Chapter 14
Coast POV
The puck struck the crossbar with a concussive metallic snap that rang through the empty rafters of The Iron Foundry.
I didn't watch the rebound. I planted my left skate, opened my hips, and carved a clean, backward arc to the blue line. My right ankle didn't twinge. The brace held the joint tight, but the real difference was inside my ribcage.
For three weeks, my pulse had been a frantic, ragged rhythm, fighting the friction of being locked in a basement with a woman who looked at me like I was a problem in applied mechanics.
That fight was dead.
It was 7:15 on a Saturday morning in early February. Sixty-four days until the Frozen Four in St. Paul. Twenty-two hours left on the compliance ledger.
Out on the ice, the morning mist was rising off the fresh sheet, mingling with the bitter sulfur of the Zamboni.
My resting heart rate sat at forty-eight beats per minute—slow, heavy, and steady as an industrial pump.
The violent tension that had kept my teeth grinding in my sleep had vanished, burned away by the memory of her small hands clutching the front of my shirt while I held her against the treatment table.
She had never been touched. Not by an athlete, not by some frat boy, not by anyone.
The realization sat in my bloodstream like an iron anchor. Every instinct I owned—the brutal, territorial focus that made me the most penalized defenseman in the league—had rewired itself around a single coordinate: Tallulah Barry.
"You're off your edge," Kip Callahan yelled, leaning on his paddle by the crease, steam pouring off his goalie mask. "You missed the stick-side corner by two inches, Stuart. Coach is going to have you doing suicides until your lungs bleed."
I glided toward the boards, my composite stick balanced across one leather glove. "The shot was high. The gap control was fine."
Kip pushed his mask up onto his forehead, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied my face.
The usual smirk on his mouth slipped, replaced by an uneasy, sharp curiosity.
He had lived with me for two years; he knew what I looked like when I was hunting a fight, and he knew what I looked like when Julian's bills arrived in the mail.
This wasn't either of those.
"You look different," Kip said, tapping the ice with his blade. "You've looked like a rabid pitbull since Thanksgiving. Today you look like you just bought the rink."
"I slept," I said, catching the gate with my hip and stepping onto the rubber runners.
"You slept?" Kip let out a short, dry bark of laughter, following me toward the tunnel. "Since when do you sleep before the Clarkson rematch? Thorne told Hayes your force-plate numbers cleared ninety-five percent yesterday morning. Did the little biomechanist finally sign your release?"
I stopped.
I turned around slowly, my height forcing Kip to pull his chin back. I didn't raise my voice. I kept it in that low, flat register that emptied penalty boxes.
"Her name is Tallulah," I said, each syllable dropping like lead onto the wet rubber. "And you don't talk about her in this locker room. Not to Mercer, not to Hayes, not to yourself. Understand me?"
Kip raised both padded gloves, the humor dying instantly in his eyes. He saw the cold, immovable reality behind my ribs. "Understood, Captain."
I didn't answer. I stripped my helmet off, tossed it into my stall, and headed for the showers.
* * *
The morning mist was hanging thick over the campus quad, blanketing the brick walkways in a gray, freezing drizzle.
I stood beside the granite steps of the science hall, leaning against the wrought-iron railing with my black wool team jacket zipped to my throat. Students in oversized parkas and snow boots hurried past, heads down against the Adirondack damp, their breath puffing in quick, ragged clouds.
At 9:02 AM, the heavy oak doors of the laboratory wing swung open.
Tallulah came down the granite steps.
She was carrying two thick, leather-bound biomechanics textbooks clutched against her chest, her heavy canvas messenger bag dragging at her left shoulder.
Her dark hair was braided again, but loose wisps had escaped, curling damply against the pale curve of her throat.
She wore an olive-green winter coat that swallowed her frame, her chin tilted down to shield her face from the drizzle.
She looked small. She looked tired. And she was walking with that hurried, defensive stride that told me she was running through a checklist of things she had to survive before noon.
I pushed off the railing.
I cut across the flagstone path, my stride eating up the distance in four seconds. Students scattered out of my way, recognizing the height and the Garrison varsity crest before they cleared the lane.
Tallulah didn't see me until my shadow fell across the flagstones in front of her boots.
She stopped short, her rubber treads skidding on the wet stone. Her head jerked up, her honey-dark eyes flying wide. In an instant, the pale color on her high cheekbones vanished, replaced by a sudden, vivid flush that stained her skin from her collarbone to her ears.
Her lips parted on a sharp, uneven intake of air.
"Coast," she breathed, the word barely audible over the patter of the rain.
I didn't speak. I reached down, my bare fingers sliding between hers, wrapping around the heavy nylon strap of her messenger bag.
"Give me the bag, Tallulah."
