Chapter Thirty-Two Chaos Incoming
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chaos Incoming
Scarlett
I fire off a text the second the plane touches down.
Me: Just landed. I’ll see you soon.
My heart taps out a rhythm I’m pretending not to notice. It’s not nerves. It’s just… travel jitters. Normal adrenaline. Totally not because I’m about to spend the next three days sharing a hotel room with Chase Remington.
Chase: Can’t wait. Car should be waiting for you outside of baggage claim. Unless you chicken out…
I smirk at my screen. Of course he’s being a smartass. It helps. Keeps things from getting too serious, too fast.
Still, as I gather my things and shuffle off the plane, I’m hyperaware of everything. Of how this trip isn’t just a “visit” or a “work thing.”
It’s a step.
A choice.
I could’ve said no. But I didn’t.
I said yes.
Yes to the weekend. And yes to him.
I wait by baggage claim, trying not to fidget, running through a mental checklist. Outfits. Makeup. Laptop in case inspiration strikes. And—yep. Cute underwear. Just in case.
Not because I’m planning anything.
Just because… anything could happen.
I take a deep breath and shake the thought off. No sense in overthinking it. Otherwise, I’ll completely panic. And we can’t have that—not while I’m inside the airport, at least.
We have a team dinner tonight, which should be fun. I’ve gotten to know a couple of the guys, and he has a hockey game tomorrow. But the rest of the weekend? It’ll be just us.
Outside, the air is colder than I expected—sharp and brisk with a city pulse that vibrates in my chest. A driver holding a sign that says “Calloway” waits in front of a black SUV.
Oh, we’re doing full red carpet treatment now?
I slide into the backseat and sink into the plush leather, nerves fluttering wildly.
It’s just a trip. Just a weekend. Just a hotel room.
But no matter how many times I repeat it… I know better.
This isn’t just anything.
It’s everything.
And I really, really hope I’m not making a mistake.
I spot Chase the second I step into the restaurant where we’re meeting—tall and lean in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair pushed back like he ran his hands through it a dozen times waiting for me.
He’s standing just outside the private dining room, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. Like he’s nervous.
His whole face lights up when he sees me.
“Hi.”
I don’t get a chance to say hi back before he’s pulling me in, arms wrapping around my waist. I press in without thinking, nose brushing his collarbone, and breathe him in—cologne and clean linen and something warm I can’t quite name.
“You look—” His hand slips to my lower back as he leans back to really look at me. “Wow.”
My cheeks flush instantly. “You’re just saying that because I’m not in leggings and a sweatshirt for once.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” His voice drops.
I laugh, and his mouth grazes my temple. It’s not quite a kiss, but close enough to make my chest tighten.
“How’s it going in there?” I nod toward the dining room. “Any early fights break out over the appetizers?”
“Nah, it’s shockingly civilized,” he says, stepping back and sliding his hand into mine like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Come on, I’ll get you a drink. Bar’s right over here.”
We walk past the open kitchen, the low thrum of conversation spilling out from the team and staff packed into the private room. Bennett catches my eye and grins. Lucy waves. The whole thing feels... almost normal. Like I belong here.
Is that crazy?
Maybe so, but I’m choosing to lean in.
Chase rests his hand on my lower back as we reach the bar. “What do you want? Wine? A cocktail? Whiskey?”
“Surprise me,” I say, smiling.
He leans in like he’s going to whisper a secret, but instead, he just brushes his lips against my cheek and says, “Dangerous words.”
As he turns to flag down the bartender, I step back to wait, letting my eyes drift across the room. That’s when I hear it.
“…thought he’d crack first,” someone says, low and amused. “But turns out Remington’s more stubborn than I gave him credit for.”
“I mean, I didn’t think she’d last this long either,” comes the response, followed by a quiet laugh. “Honestly thought he’d fold after that bookstore stunt. She’s got him whipped.”
“Bet’s still on, though. Week left. You in or out?”
My blood runs cold.
Tyler. Will.
I can’t see them, but I know those voices. That easy, cocky tone. My stomach twists hard enough to hurt.
Bet.
The word rattles around in my head like a dropped marble.
A week left.
They’re still talking about it. Still laughing about it. About me.
And Chase—Chase knew.
The blood drains from my face. I can’t breathe.
