Chapter 13
Billie
The second I spotted him, everything inside me went off-balance. Calder Shaw—beer in hand, a blonde in flannel leaning into his shoulder like she belonged there. He looked comfortable. Easy. The kind of easy that shouldn’t exist in the same man who’d carved me open with one glare at practice.
He laughed at something she said, head back, the lines at his eyes soft for once. It hit lower than I wanted to admit. I pressed my hand to my glass just to keep it from shaking.
Kira followed my stare. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lied, thumb smudging condensation across the rim.
The blonde touched his arm again, nails painted a red that matched her lipstick.
He didn’t pull away. My stomach tightened.
For all the words we hadn’t said, for every look that could’ve burned a hole through ice, he looked at her like none of it existed.
Like I hadn’t been a stupid mistake he was still trying not to regret.
I hated that I cared. Hated how small it made me feel.
I told myself he didn’t matter—he was my coach; he was a warning; he was a mistake.
But my body didn’t get the memo. It reacted anyway, remembering his voice, the way he’d told me to skate harder, the raw command behind it that wasn’t just about hockey.
He caught sight of me for half a second across the bar. No reaction. No flicker of guilt or recognition. Just one calm blink before he went back to the blonde’s ear.
My chest ached so sharp it almost felt funny.
What did you expect, Donovan? That he’d sit alone in some dark corner, pining? That he’d pull you aside, whisper that he missed you, like this was some movie worth saving? Grow up.
I grabbed my drink and finished it in one go. The whiskey bit down my throat like punishment, heat blooming in my chest until it felt almost good. Almost. The glass hit the table with a thud that made Kira jump.
“I’m done here,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if I meant the bar or something bigger.
She opened her mouth, but I was already on my feet. The air felt too thick to breathe. The laughter from his side of the room followed me out like smoke.
Kira caught me halfway to the door and hooked her arm through mine. “Nope. Not yet. You’re too hot to mope like this.”
“Kira—”
“That guy at the bar has been checking you out for twenty minutes,” she said, yanking me toward the counter.
“Probably thinks I’m about to puke in the parking lot.”
“Billie, shut up and look.”
I did. And damn it, she was right. He was cute—late twenties maybe, forearm ink that curled under the cuff of his rolled-up sleeve, dirty blond hair that looked like somebody’s fingers had already been there. Dimples. Actual dimples. I hated how unfair that felt.
He caught my stare and smiled slow, like he knew I’d been caught looking. Then he poured a shot without being asked, set it in front of me, amber catching the light.
“House special?” I asked.
“On the house.” His voice was easy, confident without being slick. “Rough game or rough guy?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Both. You offering to replace one of them?”
“Only if I get to be both.”
Kira groaned behind me, whispering, “Oh, he did not just say that.”
But he did, and it worked better than it had any right to. I felt a grin pull at my mouth before I could stop it. “That a promise or a threat?”
“Depends. You want soft hands or a strong shot?”
I tipped the whiskey back, letting the burn erase the tight knot sitting under my ribs. “Surprise me.”
He leaned across the bar, close enough that I could smell citrus and smoke on his skin. “I usually do.”
Something reckless unfurled in my chest. Maybe the alcohol, maybe anger, maybe both. It had been a week of bruises—most of them emotional—and flirting felt like rebelling against all of it.
“So what’s your name, mystery man?”
“Evan.” He waited, eyes flicking over my face. “And you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not if you’re just passing through.”
“Then I guess I’m whoever you want me to be tonight.”
It was a performance. All of it—the smile, the tilt of my chin, the careless swing of my hair. But somewhere under the act, something real pulsed. Heat. Freedom. The split-second illusion that maybe I wasn’t shattered at all, just a girl in a bar choosing to be alive.
I leaned closer over the counter to ask Evan something I hadn’t even decided yet. My fingers brushed his when he slid me another drink. Just a light touch, nothing meant by it, but still—warm. Real. I felt it buzz across my skin like static after lightning.
Then the air changed.
Heavy. Electric.
I didn’t have to turn around to know why.
