Chapter 14 Chloe #2
He’s got that look in his eyes—mischief, warmth, and something else. He gestures toward me with a gloved hand.
“New look, huh?” His thumb grazes the edge of my cheer skirt, not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to send a pulse of heat straight through my stomach.
“Yeah.” I force a small laugh. “Tryouts and practice ran late.”
He tips my chin up gently with his knuckle until our eyes meet again. “Everything okay?”
I could tell him the truth that I just got a message from a lawyer about the man who’s supposed to be my father but feels more like a ghost, but I don’t. Not here. Not when Jamie’s looking at me like that.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just…a little out of it from practice.”
He studies me for a beat longer, then that slow, crooked smile appears. “I know a nice way to distract you.”
The line is pure Jamie—cocky and sweet all at once—but I can’t muster a real response. My mind is still stuck on the text. My father. Seven o’clock. The thought loops over and over until I can barely breathe. I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
“You’ll be late for practice,” I say instead.
He squints, like he’s trying to read something behind my eyes. “You okay, baby?”
The word lands softer than I expect, a gentle hum that slides right beneath my ribs.
I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true.
“I’m fine,” I say again, quieter this time.
My voice doesn’t convince either of us. But I step closer anyway, because being near him makes everything blur a little softer.
His arms come around me automatically, warm and strong, smelling faintly of sweat and cedarwood and man.
I rest my head against his chest and let myself breathe him in.
He kisses the top of my head. “Long day?” he murmurs.
I nod against him. “Just…a lot.”
“I can come over after practice. We can talk,” he says, his voice low, his thumb brushing circles on my lower back.
The offer makes my chest ache a little. He means it but the thought of trying to explain any of this feels impossible. I shake my head. “You don’t have to. It’s fine. Plus I kind of have to move into the sorority house.”
That gets his attention. He leans back slightly, looking down at me. “How come?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I can listen,” he says, and the way he says it—open, steady, unguarded—almost undoes me.
I want to ask him if I’m just a puck bunny to him, another girl orbiting around his bright, brutal world of hockey and adrenaline.
I want to ask if he sees me, really sees me, or if I’m just another pretty distraction.
But I bite my tongue because the words feel silly.
And the truth is probably close to something that might hurt.
“It’s boring,” I say instead, forcing a smile. “And you’re late.”
He smirks, but his eyes are soft. “You sure?”
“Positive,” I say, trying to sound lighter than I feel.
Before he can argue, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
Just a small peck—quick, almost chaste—but it steadies me.
The world slows down for a second, his hand slipping to the back of my neck, the press of his mouth warm and sure.
He tastes like mint and adrenaline. When we pull apart, I can still feel his breath ghosting over my lips.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of amusement and relief.
“I’m right here,” I whisper back, even though I’m saying it as much for myself as for him.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing just beneath my ear, slow and absent. The kind of touch that feels like a promise. “You make it really hard to leave, you know that?”
“Then don’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
He laughs softly, forehead resting against mine. “If Coach benches me for missing warm-up, it’ll be your fault.”
“Go,” I tell him, smiling despite everything.
“Bye, baby,” he says, voice curling around the word like it means something he’s not ready to say yet. Then he jogs off toward the rink, pads clinking, stick slung over his shoulder. I watch him until he disappears through the doors, the sound of his skates echoing faintly inside.
And then I’m alone again.
The field feels too big without him in it.
The message from the lawyer still sits open on my phone, the words stark and clinical, like they belong to someone else’s life.
He will reach out to you at 7 p.m. this evening.
I check the time. 5:42. The numbers blur for a second, my heart doing a weird stutter-step in my chest.
I start walking again, slower this time, the noise of the world fading around me. The smell of cut grass. The faint laughter of the cheer squad still packing up at the far end. A bird calling somewhere overhead. Everything ordinary, simple, grounding.
But nothing feels simple inside me.
I think about Jamie—about how he looked at me, how he called me baby with that soft rasp that makes everything inside me go still.
And I think about my father, how his voice used to sound before everything went wrong.
How I’ve spent months trying to forget it.
How, somehow, a single text managed to drag all of it back to the surface.
By the time I reach the parking lot, the sky has shifted to that soft violet-blue that happens just before sunset. My phone buzzes again—probably a reminder from the sorority group chat—but I ignore it. I lean against the hood of my car, let the wind brush against my skin, and close my eyes.
When I open them, the first star is out. I don’t make a wish. I don’t trust them anymore.
Instead, I think about Jamie. That’s the kind of guy I could definitely fall for.
And then I try not to feel disappointed when I notice that Miles moved his car.