Chapter 10 – Trace #2
When she sighed against my mouth, I lost it. Whatever control I'd had—gone. What started as acting went feral fast. My hands found her ass, squeezed, pulled her flush against me so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me through my gear.
She gasped, and I took the opening, sliding my tongue past her lips. Cherry lip balm and underneath that, just her
This was supposed to be fake. Just for show.
But there was nothing fake about the way my hands were shaking, or the fact that I'd forgotten we were standing in front of ten thousand people.
I had no fucking idea it would be like this. One kiss, and I was done.
Her hands fisted in my jersey, nails scraping against my chest through the fabric, and I groaned into her mouth—loud and rough, the kind of sound I'd be embarrassed about later.
You had no clue, did you, asshole? No idea what you were getting into.
"Trace," she breathed against my lips, and hearing my name in that voice—wrecked, wanting—undid every promise I'd made to keep this professional.
You're so fucked.
She started to pull back, probably remembering where we were, but fuck that. I pulled her closer, kissed her deeper, not giving a shit who was watching or taking pictures. For thirty seconds, she was mine, and I was going to take every second I could get.
"Coulter, move your ass!" Coach yelled from somewhere behind me.
Reality check.
I pulled away, and it took actual physical effort. Like prying my hands off the boards during a line change I didn't want to make.
When I looked down at her, lips swollen, eyes blown dark and unfocused, chest rising and falling too fast, fingers still tangled in my jersey like she'd forgotten to let go, the sight of her like that, because of me, went straight to my cock so fast I went lightheaded, and I had to clench my fists to keep from dragging her somewhere private to finish what we'd started.
Get it together. People are watching. Your cock does not get a vote right now.
"Coming, Coach," I muttered, and skated back toward the bench on legs that didn't feel like mine. I grabbed my water bottle off the boards and squeezed a stream into my mouth, warm, plasticky, not enough to wash out the taste of her.
Coach was already waiting, arms crossed, whistle dangling. He jabbed a finger at my chest while he talked about discipline and I stood there nodding,
"Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."
He gave me a look that said bullshit but waved me off.
I grabbed my stick and helmet and headed down the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Ryder clapped me on the shoulder pad as we walked.
Way fell into step beside me but didn't say anything, just that same knowing grin from warm-ups.
Marcus was already stripping off his gloves, yelling something about post-game tacos.
The locker room was chaos. Guys celebrating, spraying water bottles, rehashing every play.
The room smelled like sweat and wet equipment and the particular brand of body spray that Marcus doused himself in after games.
I sat in my stall and unlaced my skates, my hands still shaking.
Not from the game or the fight, but from her.
A few teammates shot me knowing looks and made crude gestures about the kiss, but I ignored them. What happened with Lena was between us, fake or not.
Ryder dropped onto the bench next to me. "Solid game, man. That assist at the end was filthy."
"Thanks." I pulled my jersey over my head and winced when the fabric dragged across the bruise blooming on my ribs.
"Damn, Coulter," Reid said from across the room, grinning like an idiot. "That was some kiss. The whole student section got footage. You two looked ready to skip the afterparty and go straight to bed."
"Watch it," I growled, low and quiet, the kind of quiet that made Reid take a step back.
He held up his hands. "Just saying, man. She's fine as hell. And cool as shit. After meeting all of us, she still wants to hang with your ass. You better lock that down."
If only it were that simple. You’re not locking anything down. You’re the one who’s locked.
I showered fast, the hot water stinging my split knuckles, and got dressed in record time. I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sinks, lip swollen from a stray elbow in the third period, a bruise darkening along my cheekbone, and figured she'd probably ask about the battle scars.
I nodded goodbye to Way on my way out. He waggled his eyebrows at me and mouthed get it like the child he was. I flipped him off and shouldered through the locker room door into the hallway, gear bag slung over my shoulder, heading for the next part of the charade.
She was waiting by the exit like we'd planned, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She'd taken off the hat and her braids hung loose over her shoulders, dark and glossy under the fluorescents, and I had to fight the urge to reach out and wrap one around my finger.
"That was an experience." She pushed off the wall and fell into step beside me, and the way her voice caught on experience told me she wasn't just talking about the game.
Some puck bunnies showed up, crop tops, tight jeans, the usual suspects who hung around after games hoping to bag a hockey player. One of them, a blonde I vaguely remembered from a hookup last semester, stepped into my path with a smile that was all invitation.
"Great game, Trace." She put her hand on my arm.
Beside me, Lena went stiff. I felt it through our linked arms. Her whole body coiling tight. Her chin lifted and her jaw set, the same look she used to get right before destroying someone's backhand on the tennis court.
Jealousy? Or just playing her part?
I shrugged the blonde off without looking at her. "Thanks"—one word, flat and final.
"Yeah, well, I had good reason to impress tonight," I said, slinging my gear bag higher on my shoulder, and my voice came out rougher than I intended. Lower. The kind of voice I used in the dark, not in a stadium hallway.
She smirked, tilting her chin up to look at me. "And what reason is that?"
"I think you know." My voice came out low, a rumble I hadn’t authorized. I shifted closer, just half a step, and my gaze dropped to her mouth before I could stop it.
Her cheeks darkened, and she tucked a braid behind her ear, a move I'd memorized a long time ago and apparently never deleted from my hard drive. I bit back a grin, the kind that would have given me away completely if she’d caught it.
My chest did something stupid that I was absolutely going to pretend didn’t happen.
Off limits, asshole. Fake relationship, remember?
"It's getting late." She stepped back, breaking the space between us. "I should head back."
"Let's go." I held out my hand.
She looked at it, then at me, then back at the hand.
"People might still be watching," I said, casual as hell, like my pulse wasn't slamming against my throat.
She took it.
Her fingers slid between mine, and heat rolled up my arm. I gritted my teeth and shifted the gear bag on my other shoulder.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Where's Kimmy?"
"She went to grab a hot chocolate. Told me she'd meet me back at the dorm." Lena glanced up at me, her mouth twitching. "Pretty sure she just wanted to give us privacy for the walk back. She's very invested in this."
"Smart girl."
"Don't encourage her."
We walked through the emptying corridors, our footsteps echoing off concrete.
I held the door open for her and the October second night air hit us.
Cold enough to bite, that first hint of fall turning sharp.
She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter, and I almost put my arm around her before I caught myself.
Not part of the deal. No audience out here.
The campus was quiet, most people still filing out of the arena behind us. I matched my stride to hers, shorter steps, slower pace, and her hand stayed in mine, warm against the October air.
Neither of us mentioned the kiss.
She hugged her free arm around herself against the cold and I watched her from the corner of my eye. “Lena, take my jacket.”
She just slid me a gaze and shook her head. Stubborn, always so stubborn.
When we got to her dorm, she let go of my hand.
Fuck.
"We're here," she said, gesturing to her door.
My mouth opened. The words were right there—that wasn't fake, none of it was fake, I've wanted you since I was sixteen and that kiss just confirmed I'm completely fucked. But my throat closed around them.
Instead, I played it cool. "It's been fun. Get some rest." My voice came out steady, which was a fucking miracle considering I could still feel her hands on my chest.
Her mouth opened, then closed, and she shook her head.
"Goodnight, Trace." She slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind her, and the click of the lock echoed down the empty hallway.