31 #2
I get the hoodie off, get her hoodie off, and then her shirt is gone too, and she’s standing in the dim light of my living room in just her bra and jeans, and I forget how to breathe.
She’s still got some bruises, but they’re fading now. She has the lean muscle of someone who’s spent her life on the ice.
I trace the edge of a bruise with my thumb. She shivers.
“You’re staring,” she says.
She pulls me down to her, and I kiss her. Deep and slow and thorough. She tastes like the cold night air, like the coffee she had before the game, like something I want to keep tasting.
My hands find the clasp of her jeans. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Bedroom,” she says. “Now.”
The bed is unmade, the sheets cold, but she doesn’t seem to care. She pulls me down on top of her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her mouth finding mine again.
I kiss my way down her throat, her collarbone, the space between her breasts. She’s making sounds now - small, breathless, the kind of sounds I’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“Zane-”
“I’ve got you.”
I take my time. There’s no rush. Not tonight. Tonight, we have this. Tonight, there’s no games and no secrets.
When I finally move inside her, she gasps, her back arching, her nails digging into my shoulders.
“Look at me,” I say.
Her eyes open. They’re full of something I don’t have a name for.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
She pulls me down, kisses me, and I feel her smile against my mouth.
“Good.”
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. Her hair is spread across my pillow.
“I need to talk to the reporter,” she says quietly. “Craig Tennant. The one who wrote the article.”
I keep tracing her shoulder. “The guy who broke the story?”
“He knew my dad. If I’m going to tell the story - really tell it - he’s the one who should hear it first.” She pauses. “I want to control the narrative. Not let them keep writing it for me.”
I grin in the darkness. “That’s my linemate.”
She props herself up on her elbow, looking down at me. “I’m not your left wing anymore, Blake. Sorry to break your heart.” She’s smiling.
“No… maybe you’re just my fan now,” I tease her, kissing her until she shivers.
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. The dim light catches her face, soft and unguarded.
“You should sleep,” she says. “You have a busy day tomorrow. Being a champion. Getting signed. All that.”
“You should stay.”
She doesn’t answer. But then her head finds my chest and her arm slides across my stomach.
I wrap my arms around her, pull her closer, and let myself fall asleep.
LEONORA
I wake to pale morning light and the sound of his breathing.
He’s still asleep, one arm heavy across my waist, his face relaxed. On the ice, he’s always moving, always thinking, always looking for the next play. Here, in the quiet of his apartment, he’s still.
I watch him for a minute. Two.
Then I slip out of bed, find my clothes from last night and pull them on quietly. My phone is on the floor by the bed.
I send the email to Craig and he answers almost immediately.
Call me when you’re ready. —C. Tennant
I stare at the screen. I didn’t expect him to answer so fast. I guess I must be a juicy enough story.
I tuck the phone into my pocket and find my shoes by the door.
Behind me, Zane shifts in bed.
“Going somewhere?”
I turn. He’s propped up on one elbow, hair messy.
“I just have to make a call.”
“The reporter?”
I nod.
He doesn’t try to stop me. Just watches me with those dark eyes, patient, like he’s waiting for something.
“Come back after,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I cross the room, lean down, and kiss him. The kind of kiss that promises more later.
“I’ll be back,” I say.
His hand finds my waist and he pulls me closer for one more second.
“You better.”
I pull away, grab my jacket, and slip out the door.
The campus is quiet at this hour - just a few students heading to early classes, the crunch of frost under my boots.
I pull out my phone.
The number is already pulled up. Craig Tennant. The reporter who broke the story. The man who turned my life into a headline.
I should hate him.
Instead, I think about what Zane said. Maybe you’re the one who gets to tell the story.
I hit call.
“Tennant.”
“Mr. Tennant. This is Leonora Shaw.”
A pause.
“I know who you are,” he says. His voice is careful. “I wasn’t sure you’d really call.”
“I wasn’t sure either.”
“Well - I’m listening.”
I take a breath. The cold air fills my lungs.
“I want to tell you my story. The real one. Not the one everyone’s been writing. But I want to tell it my way. On my terms.”
“When can we meet?”
“Today.”
“The coffee shop on Main. Two o’clock.”
I think of Zane’s apartment, warm and quiet, of how he looked at me last night.
“Three o’clock,” I say.
He doesn’t argue. “Three o’clock.”
I end the call.
The campus is waking up around me - voices carrying across the quad and people laughing. The world is still turning. The scandal is still spreading. There will be more articles, more comments, more people who think they know who I am.
But for the first time since my helmet hit the ice, I know what I’m going to say.
I turn back toward Zane’s building.
He’s waiting.