No Exit Clause
Cohen
I see Julian Heart walking toward me.
He has that heavy, determined stride I learned to fear during training—the one that usually comes right before an epic blowup or a brutal round of punishment laps.
I don’t move.
I don’t back away.
If he wants to hit me, I’ll take it.
If he wants to yell that I’m not worthy of his daughter, I’ll shut up and listen.
Because he’s probably right.
He stops a step away from me.
We’re the same height, but right now I feel small in front of him.
He looks me straight in the eye. His face is hard, carved by cold air and a father’s worry—but there’s no hatred there. Not the kind I expected.
He lifts a hand.
I tense, bracing for the hit.
Instead, his hand lands on my shoulder.
A heavy, solid clap that rattles my bones. Then it stays there. Tightens.
A grip that isn’t a threat—it’s an anchor.
He leans in, invading my space, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“You’re not your father, Cohen,” he murmurs, rough and low. “You’re a better man than you think. Stop punishing yourself for sins that aren’t yours—and don’t waste this chance.”
He claps my shoulder again—harder this time, almost violent, but threaded with a rough affection that knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Take care of her. Or I’ll kill you. But… I know you will.”
Then he steps back, gives me one sharp nod, and walks away.
I stay there, frozen.
He… knows?
How does he know about my father? And how the hell does he always have this terrifying ability to see straight through people?
On the field, I always thought it was just because he’s damn good at his job.
But this?
This feels different. Like he’s been watching me more closely than I ever realized. Like he understands me better than I’m comfortable with.
My eyes burn. Pressure tightens in my throat—something I haven’t felt in years.
You’re a better man than you think.
Coming from him.
From the man I respect more than anyone.
From the man who knows every one of my flaws.
I force the feeling down with a shaky breath. I can’t fall apart now.
Not when she’s here.
Not when I need to take care of her.
I look up.
Sloane is standing exactly where her father left her.
Alone. In the snow. Bathed in pale afternoon light.
She’s folded in on herself, hands pressed to her mouth, shoulders shaking.
She’s crying.
And she’s crying in a way that rips something vital straight out of my chest.
A sharp, physical pain stabs beneath my sternum. Seeing her like this—broken, fragile—hurts worse than any injury I’ve ever taken.
And I know she’s crying because of me.
Because of us.
Because she thinks she’s lost me.
I stop thinking.
I don’t think about jealousy. About Joe. About my wounded pride.
I move.
I cross the distance between us in long strides, snow crunching under my boots.
“Sloane.”
She jerks her head up. Her face is streaked with tears, eyes red, nose running. She’s a mess.
And she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.
“Cohen…” she sobs, taking a step back like she’s afraid I’ve come to say goodbye. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
I don’t let her finish.
I reach her and pull her into me.
No words.
No joke.
No deflection.
That’s usually my armor—being an idiot, laughing things off.
Not this time.
This time, the armor is on the ground.
I hold her, wrapping my arms around her—one hand pressing the back of her head to my chest, the other tight around her waist.
She collapses against me. Clutches my jacket with desperate fists and buries her face in my neck, soaking my skin with hot tears.
Her body shakes against mine, every sob another crack straight through my heart.
Parts of me I didn’t even know existed—parts I thought were dead or numb—are waking up now, screaming for her.
“Shhh,” I whisper into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “Shhh, Angel. You don’t have to cry. Not for me. Never for me.”
“I thought you left,” she cries into my scarf. “I thought you hated me.”
“I couldn’t hate you if I tried,” I murmur, holding her tighter. “Do you hear me? I’m here.”
I take her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. I wipe her tears with my thumbs, but they keep coming.
“I’m not leaving, Sloane. I didn’t leave.”
My voice comes out low, rough with emotion.
“I just needed to calm down. I was angry. Jealous. Scared. And I was about to turn into the worst version of myself.”
I rest my forehead against hers. Our breaths mingle, white clouds in the cold air.
