Chapter 6 #2
I was hiding in the library again, but I couldn't focus.
The words on the page—History of Contemporary Dance: 1960-Present—were blurring together. All I could think about was the orange. The taste of citrus. The rough texture of his fingertips.
I packed up my bag. I couldn't do this. I needed to go home.
Home.
When had the Ice Box become home?
I trudged through the snow back to the house. The windows were dark, except for the porch light. It looked ominous, like a haunted house in a cartoon, but inside I knew it was warm.
I let myself in. The house was quiet. Jax and the others must be out—it was a Thursday, which meant "Thirsty Thursday" at the local dive bar.
Ben didn't go to bars during the season.
I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the digital clock on the oven.
And Ben.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the snow. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Just gray sweatpants, hung low on his hips.
He was on the phone.
I froze in the doorway, intending to back out, to give him privacy. But the tone of his voice stopped me.
It wasn't the commanding alpha voice I knew. It wasn't the seductive teacher voice.
It was ragged. Desperate.
"I'm not doing it, Dad."
Silence. The person on the other end was speaking. Ben’s hand—the one resting on the window sill—curled into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white.
"No," Ben said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "I earned that spot. The scouts are coming for me. Not for Senator Sterling’s son."
Silence.
"You can't call the GM," Ben snapped. "If you make that call, I walk. I swear to God, I'll quit. I'll drop out."
He listened for another moment. Then he laughed. It was a dark, hollow sound that made my heart ache.
"Yeah? Well, maybe I don't want to be part of the legacy. Maybe the legacy is rot."
He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. For a second, I thought he was going to throw it through the window. His arm cocked back, the muscles in his back bunching and writhing like snakes under his skin.
Then, with a shuddering exhale, he lowered his arm. He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the counter. It slid across the granite and stopped at the edge.
He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the sill, hanging his head. His breathing was harsh, ragged gasps in the quiet kitchen.
He looked huge. And he looked completely broken.
I should leave. This was private. This was the crack in the armor he never let anyone see.
But I couldn't leave.
I set my bag down. It made a soft thump on the floor.
Ben stiffened. He didn't turn around.
"Get out, Ivy."
His voice was raw. Dangerous.
I didn't get out. I walked into the kitchen. My socks were silent on the linoleum.
"Ben?"
"I said get out," he snarled. He turned around then.
His face was a mask of fury. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed. He looked like he wanted to fight the world. "I don't want you here right now. I'm not... I'm not safe right now."
"You're not going to hurt me," I said calmly. I surprised myself with how steady my voice was.
"You don't know that," he paced away from the window, running his hands through his hair. "You don't know anything about me. You think this is a game? You think I'm just some grumpy jock you can play with?"
"I know you're hurting," I said.
"I'm not hurting!" he roared. He slammed his hand onto the island. The sound was like a gunshot. "I'm managed! I'm handled! My whole life is a press release!"
He pointed to his chest. "You see this? You see this tattoo?"
He slapped the blackout sleeve on his left arm.
"I got this when I was sixteen. To cover up a campaign logo my dad made me wear for a photo op. I wanted to burn it off. I wanted to disappear."
He was panting. "He called the GM of the Montreal team. He told them he'd secure funding for their new arena if they drafted me. He's buying my spot. Again."
He looked at me, his eyes pleading for me to understand the horror of it.
"I'm good, Ivy. I know I'm good. But I'll never know if I'm good enough. Because he buys everything. He taints everything."
He slumped against the counter, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come.
"I have no control," he whispered. "I play the game, I follow the rules, I starve myself, I train until I bleed... and it doesn't matter. He still pulls the strings."
My heart broke. It cracked right down the center.
I knew that feeling. I knew the weight of a parent who saw you as an asset, not a person. I knew the suffocating pressure of conditional love.
I walked up to him.
He watched me come. He looked wary, like a wounded animal expecting another kick.
I stopped inches from him. I didn't reach for his face. I didn't reach for his hand.
I reached for his left arm. The blackout sleeve. The void.
I placed my palm against the black ink. His skin was burning hot.
"It's not a void," I whispered.
He looked down at my hand on his arm. "What?"
"The tattoo. It's not empty. It's armor." I traced the edge of the ink near his elbow. "You didn't disappear, Ben. You built walls. You made yourself a fortress."
I looked up at him. "But even fortresses need to open the gates sometimes. Otherwise, the people inside starve."
His eyes searched mine. The gray was storm-tossed, turbulent.
"I'm tired, Ivy," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I'm so tired of fighting him."
"Then don't fight," I said. "Not tonight."
I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. I pressed my cheek against his bare chest, right over his heart. It was beating hard, but steadying.
He stood there for a moment, rigid.
Then, with a groan that sounded like a surrender, he crumbled.
His arms came around me, crushing me to him. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling sharply. He held me like I was the only solid thing in a world that was dissolving.
"I've got you," I whispered, rubbing his back. "I've got you."
We stood there in the dark kitchen for a long time. The sexual tension was there—it was always there—but it was buried under something heavier. Something softer.
Intimacy.
This wasn't Lesson Three. This wasn't a game. This was two broken people holding their jagged edges together, hoping they fit.
"Ivy," he mumbled into my hair.
"Yeah?"
"You didn't eat your yogurt."
I huffed a wet laugh against his chest. "You're unbelievable. You're having an existential crisis, and you're worried about my calcium intake?"
"Control," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes were clearer now. The rage had settled into a simmering resolve. "I control what I can. I control the ice. I control the house."
He cupped my face in his large hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
"And I control you."
It wasn't a threat anymore. It was a plea. Let me have this. Let me have something that is just mine.
"Yes," I whispered. "You do."
He leaned down and kissed me. It wasn't hungry or rough. It was slow. Tender. It tasted like despair and hope and oranges.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Go upstairs," he said softly. "Wait for me in my room."
"Are we...?"
"No," he shook his head. "No lessons tonight. I just..." He swallowed hard. "I just need you there. I need to know you're there when I close my eyes."
"Okay," I said.
"And Ivy?"
I paused.
"Wear my shirt. The one you didn't cut up."
I smiled. "Okay, Captain."
I walked away, heading for the stairs. I felt his eyes on me, heavy and protective.
I realized then that I wasn't just falling for the sex. I wasn't just falling for the escape.
I was falling for Ben Sterling. The boy who hated his own name. The boy who wanted to be good enough.
And that terrified me more than anything else. Because my father could cut off my credit cards, but Ben?
Ben could destroy me completely. And I was pretty sure I was going to let him.