Chapter 14 #2
"You need to hit something," he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Listen, the breathing's all well and good, and you know your own mind better than I ever could.
But I think even the most serene, yoga-at-sunrise Californian could benefit from hitting something once in a while. God knows I could right now too."
I open my mouth to fire back a rebuttal, then snap it shut again. Because, irritatingly, he isn't wrong. I feel like I'm going to explode out of my own skin if I don't do something about it in the next ninety seconds.
"And what exactly do you suggest I hit?" I ask. "The stone wall? The flirty marketing guy?"
"Both tempting options, but no." He pushes off the doorframe with a grin. "I’ve got a better idea. Let’s disappear for an hour or two and I’ll show you."
"Cillian. We can’t. There are a dozen photographers out there, I have a scheduled meeting, and you absolutely cannot be caught solo with me right now."
"I know the lad you’re meeting later. I’ll sort it out. And we’ll be discreet, Ace, I’m not about to parade you out the front entrance arm-in-arm." He gives me that crooked, persuasive smile. "You can do your breathing thing the whole way there if you like."
I look at him for a long moment. Every responsible, rule-following voice in my head is screaming that this is a bad idea. But a much louder, much more reckless voice is informing me that I’ve been gritting my teeth through this entire trip.
"Okay,” I hear myself say. “Fuck it."
"A rage room?" I echo, as the attendant leads us away from the crowded bar area.
"Aye, basically they stockpile a mountain of glass and old electronics, you strap on some goggles, grab a bat, and go to town," he explains. "We're just here to break a load of shit."
I feel a jolt of nervous energy as we navigate the concrete corridor. "I've never intentionally shattered a single thing in my entire life."
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Well, Ace, it’s high time we changed that."
The corridor is tight, our arms brushing with every stride, and the friction sends a jolt of heat low through me. I'm finding it harder and harder to care about my no-athletes rule, the one I made so carefully in the raw aftermath of being cheated on.
Cillian feels more and more like the exception I swore didn't exist. Which, my anxiety likes to helpfully remind me, is exactly what every woman thinks right before she's proven spectacularly wrong.
Either way, whether I care about the rule or not, I do care about Cillian.
I won't be the reason his reputation takes another hit by letting the press catch us roaming around Dublin while his team is back in the States fighting for their lives.
They wouldn't care about his remorse or the guilt that's clearly eating him alive underneath the charming facade; they'd only see him parading around with the woman at the center of the storm.
And, as mortifying as it is to admit, I'm still enough of a rule-follower to feel guilty about sleeping with the brand ambassador on a company trip.
The attendant fits us with heavy goggles and protective vests, hands us each a bat, then leads us into a room overflowing with discarded junk.
Piles of porcelain plates. Stacks of old printers.
Huge, dented filing cabinets shoved against the back wall.
Once the door clicks shut behind us, Cillian leans back against a plywood-covered wall, looking unfairly good in the dim light.
"Alright. You ever swung a bat before?"
I shake my head and lift the thing, my hands gripping it somewhere near the middle.
"You'll want to slide your hands down here." He steps over and taps the base of the grip, launching into an explanation but I'm too busy staring at his body to process a single word.
The dark cotton of his tee is stretched across his broad shoulders, showing off the defined lines of his arms. The sight sends a vivid, white-hot flash through my mind—the memory of those hands hoisting me up effortlessly as he fucked me against the wall?—
“Are you paying attention?”
“I—I'm sorry,” I stammer, feeling heat radiate across my cheeks. “What was it you said? Grip here?”
"If I didn't know any better, Ace, I'd say your mind was in the gutter.” He lets out a low chuckle, stepping closer. “A crying shame about those professional boundaries we promised to uphold.”
His gaze settles on my lips and lingers, and I swear the air in the room goes positively electric.
There are only inches remaining between us, and the sheer force of his proximity has my head spinning.
Every nerve I have is begging me to close the distance, drop the bat, and let him pin me against the nearest available surface.
I swallow hard against the sudden dryness in my throat. "Once we're back in the States and the media circus has died down—and I'm not on a work trip—we can discuss the... details. But for now, the alternative is too risky, so..."
His eyes drift back up to mine and for one excruciating second I'm convinced he's about to call my bluff and I’ll be powerless to resist. Then he exhales and slowly steps back with his hands up.
"Give it a go, then," he says, dimples making an appearance.
I lift the bat over my shoulder and set my stance, sighting a huge porcelain vase perched on top of a stack of old monitors. It's a hideous floral thing, the kind of oversized relic that looks like it spent the last forty years collecting dust on someone's grandmother's mantel.
I inhale a steadying breath and ground my back foot, summoning every ounce of the week’s mounting baggage.
The sexual frustration, the white-hot fury of being branded a puck bunny, the lingering touch of that creep’s hand, the suffocating expectations from my parents, and the exhausting weight of my professional life—I funnel it all directly into my grip.
Then, I swing with everything I have.
The vase shatters with a thunderous, visceral crash, sending ceramic shards flying across the concrete in a chaotic spray.
The impact reverberates through the bat and straight into my arms, the air thick with a fine cloud of white dust where the vase stood.
A mountain of tension leaves my body in a single, glorious shudder of relief.
I stare at the wreckage in a state of pure shock, then glance back at Cillian. He's watching me with an impressed look, arms crossed over his chest.
"You alright?" he asks, his voice vibrating with amusement.
A breathless, exhilarated laugh bursts out of me. "That was incredible!"