“I don’t want to be that guy with you. I don’t want to screw this up. I want to give you the best of me. And the best of me…”
I stop, steadying myself.
“The best of me only comes out when I’m with you. Walking away wasn’t fair. That’s not how you handle things. I’m sorry, Angel.”
She sniffles softly and looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes—like she never expected to hear that.
I kiss her tear-damp lashes. Then the tip of her cold nose.
“I don’t care about Joe. I don’t care how it started. I care about where we are now. I care that when you look at me, I see myself differently. I see myself… capable.”
Sloane lets out a shaky breath and finally relaxes in my arms.
Her body goes heavy against mine, like she’s cut the strings that were holding her taut.
We stay like that, wrapped in snow-soft silence and the distant hum of generators. I don’t rush her. I need this moment—need to know she’s here, that she’s not running.
“Cohen…” she murmurs against my jacket.
“Yeah?”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her lashes are wet, cheeks flushed from cold and tears, but her gaze is steady. Determined.
“There’s something you need to know. About that night. At The Aureum.”
I stiffen, just slightly. Part of me is afraid—afraid she’ll confirm I was nothing more than a distraction.
“I went there to distract myself,” she says softly. “I wanted to erase Joe. I wanted to feel alive. Wanted. Not like the boring girl he cheated on.”
She takes a breath, fingers gripping the lapels of my jacket.
“But the moment I saw you… the moment you spoke to me… Joe disappeared. I wasn’t using you to forget him. I was with you because it was electric. Because it felt different from anything I’d ever known. It was special, Cohen. Right away.”
The knot in my stomach loosens, inch by inch.
“Then why did you run?” I ask quietly—the question that’s haunted me for months.
She looks down, biting her lip.
“Because I saw your wallet. It was open.”
She looks up, guilty.
“I saw your ID. Cohen Becker. Lakewood FC. And my blood froze. You were my dad’s big signing—the player he’d bet everything on. And I was… the coach’s daughter who’d just spent the night with him.”
She shakes her head.
“I panicked. Pure, stupid panic.”
Everything clicks.
It wasn’t disgust.
It wasn’t boredom.
It was fear.
The same fear I felt when I realized who she was in her office.
I brush my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last tear.
“Do you know what they told me the next day?” I ask softly. “Nate. The guys. Everyone. They said you were a setup. A journalist. A trap.”
Her eyes widen. “What? No!”
“I know,” I say immediately. “I never believed it. Not for a second.”
I give a bitter smile.
“But you know what I did think?”
She shakes her head.
“I thought I’d done something wrong. That you hadn’t liked me enough. That I’d been… disappointing. That the magic was only in my head, and that for you I was just a mistake to forget before sunrise.”
“No!” she blurts, startled by her own intensity, slapping a hand over my mouth.
I kiss her palm. She slowly lowers it, our fingers lacing together.
“Sloane,” I say seriously. “Listen to me. You are not boring. And none of this is your fault. That guy is a cheating worm.”
God, how I hate him.
The wind lifts, blowing her hair across her face. I tuck it behind her ear, savoring the warmth of her skin against my frozen fingers.
She hesitates.
“There is… a problem, though,” she murmurs, eyes dropping to our joined hands.
“A problem?” My chest tightens again. “What kind of problem?”
“It’s something I didn’t expect. And it breaks every professional rule I have.”
“Sloane, you’re scaring me. Say it.”
She inhales like she’s about to jump off a cliff.
“I think…” Her voice trembles. “I think I’m starting to feel something for you. Something real. And it terrifies me.”
I freeze.
She feels something.
For me.
For me.
Euphoria detonates in my chest—warm, bright, obliterating the cold.
And then my ego—that smug bastard—wakes up.
A slow, arrogant, deeply punchable smile spreads across my face.
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Well, Angel… tell me something I don’t know.”
She blinks. “What?”
I shrug, puffing out my chest.
