Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
AARON
There’s a knot in my chest that will not loosen.
It’s small but manageable, brought on by self-reproach and, yeah, okay—shame. Guilt.
My phone sits face-up on the bench beside me while I lace up my skates, and for every minute that passes with no reply, the knot tightens.
Three texts sent.
Zero responses.
No read receipts, no bubbles from typing.
You need to tell her all this before someone else does…
I squash Sutton’s cautionary warning down because, hours from now, I may be sitting across a table from Juliette, her hand tucked in mine, finally telling her everything.
How I walked in on her brother and Bailey; how filled with fury I was. The thoughts going through my mind, none of which I’m proud of. Confess all my transgressions and hope she sees the irony in it—that the thing I meant to use as leverage became the only thing I actually care about.
I’ll tell her that somewhere between our teasing texts and the late-night conversations—between the first kiss and the sex and way she says my name—and how she makes me feel…
The way I make her feel.
Everything changed.
Christ, I honestly don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll do if she—
No.
She won’t tell me to piss off.
Not Juliette, she’s way too caring.
She loves me, I can see it in her eyes.
She’ll be hurt. Maybe embarrassed.
But she’ll hear me out.
Because what we have isn’t fake.
You need to tell her all this before someone else does…
My knee bounces as I pull my socks up, and damned if I don’t have to rest a hand on my thigh to make it stop. Then I grab my tape, start wrapping my stick tighter than necessary because… Jesus, what the hell is my problem?
The locker-room door swings open, and I don’t glance up. It’s that time of day where bodies are filtering in before practice. We all have a job to do, and everyone here takes it seriously.
Head bent, I fuss with the knot of my left skate, tightening the laces until they bite into my fingers. Pull harder than necessary, like if I can cinch everything down tight enough, I’ll keep the rest of my life from unraveling.
I set my foot up on the bench and study the blade.
There’s a new nick along the edge.
I run my thumb carefully along the steel, testing the sharpness. It’s fine. Serviceable, but not perfect.
I should get them sharpened.
I set my skate back on the floor, tapping my phone screen like maybe it needs encouragement.
“Get a fucking grip,” I lecture myself. “She’s working.”
A pair of legs stops in front of me, blocking my view of the floor. Athletic pants. Well-worn sneakers.
I raise my eyes.
“Bishop.”
Storm.
He doesn’t look like his easy-going self. There’s no grin. Hands stuffed in his pockets, already rocking back on his heels.
He looks… uneasy.
Like he has to take a massive shit.
“Hey.” I give him a slight smile, continuing to fiddle with my skate. “What’s up?”
I’m met with silence as Storm takes the next few moments to scratch the side of his neck.
Silence stretches long enough that I raise my brows.
“What?” I prompt.
He inhales. “I’m really not sure how to tell you this—or if I should be telling Kennedy instead?” He rambles. “This whole situation is so fucked.”
What is he talking about?
I’m not following. “Eh?”
He huffs out a laugh that isn’t one of amusement. “So hypothetically speaking—if someone didn’t realize that someone else didn’t know something, what would happen?”
I wish he was making sense.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Say what you want to say.”
This fucking guy.
“Don’t hate me.” He cringes, ball sac most likely a shriveled mess inside his shorts. “I might have accidentally sort of told Juliette about the Declan thing?”
I stare at him.
“The Declan thing,” I deadpan.
“You know.” He switches tactics. “The Bailey situation.”
I close my eyes.
Press my fingers to my temples. “God dammit, Storm.”
“I know, I know.” He groans. “I’m the worst.”
The humor in the moment doesn’t mask the sick feeling crawling up my spine.
Because this isn’t funny.
Not even a little.
“Look,” he says defensively when I don’t immediately respond. “I figured she already knew! I mean—come on. You catch your teammate with your girlfriend, then you start screwing his sister? It’s not exactly subtle, Bishop.”
He’s not wrong.
He royally fucked my plan to tell her first!
Again—not his fault.
“Fuck!” I explode, launching my helmet across the locker room. It smacks into a row of stalls and bounces to the floor. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
Heads snap up.
I couldn’t give a shit.
Storm doesn’t flinch. He patiently waits me out, arms crossed, giving me space like I’m a ticking fucking time-bomb he doesn’t want to piss off any further.
“You done?” he asks carefully, one brow raised.
“No,” I snap.
Then I drag both hands through my hair and pace three steps before turning back.
“Jesus Christ, I was going to tell her tonight.” I swear I was.
“Bro—take a deep breath.”
I glare at him, energy draining out of me.
I drop my head and sink back into the bench, elbows braced on my knees. My hands slide up and cradle my skull, fingers digging into my scalp like I can physically hold my thoughts in place.
For a second, I sit here immobile.
Breathing.
Stewing.
Trying not to implode.
“What happened?” I lift my head and look at him. “Walk me through it, word for word. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I don’t know—I was up at corporate to say ‘hey, what’s up?’”
“You went up there specifically to say hello to her? What were you doing, flirting?”
He shrugs. “I mean—yeah.”
Oh my god, this guy. He’s going to be the death of me if I don’t kill him first.
“You decided to flirt with the girl I’m seeing,” I say flatly.
“What? It’s basically window shopping,” he counters. “Not only that, we’re not supposed to be banging anyone from corporate.”
“Storm…”
“What? She’s gorgeous.”
I rub a hand down my face.
