Chapter 11
Nick
I woke up to the sound of humming.
It was a soft, off-key sound, vibrating somewhere in the frequency of a low alto, drifting in from the kitchen.
It was a chaotic, unstructured noise. In my previous life—the life before Jessica Monroe invaded my penthouse like a beautiful, destructive virus—this sound would have irritated me.
It would have disrupted the silence I carefully cultivated.
It would have been a variable to eliminate.
Now, lying in the tangled wreckage of my Egyptian cotton sheets, staring at the ceiling where the morning sun was casting prisms of light, I found that I didn't want to eliminate it.
I wanted to record it. I wanted to loop it.
I stretched, bracing myself for the familiar morning greeting of my left hip screaming in protest. I waited for the sharp, biting agony that usually accompanied the first movement of the day.
It didn't come.
There was stiffness, yes. A dull, low-level ache that reminded me I was mortal. But the grinding, bone-on-bone sensation was... muted.
I sat up, testing the joint. Range of motion: improved by at least fifteen degrees. Pain level: a manageable four out of ten.
I looked at the empty side of the bed. The pillow still held the indentation of her head. I reached out, pressing my hand into the cool silk. It smelled like her. Vanilla, sweat, and sex.
Memories of the night before crashed into my waking mind with the force of a slapshot. The way she had looked in the moonlight. The way she had shattered around my fingers. The way she had whispered yours against my skin.
I rubbed my face with both hands, feeling the scratch of stubble.
I was in trouble.
I was in deep, catastrophic, career-threatening trouble.
I got out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I didn't bother with a shirt. I walked out into the living area, following the humming.
Jess was in the kitchen. She was wearing one of my dress shirts—the one I had worn to the game.
It was unbuttoned at the top, hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
It swallowed her whole, hitting mid-thigh.
Her bare legs were crossed at the ankles as she leaned against the counter, waiting for the coffee machine to finish its cycle.
She was dancing slightly. A little hip sway. A little tap of her foot.
She looked like a masterpiece painted in morning light.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. I just watched her. I observed the way the light caught the copper strands of her hair. I cataloged the bruises on her neck—dark, purple marks that I had put there.
My mark.
A surge of possessiveness hit me so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me. It was a dark, primal thing. Mine.
"You're staring again," she said, not turning around.
"I am assessing the damage to my wardrobe," I said, my voice rough with sleep.
She turned, holding two mugs of coffee. Her hair was a disaster. Her lips were swollen. She looked exhausted and radiant all at once.
"Good morning to you too, Sunshine," she grinned, walking over to me. She handed me a mug. "Black. No sugar. Just the way your dark, empty soul likes it."
I took the mug, our fingers brushing. The spark was immediate. Even after everything we did last night, the electricity was still there, humming under the surface.
"How is the hip?" she asked, her eyes dropping to my leg.
"Better," I admitted. "Significantly better."
"See? I told you. Elevation and release." She looked proud. "I'm basically a miracle worker. You should double my salary."
"I don't pay you a salary, Jessica. I pay your tuition."
"Details."
She took a sip of her coffee, looking at me over the rim of the mug. The playfulness in her eyes faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. The reality of the morning after.
"So," she started, lowering the mug. "About last night."
"Yes."
"We... we crossed a line. A big one."
"We obliterated the line," I corrected. "We burned the line and salted the earth."
She bit her lip. "Right. So... what does that mean? For the contract? For the 'fake' dating?"
I stepped closer, invading her personal space. I placed my coffee on the hallway table and reached out, wrapping my hands around her waist. I pulled her between my legs.
"It means," I said, looking down into her green eyes, "that the dating isn't fake anymore. Not in here."
I gestured to the apartment.
"In here, you are mine. In here, there are no walls. No masks."
"And out there?" She gestured to the window, to the campus sprawling below.
I tightened my grip. This was the hard part. This was the chess move I hated making, but had to.
"Out there," I said softly, "we have to be careful. More careful than before."
"Why?"
"Because before, it was a game. People thought we were a PR stunt or a fling. It was harmless gossip. But if they see this..." I ran a thumb over her bruised lip. "If they see how much I want you... it becomes a weapon."
"A weapon?"
" The Scouts think I'm distracted. If they realize I'm obsessed, they'll use it against me.
They'll say I'm not focused on the game.
