CHAPTER 2 — THE MAN WHO RETURNED #3
“Just for the record, his place has three bedrooms, a gym, a heated pool, and a kitchen he doesn’t use because he thinks black coffee and hatred count as nutrition,” Mason said, ignoring Damon’s murderous look. “If comfort’s the issue, Noah, you’ll suffer less than in the flooded dorm.”
“Reed, shut up,” Damon said without taking his eyes off me, and the way he stared made the room feel too hot despite the aggressive air conditioning.
“I’d love to, but I’m trying to save your shoulder and the season,” Mason replied, surprisingly serious now.
“You won’t follow protocol if you’re alone, Damon.
Everyone in this room knows it. You’ll take your meds when you remember, hide the pain, try to train at dawn, and threaten any staff member who tries to stop you. ”
Damon didn’t respond, and that silence was as good as a confession.
My father seized the pause with the efficiency of a coach spotting an opening in the opposing defense.
He grabbed a folder, opened it on the desk, and slid a form toward me—already too filled out for this to be pure improvisation.
Anger flared in my chest when I realized part of this decision had probably been discussed before I ever walked into the office.
“Noah’s internship is supervised by Marjorie and the department, not by Damon,” my father said, looking at me like he could draw a line on the floor between father and boss.
“You won’t be living with him as a friend, boyfriend, confidant, or whatever else people dream up in the hallways.
You’ll be staying in the guest room, with access to the necessary equipment and daily reports to the medical team. ”
The word boyfriend cut through the room like a blade wrapped in tissue paper.
No one reacted openly, but I felt Damon stiffen near the wall.
I stiffened too. Four years ago, the word would have been impossible, almost absurd—something that lived only in the space between our mouths when we got too close.
Hearing it now, even as a denial, made something old stir inside me, furious at still being alive.
“You realize this is exactly the kind of situation people will twist, right?” I asked, keeping my eyes on my father—because looking at Damon after that word would be a mistake.
“Coach’s son living with the injured captain under my care.
If anyone wants to make this into a problem, it’ll be way too easy. ”
“Then don’t give them one,” my father replied, and his coldness hit me because it sounded so simple coming from someone who’d never paid the price alone when a story got twisted. “Do your job, keep records, and follow protocol.”
Damon let out a low, bitter laugh, and I knew the comment was coming before he opened his mouth.
There were things about his body I still read against my will: the corner of his mouth hardening, his gaze dropping to my hands, the slight tilt of his chin when he chose the word that would hurt the most.
“Protocols never stopped Bennett from choosing the convenient side,” he said, and the words drew a reaction from my father before they did from me—a small movement of his hand on the desk, too quick for anyone without our history to notice.
I noticed. Damon did too.
The room shifted again. Not much. Just enough to remind me that the truth wasn’t buried as deep as my father pretended.
Damon looked at Henry Bennett with new attention, sharper, and I could almost see the pieces moving behind his eyes.
Dangerous. Everything here was dangerous: Damon suspicious, my father hesitating, Mason watching, and me caught in the middle like a bridge about to collapse.
“The decision is made,” my father said, shutting down the conversation with authority—but his voice had lost some of its edge.
“Noah will retrieve whatever belongings can be salvaged from the dorm, Damon will provide access to the penthouse, and Marjorie will receive the reports. This starts today.”
Damon pushed off the wall slowly, and my body reacted before my brain gave permission.
He was too tall in that office, too broad, too present, and the pain in his shoulder didn’t do a thing to lessen the impact of watching him move toward me.
When he stopped in front of me, close enough for me to catch the cold scent of the arena still clinging to his jacket, I had to lock my knees to keep from stepping back.
Not because I was afraid. Because there were memories where stepping back had been the one thing neither of us did, and those memories still had teeth.
“Looks like you got what you wanted,” Damon said, shoving his right hand into his jacket pocket. “Access to my house, my body, my season. Must be a great day for you.”
“You talk like I woke up today planning a flood, an injury, and forced cohabitation with the most insufferable man on campus,” I replied, hating the heat that crept up my neck when he stepped half a step closer. “I would’ve picked thirty more minutes of sleep.”
His mouth almost curved—almost—and that near-reaction was more intimate than any insult.
For a second, I saw the old Damon beneath the man who hated me: the boy who laughed in spite of himself when I said something wrong at the right time, who hid exhaustion behind arrogance, who looked at my mouth and then pretended he’d been looking at anything else.
The second ended fast. Damon pulled a black key from his pocket, attached to an unmarked magnetic card, and held it between us like he was offering a weapon by the handle.
“Blackwood Penthouse, top floor of Whitmore Tower,” he said, placing the key in my hand without letting our fingers touch. The deliberate absence of contact irritated me almost as much as contact would have. “The guest room has a lock, Bennett.”
I closed my fingers around the key, feeling the cold metal bite into my palm.
My father started saying something about schedules and logistics, Mason made a comment I didn't process, and the arena went on existing on the other side of the wall, full of ice, voices, and the start of a new season.
None of it mattered much, because Damon lowered his gaze to my closed hand and then brought it back to my eyes with a cruel calm that seemed designed to cut through any defense.
“But don't fool yourself,” he added, his voice low enough to seem meant for me alone, though everyone in the room could feel the weight of his words. “No lock is going to protect you from what's still unresolved between us.”