Chapter 10
Sofia
The sun that filtered through the sheet tacked over the window wasn't the golden, diffused light I was used to in my penthouse bedroom. It was gray, watery, and illuminated every dust mote dancing in the frigid air of Liam’s apartment.
I stared at a water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like the state of Florida.
I was lying on a mattress on the floor. The sheets were scratchy cotton, probably bought in a three-pack at a discount store. The pillow was flat. The air smelled of old motor oil, stale pizza, and the distinct, musky scent of sex.
It was the most beautiful room I had ever been in.
I turned my head slowly, careful not to shift the thin wool blanket covering us.
Liam was asleep.
Seeing The Wall asleep was like seeing a lion in a coma.
It felt illegal. His face, usually set in a mask of stoic intimidation, was relaxed.
His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
The dark stubble on his jaw looked rougher in the daylight, and his hair was a chaotic mess of black waves plastered to his forehead.
I traced the line of his shoulder with my eyes. He was massive. Even in sleep, he took up so much space. His arm was thrown over his eyes, shielding them from the light, exposing the thick cord of muscle in his bicep and the geometric mountain tattoo that wrapped around his forearm.
My gaze traveled lower. The blanket had slipped down to his waist. His chest was a landscape of scars and bruises—tokens of the violence he endured for a game that might not even love him back.
And then, lower still.
I felt a flush heat my skin, starting at my toes and racing up to my hairline.
Last night.
The memories hit me in a fragmented, visceral slideshow. The way he looked at me in the chair. The feeling of being filled. The sound of his voice—rough, broken, praising—in my ear.
Good girl.
I shivered, pulling the scratchy blanket up to my chin.
I had given him everything. My virginity. My secrets. My pride.
I waited for the regret to set in. That’s what they tell you in the movies, right? The morning after is supposed to be awkward. You’re supposed to scramble for your clothes, feeling exposed and cheap.
But I didn't feel cheap. I felt... anchored.
For twenty-one years, I had felt like a helium balloon with a cut string—floating aimlessly, terrified of drifting away into nothingness. Liam Vanner had reached up, grabbed the string, and tied it to his wrist.
But then, my eyes drifted to the corner of the room. His hockey bag sat there, bulging and ominous.
The Draft. May. Paris.
The anchor wasn't permanent. It was on a timer.
He groaned, shifting in his sleep. His face contorted in a grimace before he even opened his eyes. His hand went instinctively to his left knee beneath the covers.
"Liam?" I whispered.
One gray eye cracked open. He looked disoriented for a second, staring at me like he couldn't figure out why the Heiress to the Thorne Fortune was on his floor.
Then, the memory landed. His eye softened.
"Hey," he rasped. His morning voice was a subsonic rumble that vibrated in my chest.
"Hey," I replied.
"What time is it?"
"Early," I said. "Seven, maybe."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He tried to roll onto his back, but as soon as he moved his left leg, he hissed through his teeth.
"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Is it bad?" I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest.
"Stiff," he grunted. "Needs heat. Then ice. Then more heat."
"I can get the heating pad," I offered, moving to get up.
His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist. gentle, but firm.
"Stay," he commanded.
He pulled me back down. I collapsed against his chest, the skin-on-skin contact sending a fresh jolt of electricity through me. He was warm, solid, and smelled like sleep and cedar.
"You okay?" he asked, his hand stroking my hair. He wasn't asking about the cold. He was asking about me. About last night.
"I'm fine," I said into his neck.
"Sofia." The warning tone. "Look at me."
I lifted my head.
"I'm not just 'fine'," I admitted. "I'm... sore. In a good way. And I'm happy. Which is terrifying."
He studied my face, his thumb tracing the dark circles under my eyes.
"No regrets?" he asked. "About the apartment? About... me?"
"The apartment has character," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "And you... you're okay, I guess. For a goalie."
He smirked. It was a lazy, arrogant tilt of his lips that made my stomach flip.
"Just okay?" he teased. "I seem to remember you making a lot of noise for 'just okay'."
I buried my face in his chest to hide my blush. "Shut up."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling against my cheek. But then he shifted again, and the laugh turned into a grunt of pain.
