of his shirt.
God, he’s tall. And warm. And real.
I look up and meet his eyes.
There’s disbelief there. A flicker of hurt. And something else—hope, maybe. Hope he’s too careful to show.
I swallow hard. “Hey.”
His voice is low, scratchy from the cold or maybe the fact he’s surprised. “Noelle?”
I nod, heart pounding in my throat. “I know this probably seems crazy…”
“It doesn’t.” His answer is fast, like he was just waiting to say it.
I press my lips together, then exhale. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
His brow lifts just slightly.
And that’s all it takes for everything to pour out.
“I’m so sorry, Cal. I should’ve said something before I left. Should’ve stayed. Or…asked you to call me. But I didn’t. Because I got scared. Because I liked you more than I expected to, and I didn’t know what to do with that. It’s not an excuse, but it’s true.”
I shake my head, breath fogging the air between us.
“And then this whole week I kept telling myself it wasn’t a breakup, because we were never a thing. But it felt like one. And I’ve been walking around like I’m missing something I never had the right to want in the first place.”
His throat works on a swallow. But he doesn’t say a word.
So, I take one more step forward.
Close enough for my coat to brush the front of his suit.
Close enough that I can hear the soft hitch in his breath.
“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean anything. I don’t want to go back to being strangers who almost had something.”
His jaw clenches.
I feel it before I see it—that crack in his composure, right behind the eyes.
And still, I keep going. Because if I stop now, I’ll never say it.
“I want to be brave. I want to fall in love. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s terrifying.”
I press my hand to his chest, right over the soft spread of his tie.
His heartbeat kicks under my palm.
“And I only want to do it if it’s with you.”
For a beat, he doesn’t move.
Then his bag hits the pavement.
His hands come up—big, warm, a little rough as they cup my jaw—and suddenly his mouth is on mine like the past week never happened.
Like I didn’t leave. Like he never let me go.
He kisses me like I’m his now.
And I kiss him like I never want to be anything else.
His mouth breaks from mine too fast, like it costs him to stop.
But he does. Pulls back just enough to look at me.
And I see it then—all of it.
The ache. The hesitation. The storm behind his steady eyes.
His hands stay on my jaw, thumbs brushing slow across my cheeks.
“I didn’t know how to find you,” he says, voice low, rougher than before. “Didn’t know if I even had the right to try.”
My chest twists.
“I wanted to.” His breath leaves in a shudder. “So damn bad. I almost asked one of the staff. I even thought about calling Sloane. But it felt…selfish.”
He shakes his head, lips pressing tight.
“Because if you wanted to be found, you’d have stayed.”
The words hit like a bruise I gave him without meaning to.
“I watched you leave,” he says. “Stood there like a goddamn idiot hoping you’d turn around. But you didn’t. And I told myself not to be stupid. Told myself it was just one weekend, that it didn’t mean anything.”
His eyes close for half a second, his jaw tense with restraint.
“But it did. It meant everything.”
I don’t move.
Because if I do, I’ll fall apart right here.
Cal keeps going, voice low and raw and devastating.
“You crawled inside my head, Noelle. And you didn’t even try. You just…you saw me. You heard me. And no one ever does that. Not really.”
His fingers slide into my hair.
“And when you left, I felt like I’d lost something I never had the guts to claim.”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I blink them back.
Because this isn’t about breaking.
It’s about beginning.
“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “I couldn’t focus at practice. Couldn’t sleep. I even”—he huffs a breath, like the words are ridiculous but true—“I kept hoping I’d see you at the next game, even though I knew it was stupid.”
I smile, watery and aching. “It wasn’t stupid.”
His thumb swipes a tear off my cheek before it falls.
“I wanted you to be here tonight. I wanted you to see me play. I wanted”—
he swallows—“I wanted to know if there was still a chance.”
I step closer until my chest presses against his and wrap my arms around his waist.
