Chapter 4
Sasha
Aaron’s shirt is inside out.
That’s the first thing I think. It’s a good thing I didn’t try to push things further by asking him to reciprocate, or Diego would have really heard the show of his life getting off that elevator.
Diego Vasquez stands in the elevator with his phone in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. His eyes move from Aaron to me. Aaron — flushed, sockless, shirt inside out. Me — shirtless, leaning in the penthouse doorway.
Nobody speaks.
Aaron has gone completely white. I can see it happening in real time — the color draining from his face, his shoulders climbing toward his ears, his whole body locking up like he’s about to bolt down a fire escape.
I know that look. That’s the look of a man who is three seconds from saying something catastrophically honest.
I decide to say nothing. Let’s see exactly how much Diego thinks he knows.
Diego beats me to it.
“Oh my God.” He steps out of the elevator. His face is doing something I don’t expect. He’s smiling. “Oh my God.”
Aaron flinches. I feel my stomach drop.
“You guys hate each other,” Diego says.
I don’t say a word.
“This is perfect,” he says.
I blink in confusion.
He waves the papers in his hand — I can see my name on the top page, the contract he came up here to deliver — and starts pacing, which is a thing Diego does when he’s selling.
“I came up to get your signature tonight because I couldn’t sleep.
I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to work out an angle for you two — a dream team, collaborators ruling the ice together.
” He stops. Grins. “This is so much better.”
Aaron’s mouth opens. No sound comes out.
“So what happened — you two got to drinking, figured you could be civil for one night, and then the trash talk started?” Diego looks at Aaron’s disheveled state, at me shirtless in the doorway, and nods like it all makes sense.
“And then the fighting spilled into the hallway. I could hear it from the elevator.”
I suppress a wave of laughter rising up inside me. My shoulders relax.
“Here’s the problem I was hitting,” Diego says, still pacing.
“Two co-captains on the same team. Both at the top of your game, both drafted, both going pro — and you’re friends?
Where’s the drama? Where’s the story? There’s no money in two guys getting along.
I couldn’t crack it.” He claps his hands together.
“But a rivalry. A real, honest-to-God rivalry between co-captains? That’s a goldmine. ”
Aaron’s color is coming back. Slowly. He still hasn’t spoken.
“Picture this.” He holds his hands out in front of him, framing an invisible screen. “Aaron Kelly — the All-American. Boston kid, team-first, captain, wholesome, the guy moms love and brands trust. Clean image, great jaw, built for a sneaker campaign.”
Aaron blinks. “I — thank you?”
“And Sasha.” Diego swings toward me. “International. The Russian. One-name recognition — you’re already just Sasha to every hockey fan in the Northeast. You’ve got the look, you’ve got the edge, you’ve got the highlight reel.
You’re the guy brands put on a billboard when they want to sell danger and sex appeal.
And the fans? They’re going to love to hate you.
The cocky Russian foreigner against the wholesome small-town American college boy. ”
I lean against the wall. Cross my arms. Smile.
“See,” I say to Aaron. “What did I tell you?”
Aaron stares at me. He blinks. Processing.
“Now put them on the same team.” Diego claps once, sharp. “Co-captains. Both drafted. And they’re competing. Not across the ice in different jerseys — on the same bench, fighting for the same minutes, the same goals, the same everything. That’s the story. That’s what makes it irresistible.”
He pulls out his phone and starts typing while he talks.
“I’m thinking a dual profile — side by side.
We shoot you together. Same session, same studio, same photographer, competing in every frame.
The golden boy and the Russian star. Let the fans pick sides.
Let the brands pick sides. We’re not selling two hockey players. We’re selling a rivalry.”
Aaron hasn’t moved. His hands are in his pockets and his jaw is tight and he’s looking at me, not Diego.
I hold his gaze. Give him the smallest nod.
“I love it,” I say.
Diego swings back to me. “Yeah?”
“The Russian villain thing. I’ve been doing it my whole career.” I shrug, easy. “The fans in Ashford already boo me half the time. Might as well get paid for it.”
Diego laughs. “See? That’s the energy. That’s exactly it.” He turns to Aaron. “Kelly. What do you think? You in?”
Aaron hesitates before he speaks. I can see his brain catching up to his body — the panic draining, the calculation starting. He unclenches his jaw.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m in.”
“You sure? Because I need both of you committed. The whole thing falls apart if one of you breaks character and starts being best friends in public.”