"We need to get up," he said, resignation in his voice. "I have a shift at the shop at eight. And you need to get back to the ivory tower before people start putting out missing persons reports."
"I hate reality," I mumbled.
"Me too, Princess," he said. "Me too."
The bathroom in Liam’s apartment was the size of a closet. The shower was a stall with a plastic curtain that had seen better decades. The tiles were cracked, and the water pressure was a suggestion rather than a force.
I stood in front of the small, rusted sink, trying to salvage my appearance. My hair was a bird's nest. My mascara was smeared. I looked thoroughly ravished.
"Move over," Liam grunted from the doorway.
I looked in the mirror. He was standing behind me, naked.
My breath hitched.
He was magnificent. In the harsh bathroom light, the bruises on his ribs were purple and yellow maps of violence. The scars on his legs were silver slashes. But the power radiating off him was undeniable.
He limped into the small space, pressing his chest against my back. He wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. We looked at our reflection in the dirty mirror. The billionaire's daughter and the mechanic's son.
"I'm getting in the shower," he said, meeting my eyes in the glass. "Water warms up the joint."
"Okay," I whispered.
"Join me."
It wasn't a question. It was an invitation laced with command.
"There's no room," I pointed out.
"We'll make room," he said. "Unless you don't want to get wet."
He kissed the sensitive spot just below my ear. My knees went weak.
"I want to get wet," I said. The double entendre hung heavy in the humid air.
He reached past me and turned the tap. The pipes groaned, shuddered, and then spat out a stream of water. Steam began to fill the tiny stall.
He stepped in first, wincing as he bent his knee. Then he held the curtain open for me.
I stepped in.
It was tight. We were instantly pressed together, skin to skin, water cascading over us.
He grabbed the bar of soap—plain, white, unscented—and lathered his hands.
"Turn around," he murmured.
I turned my back to him.
His large, soapy hands landed on my shoulders. He began to knead the muscles there, working out the tension from the night before.
"You're tight," he observed. "Relax, Sofia. Let me take it."
I leaned back against him, letting my head fall forward. "That feels good."
His hands moved lower. Down my spine. Over my ribs.
He wasn't just washing me. He was mapping me.
His hands slid over my stomach, then lower, to the junction of my thighs.
I gasped.
"Sore here?" he whispered, his fingers brushing lightly against me.
"A little," I admitted.
"I'll be gentle," he promised.
He didn't enter me. He just touched. Soft, rhythmic strokes with the warm, soapy water. It was maddening. It was worshipful.
I turned around in the small space, needing to face him.
Water streamed down his face, darkening his lashes. He looked at me with a hunger that was raw and terrifying.
"You're beautiful," he said roughly. "Wet. Messy. Mine."
"Yours," I echoed.
He lifted me.
It shouldn't have been possible. His knee was shot. But he braced his back against the tile wall, gritted his teeth, and lifted me up until my legs wrapped around his waist.
"Liam, your leg—"
"Fuck the leg," he growled.
He kissed me. Hard. Wet. Desperate.
He positioned me. I felt him—hard and ready—pressing against my entrance.
"Slow," he warned, his hands gripping my ass, holding me up effortlessly. "Slide down. Take me."
I lowered myself.
The sensation was completely different from the night before. Last night was hesitant, careful. This was raw. The friction of the water, the heat of his skin, the stinging of the spray.
I took him in. Inch by inch.
He filled me completely. I buried my face in his wet neck, stifling a moan.
"That's it," he praised, his voice guttural in my ear. "Good girl. Look how well you take it."
The praise hit my bloodstream like a drug.
"Move," I begged. "Liam, please."
He began to thrust. Not with his legs—he couldn't—but with his hips. Short, sharp, upward strokes that hit a spot deep inside me I didn't know existed.
The shower became a blur of steam and sensation. The only things anchoring me to the earth were his hands on my hips and his voice in my ear.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I pulled back to look at him. His face was twisted in pleasure and pain.
"Tell me who you belong to," he rasped.
"You," I cried out. "I belong to you."
"Say my name."
"Liam. Liam!"
He picked up the pace. The water splashed violently against the plastic curtain.
"I'm close," he warned. "Sofia, I'm going to ruin you."
"Do it," I sobbed. "Ruin me."
He drove into me, one final, deep thrust that hit my core.