And I hold him like I’ve wanted to every second we’ve been apart.
“There is,” I whisper. “This is it.”
His arms tighten around me, breath warm at my temple, and for one suspended second, we just stand there.
Hearts pressed tight. The world quiet.
Then I look up, and he’s already looking at me like he can’t not.
“I’m still scared,” I whisper.
His jaw tics. “Me too.”
“But I want you anyway.”
His breath catches.
And I kiss him again.
Harder. Hungrier. No hesitation.
The SUV is parked just feet away, shielded by shadows at the far end of the lot, and when he cups the back of my neck and walks us backward, I know exactly where this is going.
My heart is pounding.
My hands find the lapels of his suit jacket, then slip beneath, sliding over his chest, his ribs, the hard line of muscle underneath his shirt.
“Back seat,” I murmur against his mouth.
He growls.
Literally.
The sound hits me low and deep, winding into my spine as he yanks the door open and pulls me inside with him.
We don’t bother with finesse. Just tangled limbs, breathless laughter, buttons popping.
He sheds his jacket in one motion. I straddle his lap before he’s even settled, the stretch of my dress riding up my thighs.
He’s hard, rock-solid under me. I grind down instinctively, and we both curse under our breath.
“Noelle,” he rasps, gripping my hips. “You sure?”
I don’t answer with words.
I roll my hips once more and tug open his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. My hands press to his chest—hot, smooth skin over a wall of muscle—and I swear he shudders under me.
“I want to ride you,” I whisper. “Right here, right now.”
His jaw clenches. His pupils go dark.
And then he’s all hands—lifting my dress, dragging my underwear down with a groan as his fingers slide between my thighs.
“You’re already so wet,” he growls, voice gone gritty. “Fucking perfect.”
I gasp as he circles my clit with his thumb, sending a rush of heat through my core.
He leans up and kisses the curve of my neck, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with his mouth.
“Let me take care of you first.”
I brace my hands against the backseat as he moves lower, and then I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning too loud in a public parking lot while his mouth wrecks me.
Tongue, lips, teeth—he uses everything. With focus. With hunger.
Like he’s starving for me.
Like I’m the only thing that could ever satisfy.
I come with his name in my throat, shaking against his shoulders as he holds me there through every wave of it.
But I don’t let him retreat. I pull him back up, reach for his belt, and kiss him through the taste of myself on his lips.
“My turn.”
He groans, head falling back against the headrest as I free him from his pants. His cock is thick and hard in my hand, and he swears again when I wrap my fingers around him.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps.
“Not yet.”
He laughs, but it’s breathless and full of heat as I guide him to my center and sink down slowly.
We both gasp.
The stretch. The pressure. The overwhelming rightness of it.
“Fuck, Noelle,” he grits out. His hands lock on my hips, fingers digging in. “You feel like heaven.”
I ride him slow at first, savoring it. Watching his face tighten, his jaw flex. Feeling every deep slide as he fills me completely.
His eyes lock with mine, and something passes between us—raw, unspoken, inevitable.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he says, voice rough with need. “You hear me? I’m yours.”
I kiss him like I believe it.
Because I do.
Because I want him to be mine, too.
His hands flex. He thrusts up to meet me, harder now. I whimper as I rock faster, heat coiling low in my belly.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, broken on a breath. “Only yours.”
His control snaps.
He fucks up into me with a force that has me clinging to his shoulders, my head falling forward onto his chest.
“You take me so good,” he mutters against my skin. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. Like you were made to ride me.”
The dirty words, the rhythm, the emotion—it all crashes together, and I fall apart again.
My climax hits sharp and fast, tearing through me as I cry out his name, shaking in his arms.
He follows with a rough curse, body tensing, then releasing in hot pulses deep inside me.
We collapse together.
Panting and sweaty. Wrapped around each other like we’ll never let go.
And maybe we won’t.
Because this doesn’t feel like lust.
It feels like home.