Chapter 6
If shame had a flavor, it would taste like lukewarm coffee and regret. If it had a feeling, it would be the phantom sensation of a man’s calloused hand grinding against my thigh, imprinted on my skin like a brand.
I was currently experiencing both.
Good girl.
The words echoed in my skull, bouncing off the mirrored walls, louder than the music.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to exorcise the memory. I tried to focus on my alignment—hips square, core engaged, shoulders down. But my body wasn't listening to my brain. My body was still back in the penthouse gym, pinned to a rubber mat, unraveling under the weight of Nick Vance.
I lost my balance. My heel dropped, and I stumbled, grabbing the barre to keep from face-planting into the rosin-dusted floor.
"Okay, that’s it," a voice said from the floor.
Mila was sitting in her split, eating a green apple with aggressive crunches. She pointed a slice at me. "You’ve fallen out of that extension three times. You have the balance of a drunk flamingo. Spill."
I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long drink to hide my flushing face. "I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well."
"Bullshit," Mila said, chewing loudly. "You didn't sleep well because you're living in the Ice Fortress with Captain America. Rumor has it you guys were all over each other at the Hive on Saturday. And now you look like you’ve been electrocuted."
I choked on my water. "We weren't all over each other. We were... making an appearance."
"Right. An appearance." Mila rolled her eyes, switching legs in her split with effortless fluidity.
"Jess, everyone saw it. He almost punched Carter for looking at your ass.
Nick Vance doesn't fight. He hires lawyers. The fact that he got physical? That’s not 'fake dating' energy. That’s 'caveman claiming his mate' energy. "
I wiped my mouth, feeling the heat creep up my neck. "It's complicated, Mila. We have a deal. It's mutual aid. He helps me with housing, I help him with... PR."
"PR," she deadpanned. "Is that what the kids are calling orgasms these days?"
"Mila!" I hissed, looking around the empty studio as if the walls had ears. "Keep your voice down."
"Oh my god," she dropped the apple slice. Her eyes went wide. "You did it. You slept with him."
"No!" I said, too quickly. "I didn't sleep with him. We didn't... have sex."
Technically true. The best kind of true. But the technicality felt flimsy when I remembered the way I had screamed his name.
"But you did something," Mila pressed, standing up and walking over to me. She scrutinized my face like a detective looking for clues. "Your lips are swollen. You have a hickey on your collarbone that you did a terrible job covering with concealer. And you have that look."
"What look?"
"The look of a woman who has peered into the abyss and found out the abyss is really, really good in bed."
I groaned, sliding down the mirror until I was sitting on the floor, putting my head in my hands. "I am in so much trouble, Mila. I’m supposed to be his ally. We shook hands on it. And then... things got blurry."
"Blurry is fun," Mila said, sitting next to me. "Blurry is college. Enjoy the ride, Jess. He’s rich, hot, and apparently obsessed with you. What’s the downside?"
"The downside," I whispered into my palms, "is that he’s Nick Vance. He doesn't do 'relationships.' He does transactions. And I’m terrified that I’m just another line item on his spreadsheet."
"So?" Mila nudged my shoulder. "Be a chaotic line item. Mess up his formulas. That’s your specialty."
I looked up at her. She was grinning, but I couldn't return it.
Because Mila didn't see what I saw. She didn't see the panic in his eyes when his hip seized up. She didn't hear the desperation in his voice when he asked for control. She saw the billionaire hockey star.
I was starting to see the man underneath. And the man underneath was lonely, broken, and terrified of failure.
And that was infinitely more dangerous than his money or his abs. If I fell for the man, and he only wanted the employee... that wouldn't just break my heart. It would destroy me.
"I need coffee," I said, standing up abruptly. "I need caffeine to drown out the voice in my head that is currently composing a sonnet about his thumbs."
Mila laughed. "Go. But cover that hickey better. You look like a vampire snack."
The campus center was a hive of activity at 11:00 AM. It was a cavernous glass atrium filled with the hum of conversation, the clatter of laptops, and the smell of burnt espresso. It was the place to see and be seen.
Usually, I moved through the center like a ghost—head down, headphones on, avoiding eye contact. I was the scholarship kid. Invisibility was my superpower.
But today, invisibility was not an option.
As I waited in line at The Grind, tapping my foot anxiously, I felt the shift in the room before I saw it. The noise level dropped. Heads turned. A ripple of whispers moved through the crowd like a wave.