Aaron almost chokes. I have to look away.
“That won’t be a problem,” Aaron says, and his voice is steady. Almost dry. “Sasha and I are not going to be best friends.”
“Music to my ears.” Diego holds up the contract and waves it at me.
“Speaking of which — I came up here to sign you tonight, and I’m not letting you out of this penthouse until you put your name on this.
As for you —” He points at Aaron. “I’m going to have a contract drawn up for you now that I know exactly what to do with you. You’ll have it by end of week.”
I take the contract from his hand. “Pen?”
Diego grins and produces one from his jacket pocket. I sign against the wall without reading it. Diego would have expected nothing less.
He sticks his phone in his pocket long enough to shake my hand. Firm, fast. Then Aaron’s.
“Individual deals, but linked branding,” he says. “You’ll both make more money as rivals than you would alone. Trust me.” He grins, wide and genuine and completely oblivious. “This is going to be huge.”
He jabs the elevator button. The doors open immediately — the car never left.
“Get some sleep,” he calls over his shoulder as he steps in. “And keep hating each other. It’s worth a fortune.”
The doors close. The floor indicator drops. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen.
I exhale.
Aaron stands in the hallway with his hands still in his pockets and his inside-out shirt and stares at the closed elevator doors like they might open again.
“Aaron.”
He doesn’t move.
“Aaron. Come inside.”
“He saw us. He was right there. He — if he’d been two minutes earlier —”
“But he wasn’t.” I push off the doorframe and grab his wrist. His pulse is hammering under my thumb. “Come inside. Now.”
He lets me pull him into the penthouse. I shut the door and he opens his mouth to start spiraling again and I stop it the only way I know works.
I kiss him.
I put my hands on his face and kiss him until his shoulders drop and his fists unclench and the rigid line of his spine gives in against me. His hands come up and grip my forearms. Holding on.
I pull back just enough to talk. “No one is going to figure it out.”
His eyes are still wild. “You don’t know that.”
“I do know that. Diego just looked at us — me half-naked, you wrecked — and saw a rivalry.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. His skin is hot. “He saw what everybody wants to see in us. Two guys who can’t stand each other.”
A breath shudders out of him. Not a laugh. Close.
“This is good for us,” I say. “We can keep seeing each other. We have a reason to be in New York together now. Diego is going to be flying us up here for meetings and photo shoots and media appearances —”
“Together.”
“Together. In the same hotel. With no one suspecting anything, because as far as the entire world is concerned, we hate each other.” I let my hands drop from his face to his shoulders. His pulse is slowing under my palms. “This is the perfect cover, Aaron. He handed it to us.”
Aaron closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens them.
“This is perfect.”
“You’re always so sure about everything.”
“I’m Russian. We’re born sure.”
That gets an actual sound out of him — not quite a laugh, but his mouth twitches and his grip on my forearms loosens.
He steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, which is already a disaster.
Looks at me with those green-gold eyes that have been making it hard to think since the first time I saw him on the ice.
“I guess nobody’s going to suspect anything going on between us,” he says. Slow. Testing it out. “Since I’m going to score so many more goals than you this year and leave you in the dust.”
I stare at him.
There he is.
“Cute,” I say. “Very cute. You should write that down so you can read it again after I win the scoring title.”
“In your dreams, Sasha.”
“Go to bed, Aaron Kelly. You’re delirious.”
He backs toward the door. He’s almost smiling — not the panicked grimace from thirty seconds ago, but something real, something that pulls at the corner of his mouth and makes his eyes go warm.
“Goodnight, Sasha.”
“Goodnight. Fix your shirt before someone sees you.”
He glances down, realizes, swears under his breath, and pulls the shirt over his head to flip it right-side out. For three seconds he’s standing in my doorway shirtless and flushed and I get one long look at the body I just had underneath me.
God, I want him back in that bed.
He yanks the shirt on correctly and disappears down the hallway without looking back. The elevator dings. The doors open and close.
Silence.
I stand in the penthouse with the city still blazing beyond the windows. My mouth tastes like him. My phone has his number in it. And as of ten minutes ago, the entire world has a very expensive, very public reason to believe that Aaron Kelly and I can’t stand each other.
I lock the door. Walk back to the bed. The sheets are still tangled from an hour ago and they smell like his skin.
I don’t fix them.