"No," she said, her fingers tightening around the strap by reflex, her voice regaining a fraction of its usual defensive sharpness. She glanced sideways, her eyes darting to three sophomores who had slowed their pace to stare at us. "Stop it. People are looking. What are you doing here?"
"Taking your bag," I said calmly.
I didn't yank it. I simply closed my large hand over hers, applying a slow, immovable pressure that unpeeled her fingers from the canvas. I lifted the forty-pound load off her shoulder with one arm, slinging it over my own back like it weighed nothing.
Then I reached out with my other hand.
I didn't grab her wrist. I flattened my large, calloused palm against the small of her back, right between her shoulder blades, letting the heat of my hand burn straight through the heavy wool of her coat.
She stiffened, her spine going rigid, her breath hitching in her throat. "Coast, we have boundaries. We have—"
"Walk," I murmured, the gravel in my voice brooking no argument.
My hand moved to the hollow of her lower back, firm and heavy, guiding her forward with an unhurried, absolute pressure.
Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, falling into step beside mine as I steered her away from the crowded quad, down the service lane toward the private athletic parking lot where my black Ford sat idling in the mist.
"You can't do this in public," she whispered, her hands clutching the textbooks to her ribs like an assault shield, though she didn't try to pull away from my palm. "If someone reports this to Corinne Vane—"
"Vane manages athletic compliance," I said, opening the heavy passenger door of the truck with my free hand. "She doesn't manage you. Get in."
* * *
The cab of the truck was warm, smelling of clean leather, damp wool, and the bitter dark coffee resting in the center console cup holder.
I shut the passenger door, walked around the hood, and climbed into the driver's seat. The heavy click of the locks sounded loud in the confined space, sealing out the campus mist and the rest of the world.
Tallulah was sitting pressed against the far door, her textbooks resting in her lap, her knuckles white where she gripped the binding. Her breathing was fast, shallow, her dark eyes tracking every move I made with the wary intensity of a cornered animal.
I didn't turn the key. I unbuckled my belt, turned my shoulders in the seat, and leaned into her space.
The cab shrank instantly. My 228-pound frame blotted out the gray light from the windshield, casting her in dense shadow.
"Put the books on the floor, Tallulah."
Her chin snapped up at that sharp, lethal angle.
"No. I want to know what you think you're doing.
You can't just intercept me in the middle of campus, take my equipment, and force me into your car.
We have twenty-two hours left on this protocol.
We are athlete and technician until Thorne signs that final sheet. "
"Look at me," I said, my voice dropping to a low, quiet rumble that vibrated through the dashboard.
She clamped her mouth shut, her jaw rigid, but her dark eyes locked onto mine. Her pupils were already dilating, swallowing the warm amber until only a thin ring remained. Her throat worked on a dry swallow.
"The old rules are dead," I murmured, leaning closer until my breath brushed the loose dark strands of hair at her temple. "We burned them on that table yesterday morning. You know it, and I know it."
"Coast—"
"Here are the new rules," I rasped, each word measured, absolute, leaving no room for retreat.
"You don't carry forty pounds of hardware across this campus by yourself.
When you need to move gear, you call me.
When you're done with your print shop shift at two in the morning, you don't walk through the freeze. You call me, and I drive you."
Her chest heaved against her coat, her lips parting in defiance. "I have survived four years on this campus without your help, Stuart. What gives you the right to dictate my routine?"
"You did," I whispered.
I reached out. My thumb caught the soft curve of her chin, my fingers wrapping gently around the line of her jaw.
I didn't use force. I applied just enough pressure to tilt her face upward, forcing her to look directly into the unmasked, possessive hunger in my eyes. Her skin was scorching hot beneath my rough calloused thumb, her pulse hammering against my index finger like a trapped bird.
"You let me put my hands on your ribs yesterday," I rasped, leaning down until my lips were barely a fraction of an inch from hers. "You kissed me back until you ran out of air. You gave me that, Tallulah. And I am not giving it back."
Her breath hitched sharply, a soft, broken sound catching behind her teeth.
She stared into my eyes, her defiance trembling on the surface, but underneath it, her body was already yielding. Her spine relaxed against the seat, her thighs softening, her parted lips trembling against the heat of my breath.
"Coast," she whispered, her voice cracking with a breathless, helpless surrender. "You're going to ruin me."
"I'm going to take care of you," I promised, my voice thick with a raw, unshakable weight. "Now tell me you understand."
She held my gaze for three agonizing seconds, her chest rising and falling in deep, uneven hitches, before her eyelids fluttered shut.
"I understand," she whispered.
A deep, territorial warmth flooded my veins, hot and heavy as molten iron.
My thumb dragged slowly across her bottom lip, feeling the soft, bruised heat of her mouth.
"Good girl," I murmured, my lips pressing a slow, heavy kiss to the corner of her jaw, right over the wild thrumming of her pulse. "That's my girl. That's how it's going to be from now on."