I knew who it was without looking.
My skin prickled. The hair on my arms stood up. It was a physiological reaction, a magnetic pull that tugged at my navel.
I turned slowly.
Nick was walking through the main doors.
He was flanked by Jax and two other players, moving in that V-formation that jocks seemed to naturally fall into. He was wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, exposing his forearms, and grey sweatpants.
Grey sweatpants.
The memory of those sweatpants—and what was underneath them—hit me so hard I actually stumbled, bumping into the person in front of me.
"Sorry," I muttered.
Nick wasn't looking around. He was looking at his phone, walking with that long, purposeful stride that devoured distance. He looked bored. He looked untouchable.
Then, as if he felt my gaze, his head snapped up.
His eyes—grey, cold, piercing—locked onto mine across the fifty feet of crowded cafeteria.
He stopped.
The team stopped with him, nearly crashing into his back.
For a second, nobody moved. The air between us crackled. I felt exposed, stripped raw. I remembered the heat of his breath on my neck. I remembered the way he had looked down at me, like a conqueror.
He put his phone in his pocket. He said something to Jax, who grinned and slapped him on the back.
Then Nick started walking toward me.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just walked, his eyes fixed on my face, parting the sea of students.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Run, my brain screamed. Stay, my body whispered.
He reached me just as the barista called out, "Large black coffee for Jess!"
Nick reached past me, his chest brushing my shoulder, and grabbed the cup from the counter.
"I've got it," he said to the barista.
He turned to me, holding out the cup. Up close, he looked tired. There were faint purple shadows under his eyes. But the intensity in his gaze was undimmed.
"Morning," he said. His voice was low, intimate. It created a private bubble around us in the middle of the chaos.
"Morning," I squeaked. I cleared my throat. "You didn't have to pay for that."
"It's already paid for," he said. "I put money on your student card this morning. To ensure you're caffeinated. You get grumpy when you're tired."
I stared at him. "You... you topped up my card?"
"I optimized your morning routine."
He took a step closer. Too close. He was invading my personal space, radiating heat and sandalwood.
"How are you?" he asked. The question was loaded. It wasn't polite small talk. He was asking about us. About the gym. About the aftermath.
"I'm fine," I lied, gripping the hot cup like a lifeline. "Normal. Totally normal."
"Liar," he whispered. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips.
People were watching. I could feel the stares burning into the back of my neck. The Sin Bin was probably crashing right now with updates.
"Everyone is staring," I hissed.
"Let them," Nick said.
Then, he did something that made my knees buckle.
He reached out and tucked a stray curl of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on the sensitive skin of my neck, right over the pulse point that was fluttering wildly. His thumb brushed over the concealer-covered hickey.
It was a possessive gesture. A public claim.
"You left early this morning," he said, his voice loud enough for the people at the nearby tables to hear. "I made breakfast."
He didn't make breakfast. He had been asleep when I snuck out at 6:00 AM. He was lying. He was playing the role.
"I had practice," I said, playing along, though my voice was shaky.
"Don't run off next time," he murmured. He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to my ear. To the onlookers, it looked like a sweet, boyfriend whisper.
"Because if you run," he whispered, his tone dropping into that dark, velvety command that made my thighs clench, "I will chase you. And when I catch you, we finish what we started in the gym."
I gasped, a sharp intake of air.
He pulled back, looking satisfied at my reaction. His eyes were dark with promise.
"Dinner. 7:00 PM. Don't be late," he said normally.
He tapped the side of my coffee cup, winked—actually winked—and turned around, walking back to his teammates without a backward glance.
I stood there, frozen, clutching my coffee.
Jax gave me a thumbs up from across the room.
I felt like I was going to hyperventilate.
He was insane. He was playing a game with no rules. He was blurring the lines so thoroughly I couldn't tell where the fake boyfriend ended and the real predator began.
And the terrifying part was... I didn't want him to stop.
The penthouse was quiet when I returned that evening. The sun had set, and the city lights were twinkling through the glass walls, a sprawling grid of gold and white against the dark snow.
I let myself in quietly. I was exhausted. My muscles ached from dance, and my brain ached from overanalyzing the interaction at the coffee shop.
"Nick?" I called out softly.
No answer.
I walked into the living room. It was empty. The TV was off. The fireplace was unlit.