“I mean, look at me. I’m irresistible. I cook like shit, I’ve got a terrible attitude, I’m a god in bed, and I just comforted you in the snow like the lead in a movie. Statistically speaking, you never stood a chance.”
She stares at me, stunned.
Then—
“You’re an idiot!”
She punches me. Hard. In the arm.
“Ow!” I laugh, rubbing my bicep.
“Arrogant, insufferable—” She hits my chest again, laughing now. The tears are gone. My Sloane is back. “I open my heart and you start peacocking?”
I catch her hands mid-air, closing my grip around her wrists, and pull her into me until there’s no space left between our bodies.
My smile fades, replaced by something sharper—something that makes her stop laughing instantly.
“I was joking,” I murmur, a breath from her lips. “Or maybe not. I am irresistible. But that’s not the point.”
I hold her gaze, completely serious now, every defense stripped away.
“The point is—you’re late, Sloane.”
“Late?”
“Yeah. Because I’ve been feeling this for a long time.” I release her wrists, cradling her face instead. “So if you think you’ve got a problem… congratulations. We’ve got the same one. Because I’m screwed. Completely gone.”
She just looks at me. Her lips part slightly, like she’s forgotten how to breathe, and I see the exact moment fear drains from her eyes—replaced by something warm. Something bright.
She doesn’t say a word.
She rises onto her toes, her hands shaking as they slide up my chest, then my neck, fingers threading into my hair at the nape.
And then she kisses me.
It’s soft—cold with snow, hot with promise. A we’re in trouble, but we’re choosing this anyway kind of kiss.
Her lips are chilled by the mountain air, but they burn against mine. Slow. Exploratory. Asking and answering all at once.
I close my eyes, and the rest of the world disappears.
There’s only her.
The faint salt of dried tears.
The hint of vanilla.
The frantic, uneven beat of her heart against my chest.
I pull her closer, lifting her just enough to erase the last inch of distance between us, and deepen the kiss. There’s no rush—just a depth that makes my head spin.
It feels like coming home after a lifetime of running.
Like every broken piece inside me is finally locking into place with hers.
For the first time, I’m not kissing to take.
I’m kissing to give everything I have.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless, foreheads pressed together, white vapor curling between us in the cold.
She keeps her eyes closed for a beat longer, like she’s holding onto the feeling. When she opens them, they’re bright. Liquid.
“Wow,” she breathes.
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice rough. “Wow.”
I brush my thumb along her cheek, unable to stop touching her.
“So…” she says, clawing back a shred of her usual sass, cheeks blazing. “Does this mean I officially have to put up with you now? Without the contract excuse?”
I smile and kiss the tip of her red nose.
“I’m afraid so, Angel. You’re stuck with me. No exit clauses.”
She tilts her head, pretending to think it over.
“Well… as long as you keep kissing me like that and protecting me from bad guys, I might not fire you.”
“Very generous, boss.”
“I know. It’s my fatal flaw.”
We’re about to kiss again—fully prepared to ignore the rest of the universe for at least another hour—when a shrill, amplified crackle shatters the quiet of the woods.
“ATTENTION! ATTENTION, LOVE BIRDS AND LONELY HEARTS!”
Sloane jumps in my arms. I groan, dropping my forehead to her shoulder.
Aunt Tina’s voice booms from the base camp speakers like a sequined act of God.
“Wipe your tears and fix your lipstick! The truce is over! I want everyone at the base of the ice rink in ten minutes! The next challenge is called Trust on Ice, and I promise—it’s going to be… slippery!”
Sloane laughs against my chest.
“There’s really no escape, is there?”
“None,” I say, taking her hand and lacing our fingers together. “Come on. We’ve got a reality show to win.”
“Trust on Ice,” she repeats, rolling her eyes as we start walking. “You know how to skate, Becker… right?”
I wink at her.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’ve got a thousand talents.”
She rolls her eyes—smiling.