Calder filled the space beside me, big enough that everything near him seemed to shrink. No coat, sleeves shoved up, eyes dark as a storm. The noise of the bar blurred out until only his voice cut through it.
“Let’s go.”
The glass froze halfway to my mouth. “What?”
“Now.”
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The slow bite of each word slid right under my skin. Heat spiked low in my gut, sharp and humiliating. I forced my shoulders back, searching for my voice, any words that could build a wall between us.
“Last I checked, you don’t get to—”
Evan frowned. “Hey, man, she’s fine here, all right?”
Calder turned his head. Just that. A look. The kind that stripped paint. Evan’s jaw jumped once, then he stepped back, palms raised slightly like he’d just realized the bear in front of him wasn’t caged.
The whole bar seemed to stop breathing. My pulse hammered against the inside of my wrist. This was insane—him showing up, the fury, the command—but some reckless part of me responded before the rational part could drag me back.
“Donovan,” he said, quieter now, dangerous in its calm. “Outside.”
I hated that my body reacted first. Muscles shifting, legs moving. He didn’t touch me, not really, just reached for my wrist, fingers closing around air until I let him catch it. His hand was rough, steady, too familiar. The contact shot through me, hot and confusing as hell.
“Shaw—” I tried again, half protest, half dare.
“Don’t,” he cut in. One word, low enough that only I heard it. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was something worse—possession tangled with guilt, pouring straight into me.
The bartender still watched, unsure whether to speak, but Calder’s eyes killed the idea.
I could’ve stayed, could’ve made a scene, proved a point.
Instead, I let him pull me through the press of bodies and out into the cold, every stride matching his, every nerve lit up like we’d stepped onto thin ice and didn’t care if it cracked.
Cold air hit us in the face when Calder shoved the metal door open. It slammed the brick behind him and the music shrank to a dull heartbeat, muffled by the wall. The alley smelled like wet asphalt and cigarettes. My arm still prickled where his hand had been.
He paced in front of me, a caged animal in a jacket too thin for the temperature. Fists flexed. Shoulders rolling like he was trying to shake something off. I crossed my arms to keep my hands from shaking.
“You don’t get to pull me out of bars like you’re my dad or my boyfriend.”
He stopped mid-stride. The look he gave could’ve cracked concrete. “You’re being sloppy.”
I barked out a laugh that didn’t sound like me. “Fuck you.”
“That what you were trying to do in there?”
The hit came before I even thought about it. Instinct, faster than anger. My palm met his face with a sharp crack that bounced off the bricks. His head jerked sideways. For a second, neither of us moved. The chill slipped between us, cold enough to sting.
He drew in a breath through his teeth, slow, measured, like he was counting every reason not to explode. A faint red mark bloomed across his cheek. My hand burned.
“You done?” he asked, voice lower, rougher.
I stared at that mark, part of me wishing it had left a handprint deep enough to be remembered. “Depends. You finished acting like you own me?”
“I pulled you out before you did something stupid,” he said.
“You are the stupid thing!” My voice bounced back from the closed door. My heart pounded against my ribs so hard I tasted copper. “You walk in there, all authority and jealousy, and now I’m the reckless one?”
He took a step toward me. I didn’t back up, though the wall waited just behind my shoulder.
“You don’t get it.” His jaw tightened. Words forced through restraint. “Every person in that bar had a camera. All it would take is one photo. One hint that something’s off. You’d lose everything you’ve worked for. And I’d—”
“What? Lose your job? Your reputation? Your control?” I cut him off, heat coursing through me; the same fire he’d been stoking since the first time he shouted my name across the ice. “I didn’t ask for your protection. You don’t get to decide how I burn.”
The muscles at the corner of his mouth jumped. There was something like regret behind his eyes, but it vanished as fast as it came.
“Billie…”
“Don’t.” I stepped closer until his breath slid across my lips, whiskey and cold air. “You want to lecture me, do it in daylight. You drag me out here again and I’ll make sure your boss knows exactly how far your boundaries stretch.”
