Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Heather
There is a specific kind of intimacy found in a zipper.
It shouldn't be intimate. It’s a mechanical fastener, a series of interlocking metal teeth designed for utility.
But when the dress is silk, and the zipper runs from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, and the hands doing the fastening belong to a man who has seen you unravel, the utility vanishes. It becomes a ritual.
"Hold still," Jerry murmured.
His voice was a rumble against the shell of my ear, vibrating down my spine and settling low in my belly.
I gripped the edge of the marble vanity in the master bathroom, staring at my reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked foreign. Her hair was blown out in sleek, honey-gold waves.
Her lips were painted a deep, dangerous berry.
She was wearing a slip dress the color of midnight that cost more than my first car.
And behind her stood Jerry Vane.
He was in a suit again—charcoal gray this time, with a black shirt and no tie. He looked like the villain in a movie where the villain wins because everyone is too busy swooning to stop him.
His large, warm hands brushed against my bare skin as he worked the zipper up. He was moving agonizingly slowly. I could feel the heat of his knuckles grazing my spine, tracing the line of my vertebrae one by one.
"You're breathing fast," he noted.
"You're taking forever," I countered, though my voice lacked any real bite. It was breathy, treacherous.
"I'm being careful," he said. The zipper reached the top with a soft zip. He didn't step away. Instead, his hands settled on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles into the tense muscle there. He met my eyes in the mirror.
The look he gave me wasn't the cold, calculating stare of "The Judge." It was warm. Possessive. It was the look of a man admiring his work.
"You look..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly.
"Expensive?" I suggested, trying to lighten the mood. "Like a good investment?"
"Stunning," he corrected. "You look dangerous, Heather."
My heart did that stupid gymnastic routine it had perfected over the last week.
The Bubble. That’s what Tank called it. We were living in a bubble.
Inside the penthouse, the contract didn't exist. Inside the penthouse, we ate breakfast together at the island, bumping elbows.
We watched hockey tapes on the couch, his arm draped heavily over my shoulders. We brushed our teeth side-by-side.
It felt terrifyingly domestic. It felt real.
"We're going to be late," I whispered, unable to look away from his reflection.
"Let them wait," Jerry said. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the curve of my neck, right where my pulse was fluttering like a trapped moth. "I'm the Captain. The dinner doesn't start until I get there."
"Jerry," I scolded, though I leaned back into him, my body betraying me instantly. "It's the Rookie Dinner. You can't be late. You have to haze them or whatever it is you alpha males do."
"We don't haze," he mumbled against my skin, inhaling my scent. "We mentor aggressively."
I laughed, the sound bubbling up freely. That was the new thing—the laughter. We laughed a lot. Who knew the Ice King had a dry, dark sense of humor?
"Come on," I said, finally pulling away. If I didn't move now, we would never leave this bathroom. We would end up back on the counter, ruining the silk dress and my sanity. "Tank is going to eat all the appetizers if we aren't there in twenty minutes."
Jerry sighed, a sound of genuine reluctance. He straightened his jacket, the mask of the stoic Captain sliding back into place, but his eyes remained soft.
"Fine," he said. He offered me his arm. "Ready to play the part?"
I took his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive wool. I looked up at him.
"I'm not playing anymore, Jerry," I thought, but I didn't say it.
"Born ready," I said instead.
The restaurant was a dimly lit, wood-paneled steakhouse that smelled of aged beef, truffle oil, and old money. It was the kind of place where the menus didn't have prices and the waiters moved with the stealth of ninjas.
The entire back room had been reserved for the Sabers. It was a riot of noise—thirty massive hockey players squeezed into banquettes, laughing, shouting, and throwing bread rolls.
When we walked in, the noise didn't stop, but the energy shifted. Heads turned.
A week ago, this would have terrified me. I would have felt like an imposter, the scholarship kid sneaking into the VIP section. But tonight, I felt... anchored.
Jerry’s hand was on the small of my back, his thumb tracing a reassuring pattern through the silk. He guided me through the maze of tables, nodding to his teammates but keeping his focus on me.
"Vane!" Tank roared from the center table. "And the Lady Vane! Finally! We were about to order the Tomahawk without you."
"Touch my steak, Tank, and you're playing back-up for a month," Jerry said smoothly, pulling out a chair for me.