“You have the survival instincts of a houseplant,” I mutter.
He ignores me. “Anyway, I’m up there, I’m saying hello. Squishing this toy thing she has on her desk, telling her she looks wholesome.”
Wow. I bet she loved that.
“Can you stay on task—get to the part where her brother and I come up.”
“Right. That part.” He laughs, like this is a story we’re recounting fondly over beers. “So, I say something random about the air in the locker room being weird and it’s because of you and Kennedy.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“And then?” I press impatiently.
“And then I said something like, I think he walked into Kennedy’s apartment and found them fucking.” He gestures vaguely. “Except I didn’t use the word fucking. Juliette isn’t into cursing.”
Oh.
My.
God.
“You said that?”
He shrugs again. “I mean—didn’t that happen?”
“Yes, you asshole, but that’s not the point!”
He rubs his jaw. “She asked why things have been tense. I answered. It’s not like I fabricated anything.”
“No,” I snap. “You summarized it in the worst possible way.”
This is so bad.
“When you told her that, what did she do?”
“She looked like she was going to throw up…”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
He hesitates. “It could be because I told her what the argument down on the ice was about—you know, when I had to get between the two of you.”
My brain whirrs, trying to remember the barbs that were traded between us before Storm intervened. Fragments float around, hazy and incomplete.
Conveniently dating my sister…
She is not a pawn…
Out for revenge… leverage.
You think I don’t see what you’re doing? he’d snapped.
And what’s that? I’d shot back, already heated.
“Using her.”
“Hey.” Storm has his hand on my shoulder now, squeezing. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you’re making it.”
I let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Oh, it’s definitely as bad as I’m making it.”
He hums. “The good news is, she didn’t storm out crying.” He pauses. “Fine, that’s not true. She actually did seem upset.” He pauses some more. “Fine, that’s not true, either. She picked up her shit and ran out.”
I stare at him. “Do you think that’s helpful?”
“Yes. She didn’t slap me across the face. She shut down.”
Somehow that’s better?
“Also,” he begins again, stopping when my head whips up, and he catches the look on my face.
“Yes?”
“Um… I feel like there was something about, hmm, let me think…” He rubs his chin. “She wanted to know if I believed you were out for revenge.”
I hold my breath.
Silence stretches between us.
“Did you use her?” he asks directly.
No.
Yes.
But only at the beginning…
The truth rises in my throat and tastes like bile.
Of course, I don’t admit this out loud. God only knows what this dipshit would do with the information. But I see it on his face—he thinks I’m capable of it.
He thinks I’m a bag of crap.
Unworthy of a woman like Juliette.
And right now, he wouldn’t be wrong.
“I was pissed,” I say instead. “I walked in on my girlfriend screwing Juliette’s brother. You don’t respond rationally to that.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
When I glare at him again, he doesn’t flinch.
“Did you use her?” he repeats.
My jaw tightens.
“I didn’t plan to fall for her,” I say finally.
“Again. Not what I asked.”
This guy is like a dog with a bone.
He lifts his hands. “I’m not trying to crucify you. She’s really sweet and doesn’t deserve any of this. Her brother isn’t any better.” His throat clears. “I like her. I think she needs at least one person who’s honest with her.”
So she can cry on his shoulder and fall in love with him instead?
No thanks.
“Great. Now you’re comparing me to Kennedy, who has no issues going behind our backs for a quick hook-up?”
Storm looks at me, expression blank. “Are you gaslighting me? Because I don’t feel sorry for you if this has been a game to both of you.”
Who knew the bastard would have the balls to stand up to me?
I stare at the floor between my skates. “I’m not gaslighting you.”
I barely know what that means.
“Well, then you’re deflecting.” Storm shakes his head slowly. “I’m not your enemy here, Bishop. I think you are.”
Shit.
He’s right.
I am.
Have been, probably way longer than this moment.
“One toxic motherfucker.”
He nudges me with his knee. “Stop. I think you can fix this.”
I bark out a laugh. “Seriously, dude? How? This is a fucking disaster.”
“Appears that way,” he says, cool as a cucumber. “But you’re acting like it’s already over.”
I don’t answer.
He tilts his head. “Have you considered going to HR?”
I look up slowly. “What?”
“HR,” he echoes. “You march upstairs. Report the relationship. Make it official.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No,” he says rationally. “Think about it. If this was some revenge plot, you wouldn’t be voluntarily telling everyone in the entire company—you make it transparent.”
I drag a hand down my face.
“You’re asking me to light a match to her house.” Because let’s be clear—if HR decides there are consequences, it won’t be me they look at first.
It’ll be her.
Juliette is the one with a desk upstairs and a last name tied to the organization. She’s the one with a job to lose in a way I don’t. A job she loves and worked hard for.
I am an asset. No one is going to say shit.
“I’m asking you to stop acting like you’re hiding something.”
He’s right.
“You’re right. I am hiding something—but so is Declan Kennedy.”
I drag my eyes across the locker room to where the bastard is standing in front of his stall, pulling a practice jersey down over his pads, large frame looking deflated, despite his massive size.
Like something is weighing down on him.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Storm chirps like an old lady.
I look at him sharply. “You sound like my mother.”
“So? Maybe you should listen to her.”
Goddamn, he’s annoying.
“You think this will fix it?” I ask quietly.
“I think it shows her you’re serious. And it’s a start.”