Chapter 10
Greg
Morning light in Maine is relentless. It’s a sharp, piercing grey that cuts through curtains and demands acknowledgment.
I opened my eyes.
The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic whoosh of the heating vent and the soft breathing next to me.
I turned my head.
Michelle was asleep. She was sprawled on her stomach, her face turned toward me, half-buried in the pillow. Her platinum hair was a chaotic fan across the dark grey sheets. One arm was flung out, her hand resting palm-up near my shoulder, fingers curled slightly.
She looked… peaceful.
For the first time since she arrived at the Ice Box, the tension that usually radiated off her—the defensive prickliness, the desperate need for attention—was gone. She was just Michelle. Soft. Real.
And naked.
The sheet had slipped down to her waist, revealing the smooth curve of her back, the indentation of her spine, the scattering of freckles on her shoulder that I hadn’t noticed last night in the dark.
Last night.
The memory hit me like a physical blow. The way she had looked in the moonlight. The way she had begged. The way she had felt surrounding me.
I groaned, scrubbing a hand over my face. My head still ached—a dull throb behind my eyes—but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
I had broken the rules. I had shattered the contract. I had slept with the one person I was sworn to protect.
And God help me, I wanted to do it again.
I shifted, turning onto my side to watch her.
"Michelle," I whispered.
She stirred. Her nose twitched. She let out a small, contented sigh and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
"Five more minutes," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "Tell the maid to come back later."
I chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in my chest. "No maid here, Princess. Just me."
Her eyes snapped open.
Blue. Startled. Then, recognizing.
"Greg," she breathed.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheet pooling at her waist. She blinked, looking around the room as reality caught up with her. The black walls. The trophies. The man in the bed.
"Hi," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"Hi."
"So," she said, reaching out to trace the line of my collarbone. "We did that."
"We did."
"Are you… regretting it?" Her smile faltered slightly. The insecurity crept back into her eyes. "Are you going to quote the roommate agreement to me?"
I caught her hand and brought it to my lips. I kissed her knuckles, then her palm.
"No regrets," I said firmly. "But we have a problem."
"My dad?"
"No. We have a problem because I’m not done."
Her breath hitched. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the blue.
"You’re not?"
"Not even close."
I moved. Despite the stiffness in my neck and the lingering dizziness, I moved with a predator's speed. I flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the mattress.
She gasped, a delighted sound, as I hovered over her.
"I have a concussion," I reminded her, bracing my weight on my forearms. "So you might have to do the work."
"Oh, I think I can handle that," she purred, wrapping her legs around my waist.
But before we could start, before I could lose myself in her again, her stomach growled.
Loudly. Like a lion roaring in the Serengeti.
We both froze.
Michelle’s face turned bright red. She covered her face with her hands.
"Oh my God," she groaned. "Mortifying. Ignore that. I am a sex goddess. I do not have bodily functions."
I laughed. I actually laughed out loud. It felt foreign and wonderful.
"Sex goddesses need fuel," I said, rolling off her and pulling her into my side. "Breakfast first. Then… we negotiate terms."
"Pancakes?" she asked hopefully, peeking through her fingers.
"Protein," I countered. "And maybe pancakes. If you’re good."
"I’m never good," she whispered. "That’s why you like me."
She was right. And that was the terrifying part.
Breakfast was a surreal domestic scene.
We put clothes on—me in sweatpants, her in one of my hoodies that came down to her knees. We went downstairs.
The house was a disaster zone. The aftermath of the party lay everywhere. Red cups littered the floor like fallen soldiers. Sticky puddles of unknown origin. A bra hanging from the chandelier.
"Animals," I muttered, kicking a crushed can out of the way.
"It looks like a good party," Michelle observed, stepping gingerly over a sleeping sophomore on the rug.
We made it to the kitchen. It was surprisingly intact, mostly thanks to Michelle’s terror campaign against the freshmen last night.
I made coffee. She sat on the counter, swinging her legs, watching me.
"So," she said, blowing on her mug. "What happens now?"
I turned to face her. This was the conversation. The one I had been dreading and craving.
"Now," I said, leaning against the sink, "we have to be careful."
"Careful is boring."
"Careful is necessary. If your father finds out, he pulls you. If Coach finds out, he benches me for 'distractions.' If the team finds out… well, they won't shut up about it until graduation."
"So we’re secret?" she asked. " clandestine lovers?"
"We keep it inside the house," I proposed. "Out there," I gestured to the window, "we’re roommates. We’re tutoring partners. In here…"
I walked over to her. I stepped between her legs where they dangled off the counter. I put my hands on her thighs, sliding them up under the hoodie. Her skin was warm, soft.
"In here," I whispered, leaning in until our foreheads touched, "you’re mine."
She shivered. "I like that rule."
"I thought you might."
"But Greg," she said, pulling back slightly to look me in the eye. "I don't just want sex. I mean, I really want sex. But… last night. In the truck. You listened to me. You saw me."
"I know."
"I need that," she said, her voice vulnerable. "I need the friend part too."
"You have it," I promised. "You have all of it."
She smiled, a genuine, soft smile that made my chest ache.
"Okay," she said. "Now feed me. Before I eat your arm."
I made pancakes. Protein pancakes, obviously, but I put chocolate chips in hers.
We ate at the island, shoulders touching. We talked about nothing—the party, the game, her design project. It was easy. It was light.
Then, the front door opened.
"Cap? You alive?"
Beef.
We sprang apart. Michelle hopped off the counter so fast she almost tripped. I turned to the sink, scrubbing a perfectly clean pan.