I unraveled. My body clamped around him, spasming. I screamed his name, the sound echoing off the tile.
He followed me seconds later, his roar lost in the sound of the falling water. He held me tight, crushing me against him, shaking with the force of his release.
We stayed like that for a long time. Just the water running over us, washing away the sweat, the sex, and the lies.
Finally, his leg gave a warning tremble.
"I have to put you down," he panted. "Before I drop you."
He lowered me slowly. My legs felt like jelly. I had to hold onto his shoulders to stay upright.
He turned off the water.
The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening.
Getting dressed was a somber affair.
I put on yesterday's clothes. The leather leggings felt sticky. The sheer top felt scandalous in the morning light. I borrowed a gray hoodie from his floor—it smelled like him—to cover up.
Liam dressed in his work clothes. Grease-stained Dickies and a thermal shirt. He wrapped his knee in an Ace bandage, pulling it tight with a grimace.
We stood by the door.
The magic of the night was fading, replaced by the harsh reality of the day.
"I have to go," he said. "Tony opens the bay doors at eight."
"I know," I said.
He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek.
"Last night..." he started, then stopped. He looked like he was wrestling with something massive.
"Don't," I whispered. I couldn't handle a 'it was a mistake' speech. I would shatter.
"I was going to say," he continued, his eyes intense, "that last night was the best night of my life. But it complicates things. You know that."
"I know," I said. "The draft. My dad."
"We have to be careful," he said. "If your dad finds out... if he thinks I'm distracted... he could pull my scholarship. Or trade my rights to a dead-end team."
"He won't find out," I said. "We're good at lying. We've been doing it for weeks."
"We were pretending to be together," he corrected. "Now we have to pretend we're not in love."
The word hung in the air. Love.
He hadn't said "I love you." He said "pretend we're not in love." It was a hypothetical. A semantic loophole.
But my heart seized on it anyway.
"We can do that," I lied. "We're professionals."
He leaned down and kissed me. It wasn't a hungry kiss. It was a soft, apologetic kiss. A goodbye kiss.
"Take my truck," he said, tossing me the keys. "I'm working downstairs. Leave it in the faculty lot. I'll get it later."
"You're going to walk to practice on that knee?" I demanded.
"I'll figure it out," he said. "Take the truck, Sofia. It's safer than walking."
He opened the door and limped out into the cold morning air.
I stood in the center of his empty, freezing apartment, clutching his car keys.
I looked at the unmade mattress on the floor.
I was in love with him.
It wasn't a question anymore. It was a fact. Like gravity. Like the cold.
And just like he said, it was a complication.
Because Liam Vanner had a plan: Survive, Draft, Escape.
And I wasn't part of the escape plan.
I walked out the door, locking it behind me. The weight of the secret felt heavy in my pocket, right next to his keys.
Liam
I watched her drive away from the bay window of the shop. The Beast looked ridiculous with her driving it—this tiny, fierce creature behind the wheel of a rusted tank.
"You okay, Vanner?" Tony yelled from under a Honda Civic. "You're staring at the road like you lost your dog."
"I'm good, Tony," I called back, grabbing a wrench.
I wasn't good.
My knee was throbbing with a dull, sickening pulse that I knew meant structural damage. The swelling hadn't gone down.
But the pain in my leg was nothing compared to the panic in my chest.
Pretend we're not in love.
I had almost said it. I had almost told her.
When she was in the shower, looking at me with those wide, trusting eyes, begging me to ruin her... I wanted to give her everything. I wanted to promise her Paris. I wanted to promise her forever.
But what was my promise worth? I had negative three hundred dollars in my bank account. I had a busted knee. I had a mother who was one bad day away from an overdose.
Sofia Thorne was a princess. She belonged in castles.
I was the guy who fixed the drawbridge.
I couldn't keep her. It was selfish to even try.
But as I turned back to the car, cranking the bolt until my knuckles turned white, I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't going to let anyone else have her either.
Not yet.
I would play the season. I would get the contract. I would fix the knee.
And then... maybe.
Just hold on, I told myself. Just hold on until the buzzer sounds.
But in the game of love, there is no clock. And there are no referees.
And I had a terrible feeling I was about to take a major penalty.