And my father..." I paused, the shadow of him looming over us even here.
"If he thinks you are a permanent distraction, he will try to remove you.
He will cut your funding. He will blacklist you from dance companies. He is ruthless, Jess."
She swallowed hard. She knew I wasn't exaggerating.
"So we hide it," she whispered.
"We hide the depth of it," I clarified. "We keep up the public appearances. We hold hands. We play the part of the happy couple. But we don't let them see the real us. We don't let them see that I can't breathe when you're not in the room."
The admission hung in the air. Heavy. True.
Jess searched my face. "You really feel that way?"
"I didn't sleep last night," I told her. "Not because of pain. But because I was afraid if I closed my eyes, you'd realize this was a mistake and leave."
Her expression softened into something devastatingly tender. She reached up, weaving her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck.
"I'm not going anywhere, Nick. I'm stubborn, remember?"
"Good."
I leaned down and kissed her. It started slow, a seal on our new agreement, but the moment our lips touched, the hunger woke up. I groaned, pulling her flush against me, feeling the softness of her breasts through the thin fabric of my shirt.
"We have practice in an hour," she murmured against my mouth.
"I know."
"We should get ready."
"We should."
I walked her backward until her lower back hit the wall. I lifted her, wrapping her legs around my waist.
"Five minutes," I growled, carrying her toward the bedroom. "I can be efficient."
She laughed, a breathless sound that was music to my ears. "Show off."
The next three days were a blur. A haze of adrenaline, caffeine, and sex.
It was as if the world had turned up the saturation. Colors were brighter. The ice at the rink felt crisper under my blades. Even the air in the locker room didn't smell quite as much like failure and Axe body spray.
I was playing out of my mind.
During practice on Tuesday, I scored a hat trick in the scrimmage. I moved with a fluidity I hadn't felt since before the injury. My hip was still there—a nagging reminder—but Jess iced it every night. She stretched me out. She put her hands on me and fixed me.
And in return, I ruined her.
We fell into a routine of secrecy that was terrifyingly addictive. It was a game of high stakes.
We met in the library stacks between classes. We didn't study. We found the darkest corner of the Slavic Literature section (nobody ever went there) and I kissed her until she was dizzy, my hands roaming under her sweater while students walked by just one aisle over.
We texted constantly.
Jess: I’m in Biology. Thinking about your hands.
Me: Focus on mitosis, Monroe. Or I will punish you later.
Jess: Is that a threat or a promise?
Me: Come to the penthouse at 4. Find out.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was the best week of my life.
But the most dangerous moments weren't the sexual ones. They were the domestic ones.
On Wednesday, we were in the athlete's cafeteria. It was crowded, loud, the usual chaos. We were sitting with the team—Jax, Miller, Carter (who was still terrified of me).
I was eating my prescribed grilled chicken and quinoa. Jess was eating a burger that looked like a heart attack on a bun.
"So," Jax said, waving a fork around. "Draft Combine invites go out next week. You nervous, Cap?"
"I don't get nervous," I said automatically. "I get prepared."
"Right. The Robot speaks." Jax looked at Jess. "Is he this boring at home? Does he organize his sock drawer by color?"
"He organizes it by thread count," Jess deadpanned, stealing a fry from my plate.
I watched her hand. I watched her pop the fry into her mouth.
Without thinking, I reached out and wiped a crumb from the corner of her lip. My thumb lingered there for a second too long. I looked at her mouth and remembered exactly how it felt wrapped around me this morning in the shower.
The table went quiet.
I froze. I pulled my hand back slowly, picking up my water glass.
I looked around. Jax was staring at me. Miller was staring at me. Even Carter looked confused.
"What?" I asked, my voice flat.
"Nothing," Jax said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Just... damn. You got it bad, don't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You looked at her like you wanted to eat her. And not in a zombie way. In a 'Romeo and Juliet but with more hockey' way."
"Eat your pasta, Miller," I snapped.
Under the table, Jess’s hand found my knee. She squeezed. It was a warning and a comfort. Careful.
I forced myself to look away from her. I forced myself to engage in a debate about the NHL playoff bracket. But my knee burned where she touched me.
Later that afternoon, the risk escalated.
I had a mandatory video session with the coaching staff. Jess had a gap in her schedule. She came to the rink to wait for me.