Chapter 9
Liam
The Ice Box—the team house, not the arena—was vibrating.
I could feel the bass of some generic hip-hop track thumping in the floorboards before I even opened the front door. The air coming out of the house smelled like cheap keg beer, vanilla vape smoke, and hormones.
"Are you sure about this?" Sofia asked, her hand hovering over the doorknob.
She looked... well, she looked incredible. She had ditched the jersey and was back in her element—black leather leggings, combat boots, and a sheer black top over a lacy bralette that was doing things to my blood pressure that my doctor would definitely frown upon.
But beneath the "Party Girl" armor, she looked tired. Her eyes were shadowed. The adrenaline from the game had crashed, leaving us both raw.
"We have to show face," I said, leaning heavily against the porch railing. My knee was throbbing a steady, dull rhythm, currently muted by three more ibuprofen and the sheer force of my denial. "Just for an hour. Jaxson will riot if the 'hero' doesn't drink a beer."
"You're not drinking," she reminded me sharply. "Alcohol increases inflammation."
"I'll hold a red cup," I promised. "It's a prop. Like my smile."
She snorted, then pushed the door open.
The noise hit us like a physical wall. The living room was packed. Wall-to-wall bodies. The entire hockey team, half the football team, the cheer squad, and a random assortment of puck bunnies were crammed into the space.
As soon as we stepped in, the room erupted.
"VAN-NER! VAN-NER!"
Carter was standing on the coffee table, shirtless, holding a handle of vodka. He pointed at me like I was the messiah.
"The Wall has arrived!" he screamed.
A girl I didn't know—a freshman, probably, judging by the terrified excitement in her eyes—shoved a beer into my hand. Someone else slapped my back hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I smiled. The "Good Soldier" smile.
"Great game, man!"
"You're a legend!"
"Did you see that hit?"
I nodded. I thanked them. I moved through the crowd, dragging my bad leg, hoping the darkness and the chaos masked the limp.
Sofia was right next to me. Her hand was on my lower back, her fingers splayed wide. It felt protective. Possessive.
"Let's find a corner," she whispered near my ear.
We navigated toward the kitchen. It was slightly less crowded, mostly occupied by the "serious drinkers" huddled around the keg.
Jaxson was there, holding court with three girls from the volleyball team.
"There they are!" Jaxson yelled, wrapping an arm around my neck. "The power couple! Seriously, guys, did you see Sofia in the box? She looked like she was going to murder the ref with her mind."
"I was considering it," Sofia said dryly, leaning against the counter. She crossed her arms, creating a barrier.
"So, Vanner," one of the volleyball girls—tall, blonde, very fit—stepped closer. She put a hand on my bicep. "You must be exhausted. You want to... go somewhere quieter? My room is down the hall. We have better tequila."
The offer was blatant. A month ago, I might have taken it. Easy. Transactional. Forget the pain for a few hours.
But tonight, the touch of her hand felt invasive. Wrong.
I felt Sofia stiffen beside me.
I looked at her. Her eyes were narrowed, fixed on the girl's hand on my arm. Her jaw was set.
"He's good," Sofia said. Her voice was ice cold. It cut through the noise of the kitchen. "He doesn't drink tequila. And he's leaving with me."
The girl blinked, pulling her hand back as if burned. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't realize you guys were... exclusive. I thought it was just a PR thing."
"It's not PR," Sofia said. She took a step forward, moving into my space. She reached up and brushed a non-existent piece of lint off my shoulder, her hand lingering on my chest. "He's occupied."
The volleyball girl looked from Sofia to me. I didn't step away. I didn't correct her. I just stared, my face blank, my arm brushing against Sofia’s side.
"Right," the girl muttered. "My bad."
She retreated, disappearing into the crowd.
Sofia let out a breath, turning to look at me. Her eyes were dark, challenging.
"Subtle," I murmured, leaning down.
"I don't do subtle," she whispered back. "I do effective. You're hurt. You don't need tequila. You need sleep."
"Is that why you claimed me?" I teased, though my heart was hammering. "Medical necessity?"
"Asset protection," she shot back. But her hand stayed on my chest. Her thumb traced the line of my collarbone through my t-shirt. "And... maybe I don't like people touching my things."
My things.
The possessiveness hit me straight in the gut. I liked it. God help me, I liked being hers.
"I'm yours?" I asked, voice low.
She looked up, her gaze searching mine. The bravado slipped for a second.
"For tonight," she whispered. "Yes."
"Okay," I said. "Then get me out of here. My leg is killing me."
