Chapter 19 #2
Every instinct screamed at me to tell him to leave. But exhaustion won out—emotional, physical, the kind that made arguing feel harder than just getting it over with. I fished my keys from my jacket pocket and unlocked the door.
He followed me inside without waiting for an invitation.
I didn't offer him a seat. Just dropped my bag on the desk chair and faced him, arms still crossed like armor. "What do you want, Nate?"
He set the coffee on my dresser—untouched, clearly a prop—and shoved his hands in his pockets. The smile dimmed just enough to look sincere. "I've been thinking about us."
"There is no us."
"I know." He nodded quickly, like he'd expected that. "And I get it. I screwed up. But we were good together, Billie. You know we were."
I stared at him, too tired for this performance. The man I'd left naked in bed with someone else stood in my room now, rewriting history like he could make me forget.
"You cheated on me," I said flatly.
"I made a mistake." He stepped closer, voice dropping into that intimate register he used to use in bed. "One stupid mistake. But we had something real. You were the only person who ever really got me."
The words landed wrong—hollow where they should've hit soft. Because less than an hour ago, someone else had looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than decoration.
Nate took my silence as encouragement. His hand reached for mine.
I pulled back before he could touch me. "Why are you really here?"
Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile tightened at the edges.
"I told you. I miss—"
"Bullshit."
He shifted his weight, glanced at the door like he was checking for witnesses. When he looked back at me, the warmth had drained from his face completely.
"Look, there's this journalist doing a profile.
Big piece for The Athletic—my rise, my rookie season, the whole arc.
" He spoke faster now, the rehearsed quality slipping through.
"They want the personal angle. You know, heartbreak to greatness, overcoming adversity, all that human interest garbage. "
My arms tightened across my chest. "And?"
"And they want to talk to you." He said it like it was nothing. Like he was asking me to grab coffee. "Maybe get a photo. You don't even have to say much. Just show up, stand next to me, talk about how you supported me through the grind. Clean, simple."
For a second, I couldn't process what I was hearing. Then it hit me all at once—the audacity, the sheer fucking nerve.
"You want me to lie?" My voice came out flat. "For PR?"
"It's not lying." He spread his hands like I was being unreasonable. "It's helping. And you owe me at least that much."
I laughed. Sharp and ugly, the sound scraping out of my throat. "You're unbelievable. I walk in on you fucking some puck slut and I owe you?"
His jaw tightened. "You wouldn't have a spot on the Crestwood team without me."
"I think your father would disagree with that."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, then irritation. "Really?" He cocked his head, studying me with new interest. "I doubt he even knows what's going on, too fucking drunk to realize—"
"You shouldn't talk about him that way." The words came out harder than I meant them. "He's not a drunk, Nate. Not anymore. He's a good coach."
Nate went still. His eyes narrowed, that calculating look I'd seen him use on opponents before a hit. "I don't give a fuck about my father."
He took a step closer, voice dropping into something colder.
"Let me guess…" A cruel smile tugged at his mouth. "He thinks you have potential? That's what he always says before he fucks you and leaves you." His eyes raked over me, searching for confirmation. "Tell me, Billie. Is that it? You fucking my father to get back at me?"
The question hung in the air between us—loaded, dangerous. I should've denied it. Should've thrown him out. Should've done anything except what I did next.
I smiled.
"You would think something like that, wouldn't you?" I let the words settle, watched his expression start to shift. "I don't know, Nate. Maybe I'm fucking your father to feel what it actually feels like to be thoroughly fucked."
His face went dead. All the polished charm, the media-trained warmth—gone. What replaced it was cold and flat and purely threat.
"You really think that ends well for you?" He stepped closer, not touching but close enough I could smell his cologne. The same one he wore the night I caught him.
"I think I'm done playing by your rules."
"I think you're going to regret that." He loomed over me now, using every inch of his height.
His voice dropped to something quiet and vicious.
"You're still just the girl they forgot when I left.
Don't make me remind them why. And just so you know, my father is a monster.
You think he doesn't have skeletons in his closet?
You think this little coaching job is going to save his career?
If you really think he's a good asset to Crestwood, then you'll do what I tell you.
Because, if not, I'll take him down. And he's already down, so it won't be hard to ruin him in a way there's no coming back from. "
Then he turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him with careful, controlled precision.
The silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence.
I stood frozen in the middle of my room, heart hammering, skin still buzzing with Calder's touch and now contaminated with Nate's proximity. My hands shook as I locked the door.
What the hell had I just done?
I stared at the cheap wood like it might swing open again, like he might come back with something worse.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I wasn't afraid—not really. I was furious. Furious at his audacity, his entitlement, the way he walked in here like he still owned pieces of me. Like I owed him my silence, my complicity, my body as a backdrop for his success story.
But underneath the rage, fear slithered cold through my chest. Because Nate was dangerous in the way quiet men in power always are. He didn't need to threaten loudly. He just needed to whisper the right words to the right people, and my whole world could collapse.
I slid down the door until I hit the floor, still wearing Calder's scent under my sweatshirt, still feeling the ghost of his hands on my hips.
I didn't regret Calder.
I regretted not knowing how much more complicated it was going to get.