Chapter 7
Nick
There are exactly thirty-four hangers in my closet devoted to suits. Charcoal, navy, black, midnight blue. They are my armor. They are predictable. They fit perfectly, they command respect, and they create a barrier between me and the world that says, Look, but do not touch.
Tonight, however, the suits were useless.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection with a level of critical analysis usually reserved for game tape. I was wearing jeans. Dark wash, tailored, expensive, but still... denim. And a black t-shirt.
I looked like a civilian. I felt naked.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad, not a bowling alley."
I turned. Jess was leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom.
She had been living here for a week, and her presence had shifted from 'intrusion' to 'feature.
' I no longer flinched when I found her bobby pins on the bathroom counter.
I no longer corrected her when she put the almond milk on the wrong shelf in the fridge.
Tonight, she was wearing high-waisted jeans that hugged her hips in a way that should be illegal in at least twelve states, and a cropped green sweater that slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was down, a chaotic cloud of copper curls.
She looked effortless. She looked like trouble.
"I do not bowl," I stated, smoothing the front of my t-shirt. "It is a germ-infested activity that involves wearing shoes previously inhabited by strangers. It is unsanitary. It is inefficient."
"It's date night, Nick," she grinned, walking into the room. She smelled like vanilla and that subtle, spicy perfume that was slowly permeating every corner of my life. "The PR team said we need 'candid, relatable content.' What's more relatable than gutter balls and nachos?"
"I don't throw gutter balls," I muttered.
She stopped in front of me, reaching out to adjust the collar of my shirt. Her fingers grazed my neck. The contact was casual, practiced. A week ago, I would have flinched. Now, I leaned into it.
"Relax," she whispered, her eyes searching mine. "It's just the team. Jax, Miller, the guys. You don't have to perform. You just have to be Nick."
"Nick doesn't wear rental shoes."
"Nick is going to wear the shoes," she patted my chest, "and he's going to like it. Because if he doesn't, I’m going to tell Jax about the time you almost cried during The Notebook."
"I did not cry. My eyes were dry. It was allergies."
"Sure, Captain. Allergies." She winked. "Let's go. We're burning daylight, and I plan on kicking your ass."
I watched her walk out of the room. I watched the sway of her hips. I watched the confidence in her stride.
A strange warmth bloomed in my chest. It wasn't just lust—though that was a constant, low-level hum in my blood. It was pride.
She was mine.
Fake or not, for tonight, she was mine. And the thought of walking into that bowling alley with her on my arm, showing the world that the chaotic, beautiful girl belonged to the Ice King... it satisfied a primal itch I hadn't known I had.
I grabbed my keys and followed her.
The Strike Zone was an assault on the senses.
The air smelled of floor wax, stale beer, and fryer grease.
The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a garish purple and blue glow.
The sound of heavy balls crashing into pins echoed like thunder, punctuated by the cheers and groans of the Friday night crowd.
It was loud. It was crowded. It was exactly the kind of environment I usually avoided like a plague zone.
But as we walked in, hand in hand, I felt... grounded.
Jess’s hand was small and warm in mine. Her thumb brushed against my palm in a steady rhythm. It was a silent signal. I'm here. You're okay.
"Vance!" Jax’s voice boomed over the noise.
The team had taken over four lanes at the far end. It was a spectacle. Twenty oversized hockey players trying to bowl was chaos incarnate.
"Here we go," I murmured to Jess.
"Game face," she whispered back, squeezing my hand.
We approached the group. The reaction was immediate. The boys stopped what they were doing. Heads turned.
"Look who decided to join the commoners!" Jax yelled, running over to high-five me. He looked at Jess and grinned. "And you got him out of a suit! Jess, you're a miracle worker. Are you sure you're not a witch?"
"I just threatened to withhold his protein powder," Jess joked easily, slipping her arm around my waist.
She fit there perfectly. Like a puzzle piece.
"Hey, guys," she waved at the rest of the team.
The response was a chorus of enthusiastic "Hey Jess!" and "What's up, Red?"
I noticed the shift immediately. A week ago, at the party, they had looked at her with skepticism, seeing her as an interloper or a gold digger. Tonight, they looked at her with respect. She wasn't just the girl on my arm; she was part of the unit. She had charmed them.
We went to the counter to get shoes. I stared at the worn-out, red-and-blue leather monstrosities the teenager behind the counter handed me.
"Disinfectant spray," I demanded. "Two cans."