The drive to my place—not the team house, but the tiny, grim studio apartment I rented above the auto shop where I worked—was silent.
Sofia drove. She hated my truck, but she drove it with a terrifying competence. Her hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. She was driving fast, aggressive.
She didn't ask where I lived. She knew. She had probably looked it up in my file.
We pulled into the gravel lot behind "Tony's Auto Repair." The building was dark, smelling of oil and cold asphalt. The stairs to my apartment were rusted metal, clinging to the side of the brick wall.
"This is it?" she asked, looking up at the single window.
"Welcome to the penthouse," I muttered.
I opened the door and slid out. The cold air felt good on my face, but bad on my knee. It had stiffened up during the drive. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to walk to the stairs.
Sofia was right behind me.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
My apartment was... sparse. A mattress on the floor (I couldn't afford a frame). A folding table with my laptop and books. A single armchair I had found on the curb. A kitchenette that barely fit a microwave.
It was clean—military clean—but it screamed poverty.
I usually never brought anyone here. Not girls. Not the team. It was my shame.
I turned to block the doorway.
"You don't have to come in," I said. "I'm fine. I'll just crash."
Sofia ignored me. She pushed past me, stepping into the room.
She looked around. Her gaze took in the peeling paint, the drafty window covered with a sheet, the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
I braced myself for the look. The pity. Or worse, the disgust.
She turned to me. Her expression was unreadable.
"Where is the ice?" she asked.
I blinked. "Freezer. Top shelf."
She walked to the kitchenette, opening the mini-fridge. It was empty except for a bottle of water and two ice trays.
She cracked the trays, dumping the ice into a plastic bag she found in a drawer. She wrapped it in a dish towel.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to the armchair.
I sat. I didn't have the energy to argue.
She knelt in front of me.
"Pants," she said.
"Sofia—"
"Liam. We are past this. I have seen you in your underwear. I have seen you bleed. Take off the jeans. They're too tight for the swelling."
I sighed, unbuttoning my jeans. I lifted my hips, sliding them down. She helped me pull them off my ankles, tossing them onto the floor.
I was left in my boxer briefs.
My knee was hideous. It had doubled in size since the game. It was hot to the touch.
Sofia winced, her fingers hovering over the skin.
"Oh, Liam," she whispered. "This isn't just a bruise."
"It's a sprain," I lied. "MCL maybe. It's stable. Just swollen."
She placed the ice pack gently on the joint. The cold was a shock, followed by a dull, aching relief.
She stayed there, kneeling between my legs, her hands resting on my thighs just above the knee.
The room was silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and our breathing.
"You live here alone?" she asked softly, looking around the room again.
"Yeah," I said. "It's cheap. Tony lets me work off the rent in the shop downstairs."
"It's... cold," she said. She shivered.
"I keep the heat low," I admitted. "Saves money."
She looked back at me. Her eyes were wide, dark, and filled with a fierce sadness.
"You carry so much," she whispered. "Your family. The team. The debt. This knee. Don't you ever just... put it down?"
"If I put it down, everything falls apart," I said. "That's how gravity works."
"I can hold it," she said. "For a little while."
She reached up, her hands sliding up my thighs to my waist. She rested her palms on my stomach, her fingers splaying over my abs. Her hands were warm. So warm.
"Sofia," I warned, my voice rasping. "What are you doing?"
"I'm tired of the noise," she said, her gaze dropping to my chest. "I'm tired of the parties. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to be here."
"You shouldn't be here," I said. "This place... it's not for you. You belong in a penthouse, not a garage."
"I hate penthouses," she said fiercely. "They're empty."
She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against my bare stomach. I froze. The intimacy of it—her face against my skin, kneeling before me—was staggering.
"You're not empty," she murmured against my skin. "You're full. You're so full it scares me."
My hands moved on their own. They found her hair, burying themselves in the dark curls. I held her there, against me.
"I'm scared too," I admitted. The confession tore out of my throat. "I'm scared that if I touch you, really touch you... I won't be able to let you go when you leave for Paris."
She lifted her head. Her chin rested on my stomach, her eyes locking with mine.
"Then don't let me go," she whispered. "Not tonight."
She sat up, rising to her knees so she was eye-level with me in the chair.
She reached for the hem of her sheer top.
"Sofia—"
She pulled it over her head in one fluid motion. She tossed it aside.
She was wearing a black lace bralette. Her skin was golden in the dim light, glowing. Her breasts rose and fell with her quick breaths.
"I want you to touch me," she said. "No barriers. No coats. No deals."