Chapter 24
Calder
My hands were already on his collar before my brain caught up. I slammed Nate into the wall hard enough that his skull cracked against concrete. Hard enough that his smirk finally faltered.
"You touch her?"
The question came out strangled. Raw. I barely recognized my own voice.
Nate's eyes flickered. Just for a second. Then that goddamn smile crawled back across his face.
"What if I did?" He leaned into my grip. Testing me. Daring me. "You gonna hit me, Dad? In front of her? That'll look great for your little redemption arc."
My fist tightened in the fabric of his shirt. Every muscle in my body screamed to finish what I'd started. To wipe that smirk off his face with my knuckles.
But he was right. And he knew it.
"Touch me," Nate said quietly, "and I take her down with me."
The words landed like a blade between my ribs.
I saw it play out in slow motion. The headlines. The photos. Disgraced NHL Coach Assaults Player's Ex-Boyfriend. The investigation that would follow. Questions about my relationship with Billie. How close we'd been. What I'd done.
Nate would burn. But Billie would go down with him.
And I couldn't let that happen.
My hands shook. Trembled against his collar. Every instinct I had roared at me to break him. To make him hurt the way I hurt.
But I let go. Stepped back. Fists still clenched at my sides.
Nate straightened. Smoothed his shirt. That smile spread wider. Victorious.
"Smart choice." He brushed past me. Paused at the door. Looked back over his shoulder. "By the way? She tastes the same as she did before. Just in case you were wondering."
Then he walked out. Left me standing there. Hands shaking. Heart hammering. Blood roaring in my ears.
I wanted to chase him. Wanted to drag him back and finish what I'd started. But my feet stayed rooted to the floor. Because Nate might have walked away like he was still in control. But he wasn't.
Not anymore.
I'd seen the fear in his eyes when I grabbed him. Felt the way his breath hitched when I slammed him into that wall.
He knew I was done playing by his rules. And that terrified him more than anything I could have said.
I found her in the equipment closet. Doors pulled half-shut. Shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear into the shadows. She didn't look up when I walked in. Just kept staring at the tape rolls lined up on the shelf like they held answers she couldn't find anywhere else.
"Did he touch you?"
The question came out harder than I meant it to. Sharp enough that she flinched.
I tried again. Softer this time. "Billie."
She finally looked at me. Those eyes — God, those eyes — guarded and exhausted and barely holding on. "He tried to."
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. Fists curled at my sides. Every cell in my body lit up with the need to go back out there. Find him. Finish what I'd started.
"You can't go back to him."
"I have to." Her voice cracked. "You basically told him everything by busting in—"
"I don't give a flying fuck." The words exploded out of me. "You're—"
I stopped. Caught myself before I said something I couldn't take back. Before I crossed a line we'd both been pretending still existed.
She stared at me. Waiting. Daring me to finish the sentence.
You're mine.
That was what I wanted to say. What every cell in my body was screaming.
You're mine and I'm done pretending I can watch him put his hands on you without losing my mind.
But I couldn't. Because saying it out loud made it real. Made it something neither of us could walk away from.
"You're my player," I said instead. Forced the words out through clenched teeth. "And I'm not letting him hurt you."
"He won't." She looked away. Voice flat. Empty. "I handled it."
"By letting him kiss you in front of cameras?"
"By doing what I had to do to keep you safe." She turned back. Fire in her eyes now. Anger replacing exhaustion. "You think I want this? You think I like playing his girlfriend while he—"
She cut herself off. Swallowed hard.
I took a step closer. Couldn't help it. "While he what?"
"Nothing."
"Billie."
"It's handled, Calder." She moved past me. Shoulder brushing mine. "Just… stay away from him. Please."
She's protecting you.
The thought slammed into me like a body check.
She was letting Nate parade her around. Letting him kiss her. Touch her. Claim her in front of the world.
All so I wouldn't lose everything.
And I'd repaid her by shoving my son into a wall and nearly blowing both our covers.
I leaned against the shelf. Closed my eyes. Tried to breathe through the rage. But all I could think about was the way she'd looked at me. Like she was waiting for me to say the words we both knew were true.
You're mine.
I just didn't know if I'd ever be brave enough to admit it.