Beef walked in, looking hungover and miserable. He was wearing sunglasses and clutching a gallon of water.
"Morning," he croaked. "Please tell me there's coffee. And that the sun isn't actually exploding."
"Coffee's fresh," I said, keeping my back to him.
Beef shuffled to the pot. He poured a cup, then squinted at Michelle.
"Vane," he grunted. "You're up early. And wearing the Captain's hoodie."
Michelle froze. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands.
"Laundry day," she lied smoothly. "My stuff is in the wash."
"Right," Beef said. He didn't seem convinced, but he was too hungover to investigate. "Hey Cap, Coach called. Said you need to report to the trainer at noon for a concussion check."
"I know," I said. "I'm going."
"He also said... uh... he wants to talk to you about 'optics'."
I stiffened. "Optics?"
"Yeah. Something about Vane's dad being pissed at the game. Said you were 'fraternizing' in the hallway."
I felt Michelle tense beside me.
"Tell Coach I'll handle it," I said, my voice dropping into the Gavel tone.
"Sure thing, Cap." Beef grabbed a bagel and shuffled out. "I'm going back to bed. If anyone knocks on the door, tell them I died."
He left.
Michelle looked at me, fear back in her eyes.
"Optics," she whispered. "My dad called the Coach."
"He's trying to scare us," I said. "He's marking his territory."
"It's working," she said. "Greg, if you get in trouble..."
"I won't." I walked over to her and grabbed her shoulders. "I'm the Captain. I have perfect grades. I have a spotless record. Miller isn't going to bench me because a donor got grumpy."
"You don't know my father," she said darkly. "He doesn't play fair."
"Neither do I," I said. "Defense isn't about playing fair. It's about protecting the goal."
I kissed her forehead.
"Go upstairs. Get your books. We're going to study. In the living room. Where everyone can see us."
"Why?"
"Because the best place to hide is in plain sight. We show them we're working. We show them it's strictly professional."
"And tonight?" she asked, a spark of hope returning.
"Tonight," I whispered, leaning down to her ear, "you come to my room. And I show you exactly how unprofessional I can be."
She shivered.
"Yes, sir."
The day was a torture of restraint.
We sat in the living room. I read Game Theory. She sketched on her iPad.
The team filtered in and out, nursing hangovers, playing video games. They saw us. They saw the books. They saw the distance between us on the couch.
"Working hard, Vane?" Johnson asked, flopping onto the armchair.
"Someone has to be the brains of the operation," she quipped, not looking up.
"Cap, you sure you should be reading with a concussion?"
"Doctor said light reading is fine," I lied. "And keeping her from failing finance is a public service."
They bought it. Or they didn't care.
But every time Michelle shifted on the couch, every time she tucked her hair behind her ear, I felt it. The pull.
I watched her hands as she drew. They were elegant, quick. I remembered how they felt on my skin. I remembered how she had gripped the sheets.
By 8:00 PM, I was losing my mind.
"I'm going to bed," I announced, standing up. "Headache."
"Night, Cap," the guys chorused.
I looked at Michelle. She didn't look up, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
"Goodnight, Sterling," she said. "Don't dream about spreadsheets."
"Don't dream about failing," I retorted.
I went upstairs.
I showered. I waited.
Twenty minutes later, my door opened.
She slipped inside and locked it.
She was wearing the silk slip dress again. The blue one from the fabric store? No, she hadn't made that yet. This was black. Simple. Devastating.
She walked to the bed.
"Is the door locked?" she asked.
"Bolted."
"Good."
She climbed onto the bed. She didn't hesitate this time. She straddled my lap, pushing me back against the pillows.
"You talked a lot about 'unprofessional' this morning," she said, her hands finding my chest. "I'm ready for the demonstration."
I grabbed her hips.
"You're impatient," I growled.
"I'm starving," she corrected.
She kissed me. And the world disappeared.
We didn't just have sex. We waged war on the sheets.
It started slow. Worshipful. I mapped every inch of her body with my hands, my mouth. I learned the spot behind her ear that made her sigh. I learned the way her ribs expanded when she breathed.
But then, the heat took over.
"Turn over," I commanded.
She flipped onto her stomach instantly. Submission. Trust.
I pulled her hips up. I entered her from behind.
It was deep. Animalistic.
I held her hips, guiding the rhythm. She buried her face in the pillow to stifle her moans.
"You like that?" I rasped, leaning down to bite her shoulder.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes."
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," she cried. "Greg. Yours."
I reached between her legs, finding her clit. She unraveled.
It was messy. It was loud. It was perfect.
When we finally collapsed, tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, I felt a shift.
It wasn't just lust anymore. It wasn't just protection.
I looked at the back of her head, at the damp platinum hair fanned out on my pillow.
I was falling. Hard. Fast. Like a rookie taking a blindside hit.
"Michelle?" I whispered.
"Hmm?" She was half-asleep.
"I'm glad you climbed out the window."
She chuckled sleepily. "Me too. Best felony I ever committed."
She drifted off.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling.
I was in love with Michelle Vane.
The realization hit me with the force of a slapshot.
I was in love with the donor's daughter. The chaos demon. The girl I was supposed to be babysitting.
It was a disaster. It was a catastrophe.
And as I pulled her closer, wrapping my arm around her waist, I knew I would destroy everything—my career, my reputation, my carefully ordered life—just to keep her here for one more night.
The contract didn't matter anymore. The NHL didn't matter.
Only she mattered.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.