He blinked hard, expression unreadable. The wind picked up, carrying a thin veil of snow between us. Tiny flakes caught in his hair, melted against the heat coming off that hard stare.
We stood there too long, silence thick enough to choke on. My pulse refused to settle, caught halfway between fury and something else that felt just as dangerous. His shoulders lifted, dropped.
“Go home,” he said finally.
“No.”
That single syllable hung between us like a match head. He stepped forward again. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The thump of music inside the bar counted the seconds out of sync with my heartbeat.
“Billie,” he repeated, quieter this time, but it wasn’t a request.
I raised my chin. “Make me.”
For one frozen heartbeat, the world narrowed to breath and distance. His fists uncurled. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing every trace of the man I’d seen coaching on clean ice.
Then he moved.
A blur of motion—shoulders dropping, boots shifting, the sharp sting of heat rushing the cold between us. He lunged.
His hand slammed beside my head, just enough to pin me without touching. The brick pressed into my back, cold cutting through my thin shirt. He leaned in, shoulders filling my vision, breath heat against my cheek.
“Tell me you don’t want me.”
The words hit harder than the wall.
I swallowed, breath stuttering. “You’re my coach.”
His mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a warning. “And you’re the one who can’t stop looking at me.”
Then he kissed me.
No hesitation, no careful testing. His mouth crashed into mine like a collision he’d chosen.
It wasn’t gentle—it was weeks of pretending snapping all at once.
His hands gripped the back of my neck, thumbs sliding under my jaw, pulling me closer until I forgot where the air ended and the fire started.
For a split second I froze, shock locking my muscles. Then instinct took over. My fingers clenched his jacket, dragging him closer, the zipper biting into my palm. His chest was solid, heart thudding quick and angry under my hands. The taste of him—whiskey and winter air—hit me like a shot.
He broke away for a breath, forehead pressed to mine. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. "This is a mistake."
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My mouth found his again—harder this time. All the fight I’d been saving for the ice poured into that kiss. I bit his lip; he groaned, fingers sliding into my hair. The sharp pull forced a sound from my throat I didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was everything—rage, need, weeks of skirting around what neither of us dared name. His mouth traced a path down to my jaw, rough stubble scraping skin that suddenly felt too thin.
I should’ve stopped him. I didn’t.
The wall vibrated faintly with the bass from inside. His hand found my waist, thumb pressing under the hem of my shirt until my stomach trembled. His mouth moved lower—throat, collarbone—each kiss a brand, every one stealing more control than I’d thought I’d ever give again.
“This is a mistake,” I gasped, or tried to. Repeating his own words. Because he was right.
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes. “So was trying to forget you.”
It wasn’t fair, what those six words did. My chest caved in, heart pounding against bone like it wanted out. He kissed me again, slower now but deeper, almost cruel in how careful it suddenly felt.
I fisted the fabric at his shoulders, pulling until the seam creaked. He answered with a broken sound, half growl, half prayer, then caught my bottom lip between his teeth. Sparks burst behind my eyes; the cold air turned irrelevant.
When he finally pulled back, neither of us moved. His pupils were blown wide, breath rough against my neck. The heat between us was its own gravity.
“Billie,” he started, like he wanted to take the whole thing back and couldn’t find the words.
I pressed my hand against his chest, found the steady hammer of his heartbeat. We were both trembling.
“We can’t,” I whispered.
His thumb brushed my mouth, wiping the smear of his own blood. “Already did.”
The truth of it hung there, heavy and alive. The distance between us was barely an inch, but it felt like a cliff. He exhaled, slow and ragged, then stepped back just enough for air to slip between us. I hit the wall again, missing his warmth instantly.
The alley spun with a quiet that felt dangerous. My lips ached. My hands stayed clenched, useless fists of want and denial.
Inside, somebody laughed. Out here, it was still snowing, flakes melting as soon as they landed on our skin.
He met my eyes one last time, face unreadable except for the crack around his jaw. Then he turned away, leaving the air stripped clean of oxygen.
I stood there, bones humming, breath coming too fast. The taste of him still burned in my mouth long after he disappeared into the dark.