I don’t hear what else they say. I don’t wait for Chase to turn back around. I just take a step back, and then another, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
All I can think is… I knew it.
I knew it was too good to be true.
I push through the front doors like the air inside was choking me.
The night hits sharp and cold, cab horns echo from the street, and headlights streak past. My heels click against the pavement as I stalk to the curb, one arm outstretched, trying to hail a taxi with shaking fingers.
It’s New York, so they all keep driving.
“Scarlett—wait!”
His voice slices through the hum of the city, and I squeeze my eyes shut like that might keep the tears in. No such luck.
“Scarlett, stop—just let me talk to you.”
I whirl around. He’s already halfway to me, hair mussed, worry etched all over his face.
“Don’t,” I snap, voice raw. “Don’t come out here and act like this is something we can just talk through.”
His jaw clenches. “Please, just give me a second. I didn’t want it to be like that. It was a stupid joke, but—”
“You knew,” I cut in, pointing at him. “You placed some stupid bet with your teammates about me. And yet you pretended it was real between us. You let me walk in there thinking I was—” My voice breaks. “I trusted you.”
He steps closer, hands up like he’s calming a skittish animal. “It started before I even really knew you. These guys place bets about literally everything. It’s juvenile, and it meant absolutely nothing. Tyler ran his mouth, and I should’ve shut it down. And I’m really sorry I didn’t—”
“You’re sorry?” I scoff, bitter and breathless. “You don’t get to make me question everything and then tell me it was just some silly game.”
That lands. He flinches.
“Don’t you dare gaslight me into thinking this is nothing.” I wipe a very inconvenient tear from my cheek.
I don’t wait for him to recover. Another cab comes rolling toward us, and this time, I step into the street without hesitation, arm out.
The driver slows, then stops. I throw the door open and climb in, wiping at my eyes as I give him the hotel’s name.
Chase stands there on the sidewalk, helpless.
“Scarlett—please don’t go like this.”
I meet his eyes through the window.
“I already did.”
The door shuts. The cab pulls away.
And I don’t look back.
***
The hotel room is too nice for how miserable I feel.
Fluffy white duvet, marble bathroom, blackout curtains drawn tight. A tray of untouched room service sits on the table—something that was supposed to pass as dinner last night but ended up just being a sad reminder that I can’t eat around a lump in my throat.
I haven’t slept. Not really.
I spent most of the night curled in bed, knees to my chest, flipping between being furious and being wrecked and then hating myself for feeling either. My laptop’s been open for hours, the screen glowing softly beside me in the tangle of sheets.
Strangely, I’m still able to write—with even more raw emotion than before.
My headphones are on, volume up so high it practically vibrates my skull—something angry and female—Billie Eilish? Ashe, maybe? I don’t even remember adding them to my playlist, but they’re perfect. Loud, raw, unapologetic.
I type and delete and retype the same scene over and over, tears dripping down my cheeks like my body’s leaking feelings I don’t know what to do with.
I’ve ignored every call and text from Chase.
Watched his name light up my screen over and over until I finally flipped my phone facedown and shoved it under a pillow.
Only one message gets through.
Lucy: hey. please just tell me you’re alive so I don’t stage a manhunt.
I wait five minutes. Then ten. Then sigh, grab the phone, and type out a response. I am in the middle of New York City. I don’t want them to think I got lost or kidnapped.
Me: Alive. Just not in the mood to be someone’s bet tonight.
I don’t send anything else. When she replies with a string of heart emojis and a “let me know if you need anything,” I shut the phone off completely. I don’t need people trying to fix it. I don’t even know what it is yet.
The team has a game tonight, and I said I’d be there.
But instead, I’m in an oversized hoodie and yesterday’s eyeliner, curled on the hotel bed with a blanket over my head like a haunted little gremlin.
I flick the TV on.
The Stampede game is already in the second period.
And Chase… looks awful.
He’s missing passes he usually nails in his sleep. Skating like his legs are made of wet sand. One of his shots sails so far wide it actually makes the announcer pause.
He’s playing like shit.
Something curls low in my chest, hot and aching. I wrap the blanket tighter around me.
Good, I think at first. Let him feel like garbage too.
But then I watch him get slammed into the boards, and all that righteous fury flickers into something softer. Something worse.
Because for all the hurt, for all the betrayal… I still care.
And that might be the cruelest part of all.