Jess laughed, taking her own pair. "He's high maintenance. You get used to it."
The teenager looked between us. "You guys are cute. Like, rom-com cute. You've been together a while?"
I froze. This was the test. The lie.
But before I could recite the script we had rehearsed, Jess leaned against my shoulder, looking up at me with eyes that shone under the neon lights.
"Feels like forever," she said softy. "Right, babe?"
My heart skipped a beat. Babe.
"Right," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I took the shoes, my eyes not leaving hers. "Forever."
For a second, the teenager and the bowling alley disappeared. It was just us. The lie tasted dangerously like the truth.
We walked back to the lanes. I sat down to change my shoes, grimacing as I laced up the rentals.
"So," Carter drifted over. He was holding a beer, looking wary. After our confrontation at the party, he had been walking on eggshells around me. "We're doing teams. Me and Miller vs. You and Jess. Loser buys the next round of wings."
I looked up, tying my lace with precision. "Prepare your wallet, Carter. I don't lose."
"I don't know, Cap," Miller laughed. "Jess looks like a wild card. Have you seen her throw? She uses two hands."
"It's called the Granny Style," Jess defended, grabbing a sparkly pink ball from the rack. "And it's a legitimate technique."
"We'll see," I said, standing up.
The game began.
And it was... fun.
Actual, genuine fun.
I watched Jess bowl. Miller was right—her form was atrocious. She walked up to the line, swung the ball between her legs with both hands, and heaved it forward with a grunt of effort.
The ball rolled slowly. Painfully slowly. It wobbled down the lane, kissed the gutter, bounced back out, and somehow, miraculously, knocked over eight pins.
"Yes!" She spun around, doing a little victory dance that involved a hip shimmy and a fist pump.
She looked at me, beaming. "Eight! Beat that, Vance."
I stepped up. I grabbed a black ball. 14 pounds.
I approached the line. Three steps. Smooth release. The ball spun perfectly, hooking at the last second.
Strike.
I turned around, keeping my face impassive, though inside I was preening.
"Show off," Jess muttered as I walked back, but she high-fived me as I passed. Her palm stung mine.
"Form is everything, Jessica," I said, sitting next to her.
"Form is boring," she countered, stealing a fry from the basket Jax had ordered. "Chaos is where the magic happens."
"Chaos is unpredictable."
"Exactly." She bit the fry, her eyes twinkling. "That's why you like me."
I paused, a fry halfway to my mouth.
She was right. I liked the chaos. I liked the way she disrupted my perfect lines. I liked that she made me laugh when I should be calculating angles.
Midway through the second game, it happened.
Jess was up. She was struggling. Two gutter balls in a row. She was getting frustrated, biting her lip, her shoulders tense.
"I can't get the spin right," she groaned, coming back to the seating area.
I stood up. "Come here."
"What?"
"Come to the line. I'll show you."
She followed me. We stood at the approach.
"You're releasing too early," I said. "And your hips are square. You need to open up."
"I don't know what that means, Nick."
"Here."
I moved behind her.
I didn't think about the optics. I didn't think about the team watching. I just thought about fixing the problem.
I stepped in close. My chest brushed her back. I could feel the heat radiating off her. I reached around, covering her hands on the ball with mine.
"Relax your shoulders," I murmured, my mouth right next to her ear.
She shivered. I felt it. A tremor running through her spine.
"Okay," she whispered. Her voice was breathy.
"Step with your left foot," I instructed, guiding her movement. "Swing back... now release."
We moved in unison. My body guiding hers. It was a dance. A fluid, synchronized motion.
The ball rolled down the lane. Straight. True.
Strike.
"Oh my god!" Jess shouted. She spun around in my arms.
We were chest to chest. My hands were still on her waist. Her hands landed on my shoulders.
Her face was flushed with victory. Her eyes were wide, exhilarated.
"We did it!" she laughed.
And then, she went up on her toes and hugged me.
It wasn't a side hug. It was a full-body embrace. She buried her face in my neck, her arms tightening around me. She pressed her softness against my hardness, fitting into me like she belonged there.
I froze for a millisecond, and then my arms wrapped around her. Instinctively. Protectively. I held her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground. I buried my nose in her hair, inhaling the vanilla and sweat.
The world fell away. The sound of the bowling alley became white noise.
There was only her. The weight of her. The warmth of her.
"You guys represent a sickening level of adorable," Jax called out from behind us.
Jess pulled back, but she didn't let go. She looked up at me, breathless. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of intense, dawning realization.