Cheyenne
I roll from one side of the bed to the other until the sheets are twisted around my legs like restraints.
Every time I close my eyes, Knox’s face flashes in my mind.
The bruise blooming beneath his eye. The way his jaw flexed when he told me he was fine, like he could will the whole encounter into nothingness if he said it firmly enough.
This was supposed to be simple. Instead, the man now has a black eye because of me.
And the worst part?
I’m not just lying here feeling guilty; I’m thinking about him and wondering if he’s awake. I’m wondering if his eye hurts, and if he’s replaying tonight in his head the same way I am.
When faint strains of music drift through the quiet, I still. At first, I think I’m imagining it. Until I hear it again.
A piano.
It’s soft, low, and achingly beautiful.
I hold my breath, listening more intently as the melody floats down the hallway, before shoving the covers back and sliding from the bed.
I don’t bother throwing anything over my athletic bra and panties.
The wood is cool beneath my bare feet as I ease open the bedroom door and step into the hallway.
The music grows louder the closer I get to the living room.
I round the corner and stop short when I spot Knox sitting at the baby grand near the windows, silvery moonlight spilling over him.
It washes across his bare shoulders and the powerful sweep of his back, carving every hard line and plane into sharp relief.
He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, and for a second, I can only stare.
Not because he’s half naked. Although, yes, that’s definitely part of my fixation. In the darkness, he looks less like a man and more like a sculpture. Like a piece of art carved from strength, control, and restraint.
This version of Knox doesn’t resemble the hockey star who has the NHL world at his feet. He doesn’t look like the handsome playboy who has a different actress or model on his arm every time the cameras flash.
He just looks like Knox.
Private, unpolished, and heartbreakingly real.
Somehow this version of him feels far more disarming because I’m catching a glimpse of a moment I was never meant to witness.
A shiver skates down my spine as I remain in the shadows, letting the music wash over me.
Unable to help myself, I tiptoe closer. If I were thinking clearly, I’d turn around and go back to bed before he catches sight of me.
But I don’t. Can’t. It’s like there’s an invisible thread pulling me toward him, reeling me in one step at a time.
I’m halfway across the room before he finally looks up.
His hands still and the music cuts off mid-note. The silence that follows is jarring.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Please don’t stop.”
The way his gaze drags over me is enough to have heat blooming low in my belly. I’m acutely aware of what I’m wearing. Of my bare legs and stomach. The look doesn’t last long. Maybe a second or two. But it has the power to change the energy within the space.
After a long moment, he turns back to the keys and begins playing again. The melody is different this time.
Softer and less haunted.
I step close enough to see the way his fingers move over the keys.
His hands are so big and strong. They’re the same hands that throw punches on the ice, yet tonight they curled carefully around my waist. They’re the same hands that held me protectively when I thought Dakota might have crashed the event.
My throat tightens with emotion.
When he finishes, the words tumble out in a rush. “I had no idea you could play like that.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Mom insisted.”
I smile faintly, picturing Whitney McNichols lining up her boys and making sure they learned more than just hockey and swagger. The fact that Knox stuck with it long enough to become this good impresses me in ways I never expected.
It peels back yet another layer, allowing me to see more of who this man really is.
When he begins again, I close my eyes and let the music drift over me. He says more with his fingers on those keys than he does in conversation. There’s emotion within the notes. Something raw and unguarded.
As I listen to him play, moonlight spilling across the room, it’s impossible to pretend this man is only who the headlines claim he is.
When the final note lingers in the air before fading into silence, he swivels on the bench to face me. Up close, the bruise under his eye looks worse. Darker and angrier. A jagged reminder of everything that’s gone sideways since I showed up in his life.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips. “So, I’ve been thinking…”
Even though his expression never changes, he stills.
“I’m going to head back to LA in the morning,” I tell him. “I can stay with my family and hide out there until this mess with Dakota dies down. Then you’d be off the hook.” I force a small smile. “No more black eyes.”
I expect him to readily agree. All my presence has done is complicate his life. It was far simpler before I showed up. Instead, he looks at me as if silently trying to sort through what I’m saying along with all the things I’m not. It’s impossible not to shift under the heavy weight of his stare.
“I never thought Dakota would take it this far,” I blurt when the silence grows unbearable. “I hate that I dragged you into this. And God knows if he’ll try anything else.” My voice falters. “That shouldn’t be your problem.”
He tilts his head. “Is that what you want, Chey? To go back to California?”
As I turn the questions over in my head, I realize he’s asking something much bigger than that.
Do I want to leave?
Do I want to distance myself from him?
Do I want this to end?
The answer rises so swiftly it nearly steals the air from my lungs.
No, I don’t want to leave Chicago or put two thousand miles between us. I don’t want to go back to pretending we barely know each other.
I came here for a reason. One Knox knows nothing about. But along the way, I found something I never expected.
Him.
My throat constricts. Before I can stop myself, I take another step closer and lift my hand. I hesitate for a second before brushing my fingers through his hair. My thumb skims his forehead, careful around the bruise, while my fingers linger against his skin.
The touch is intimate. And yet it feels strangely natural. As if some part of me has been drawn to him far longer than I realized. His hand rises, and for one suspended heartbeat, I think he’ll reach for me. Maybe pull me closer. But then he stops himself, and the loss is immediate.
His jaw flexes. “Chey.” My name comes out low and rough enough to send heat spiraling through me.
I almost take it all back and tell him I don’t want to leave. That the thought of putting all that distance between us makes my chest ache in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with pretending.
Instead, I let my hand fall back to my side. The silence that settles between us feels as if it’ll burst with everything I’m unable to put into words.