I opened my eyes. Looked at her. Really looked. Hair still damp from the game. Cheeks flushed. That Crestwood hoodie hanging loose on her frame, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd tucked her hands into the front pocket. Defensive. Guarded.
But her eyes gave her away. Tired. Wounded. Fighting so hard to hold it together that I could see the cracks forming. And she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
It wrecked me.
Completely. Utterly. Wrecked me.
Because I'd done this. I'd put that exhaustion in her eyes. I'd made her carry weight she shouldn't have to lift. I'd taken something good and twisted it into something that hurt her.
And I still wanted her. Still ached for her in ways that had nothing to do with the ice or the whistle or the lines we'd crossed.
I pushed off the shelf. Moved toward her slowly. Like approaching something wild and wounded.
"Come on," I murmured. Kept my voice low. Gentle. "Let's get you home."
She stopped in the doorway. Hand on the frame like she needed it to hold her up.
"I don't want to go home."
The words came out small. Quiet. Nothing like the fire I'd seen on the ice.
I didn't hesitate.
"Come with me."
My apartment looked smaller with her in it. Like she took up more space than her frame should allow. She stood in the middle of my kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, eyes tracking the cracks in the ceiling.
I filled the kettle. Found the coffee I'd bought weeks ago and never touched. Measured it out while she pulled herself onto one of the stools at the counter.
Her sleeves were too long. Pulled down over her hands. Fingers barely visible where they gripped the fabric.
"You don't have to talk," I said. Kept my voice low. Steady. "Just drink the coffee when it's ready."
She nodded. Didn't look at me.
I set the mug in front of her a few minutes later. Black. No sugar. She wrapped both hands around it like she needed the warmth more than the caffeine.
And then I saw a shadow along her jaw. Faint. Purple-green at the edges. Shaped like a thumbprint.
My hand froze halfway to my own mug.
"Billie."
She didn't look up.
"What happened to your face?"
Her fingers tightened on the ceramic. "Nothing."
"That's not nothing."
"It's handled."
I moved around the counter. Slow. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal. Tilted her chin up with one finger so the light caught the bruise.
It broke something in me.
Not rage this time. Something deeper. Quieter. More dangerous.
"Did he do this?"
She pulled away. Wouldn't meet my eyes. "I told you. It's handled."
"Billie—"
"He grabbed me." The words came out fast. Clipped. Like ripping off a bandage. "In the locker room. I shoved him off. He grabbed harder. I told him if he touched me again I'd go public. Then I left."
My vision tunneled. Everything narrowed to that bruise. That thumbprint. Evidence of my son putting his hands on her in anger.
"I'm going to kill him."
"No." She stood. Stepped between me and the door like she could physically block me. "That's exactly what he wants. You assault him, and he ruins both of us."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do." Her voice cracked. "I didn't spend three weeks pretending to be his girlfriend just so you could throw it all away because you're pissed."
I stared at her. At the exhaustion carved into her features. The bruise darkening on her jaw. The way she still stood between me and the door like she could stop me.
Like she still believed I was worth protecting.
"You shouldn't have to do this alone," I said quietly.
"I'm not." She looked up at me. Eyes glassy. "You're here."
And God help me, I pulled her into my chest and held on.
I held her for about five seconds before the restraint shattered.
"Three weeks." My voice came out rough. Jagged. "Three weeks you let him parade you around like you're his. Three weeks you smiled for cameras while he—"
"Don't."
"While he put his hands on you—"
"I said don't." She shoved against my chest. Hard enough that I had to catch myself. "You don't get to do this."
"Do what?" The words exploded out of me. Louder than I meant. "Give a damn that my son's treating you like property?"
She flinched. That small movement — that split-second recoil — stopped me cold. Made me realize how loud I'd gotten. How my hands had balled into fists. How I was towering over her in my own kitchen like some kind of threat.
I forced myself to step back. To breathe. But she wasn't backing down.
"You don't get to be mad now!" Her voice cracked. Rose to match mine. "You iced me out for weeks! You looked at me like I disgusted you every time I walked on that ice!"
"Because I knew—"
"You made me feel like I was nothing!"
"I couldn't be around you!" The words tore out of me. Raw. Desperate. "I couldn't look at you without wanting to fucking tear him apart! Without wanting to grab you and—"
I stopped. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. Standing in the middle of my kitchen breathing like I'd just skated overtime.