I sat down, and Jerry immediately took the seat next to me. Not across. Next to. He shifted his chair closer until our thighs were pressed together under the table. It was a claim. A statement. We are a unit.
"Heather!" Johnson grinned from across the table. "You look amazing. Way too good for this grump. Blink twice if you need rescuing."
"I'm good, Johnson," I smiled, grabbing a bread roll. "Besides, Jerry promised me dessert. I'm contractually obligated to stay until the cheesecake."
The table laughed. It was easy. It was light.
As the dinner progressed, I watched Jerry. I watched the way he commanded the room without raising his voice. He was the center of gravity. The rookies looked at him with awe; the veterans looked at him with respect.
But he kept checking in on me.
It was subtle. A glance to make sure my wine glass was full. A nudge of his knee against mine when the conversation got too loud. He was tethered to me.
"So," a voice cut through the laughter. It was Carter, a senior defenseman who had always seemed a bit jealous of Jerry's captaincy. "How's the 'domestic life' treating you, Vane? Heard you've gone soft. Skipping morning skates. Leaving the gym early."
The table went quiet. It was a challenge. A test.
Jerry didn't flinch. He was cutting his steak with surgical precision.
"I'm managing my energy," Jerry said calmly. "Efficiency, Carter. You should try it. Maybe your plus-minus wouldn't be in the negatives."
A few guys snickered. Carter flushed.
"Just saying," Carter pressed, leaning back and eyeing me. "Distractions are dangerous. Coach says you're less 'focused' lately. Maybe having a live-in... distraction... isn't the best strategy for the draft."
The insult was veiled, but it was there. He was calling me a liability.
My spine stiffened. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to defend us, but Jerry stopped cutting.
He set his knife and fork down. The sound was quiet, but it echoed like a gunshot.
He turned to look at Carter. His expression was bored, but his eyes were glacial.
"Heather isn't a distraction," Jerry said.
His voice was low, carrying effortlessly over the hum of the restaurant.
"She's the reason I'm playing the best hockey of my life.
She organizes my schedule so I can train.
She ensures my nutrition is perfect. She handles the noise so I can focus on the game. "
He reached under the table and took my hand, interlacing our fingers. He squeezed tight.
"If you're looking for a weakness, Carter," Jerry continued, "look in the mirror. Because if you come for her again, you won't just be dealing with the Captain. You'll be dealing with me."
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Jerry picked up his fork and took a bite of steak. "Pass the salt, Tank."
The tension broke. Tank let out a loud, booming laugh. "You heard the man! Pass the salt! And Carter, shut up and eat your potatoes."
I sat there, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked at Jerry. He was chewing calmly, but his grip on my hand was iron-tight.
He had defended me. Not because of PR. Not because of a contract. But because he wanted to.
I squeezed his hand back. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a tiny, secret smile.
Us against the world.
A waiter appeared at my elbow to refill my water. He was an older man with kind eyes.
"Is everything to your liking, folks?" he asked.
"It's perfect, thank you," I said.
The waiter smiled at Jerry. "You're a lucky man, sir. The way she looks at you... my wife used to look at me like that when we were newlyweds. You two hold onto that."
I froze. The way I looked at him?
I looked at Jerry. He was looking at the waiter, a strange expression on his face. Not annoyance. Not dismissal.
"I know," Jerry said softly. "I'm the lucky one."
The waiter nodded and walked away.
I stared at Jerry. My breath caught in my throat.
"You're a good actor," I whispered, nudging his shoulder.
Jerry turned to me. He brought my hand up to his lips, kissing the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse.
"Who said I was acting?" he murmured.
The air left my lungs. The sounds of the restaurant faded away. There was only him. Only the heat of his mouth on my skin and the terrifying, wonderful truth in his gray eyes.
The drive home was quiet, but it wasn't empty. It was filled with a heavy, pulsating tension. The kind of tension that makes your skin prickle and your stomach flip.
It was raining—a cold, sleeting rain that turned the world outside the car into a blur of neon and gray. Inside, the leather seats were warm, the heater humming softly.
Jerry drove with one hand on the wheel. The other was resting on the center console, palm up.
Waiting.
I didn't hesitate. I placed my hand in his. He closed his fingers around mine instantly, anchoring me.
"You really shut Carter down," I said softly, watching the wipers slash across the windshield.
"He's an idiot," Jerry muttered. "He mistakes misery for focus. He thinks if you aren't suffering, you aren't working."