5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
~LILLY~
I make it through the rest of the session, answer questions, fix skates, tie helmet straps, do all the work I usually do, but my mind is still full of him. I’m still feeling the weight of his eyes on me when he said my name.
By the time the last of the kids are filtering off the ice and the assistants are collecting cones, something in me has hardened into a decision.
This can’t keep happening. I can’t keep feeling like one conversation with him is enough to throw my whole nervous system off its axis for the rest of the day. This man is clearly an HR violation waiting to happen.
This ends today.
I spot my dad near the boards, talking to one of the assistant coaches while a couple of kids still circle lazily at center ice behind him. He’s been here a lot lately for a man who swore he had no time for Academy hours. I think the kids are growing on him.
He sees me coming and glances down at the clipboard in his hand before looking back up. “You heading out?”
“Yeah.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Gotta pack.”
“Alright, good job today.” He pinches my cheek between two knuckles. “See you tomorrow.”
“See ya, Dad.” I adjust the duffel strap on my shoulder and turn, walking away at a pace I hope reads casual.
My pulse is already a bit high. It’s been at least half an hour since that conversation in the hallway.
For all I know, Zed left the building the second I walked back onto the ice.
Maybe this entire stupid surge of resolve is about to lead me nowhere, which might be for the best. But some part of me hopes he’s still here so I don’t lose the momentum I’ve built in my head.
I cut through one of the wider hallways near the locker rooms, then another, scanning without looking like I’m scanning. I don’t even know where to look for him if he’s still here. A couple of staff members pass me, and someone from maintenance wheels a cart by.
No Zed.
If he’s still in the building, there are only so many places he could be, right? Gym, physio, locker room, maybe one of the lounges.
I round the next corner and almost walk straight into Dominic Moreal.
He’s coming out of the gym with a towel slung over one shoulder and a bottle of water in his hand, dark gray T-shirt plastered to him with sweat.
Even now, he still carries himself like a captain.
I think people like him are just born with the ability to look like leaders.
He sees me and slows.
“Hey,” I say automatically, stepping back.
“Hey.” He flashes me a smile that I return.
I’ve known Dom long enough now that talking to him feels easy.
Though there’s something about him that always stays a little formal, even when he’s being nice.
He’s been around the Academy a lot, and with my dad and Dom already so close, we’ve ended up talking enough that the awkwardness burned off a while ago.
He lifts the bottle and takes a long drink, then drags the towel once across the back of his neck.
“Sorry for the state of me,” he says. “Just got done in there.”
“Brutal workout?” I ask.
“Mm.” He hums as he swallows another sip of water. “Zed’s a competitive son of a bitch.” He jerks his head back toward the gym, and I instantly follow the motion with my eyes.
So, he’s in there.
Dom shifts the water bottle to his other hand. “You heading out?”
“Yeah, in a minute.” My eyes flick toward the gym door again.
Dom notices. His eyes scan me once, observant.
“You need something in there?” he asks.
“What? Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Just haven’t seen the gym before. The Academy’s doing really good, by the way.” I change the subject as quickly as I can. “The kids love it. Some of them wouldn’t be anywhere near this kind of coaching without what you built.”
“That’s the point.” Dom’s eyes soften with the smile that spreads across his face. “If a kid’s good, money shouldn’t decide if they get a chance.”
“Yeah.” I nod, returning the smile.
It’s not hard to admire Dom, and I do. A lot, actually.
The Academy exists because he created it and refused to let it stay an idea people nodded at and then forgot about.
I know enough from my dad to understand how much work went into getting it off the ground.
Those kids have access to all of this because Dom decided they would.
“You’re good with them,” he adds. “You definitely have a softer coaching style than your dad, though.”
I scoff out a “thanks” and turn to face him. “Hope he’s not giving you hell.”
“It’s his job to give us hell,” Dom chuckles. “This close to the start of the season, everyone needs a fire under their ass. Is he still in?”
“Yeah, you can still catch him, I think.”
“Thanks.” He wipes his face with the towel slung over his shoulder and gives me a soft nudge. “See you at camp?”
“See you at camp, Captain.” I nod with a smile.
He starts walking off, towel still around his neck, and I stay where I am, staring at the gym door.
And suddenly the whole thing I’d been fueling myself on, all that righteous irritation and determination, has to coexist with a fresh new problem.
Nerves.
I look once down the empty hallway, hoping to find common sense standing there waiting for me. No such luck. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, straighten my spine, and head for the gym.
Whatever is happening between me and Zed Mercer needs to end. Immediately. Preferably before I make it worse.
A few seconds later, I’m close enough to hear sharper sounds coming from inside. Something rhythmic and repetitive. My steps slow when I reach the open doorway and catch sight of him.
He’s half naked.
Zed is alone near the far end of the gym, shirtless, in black athletic shorts, working a heavy bag. His wrapped fists land in hard, punishing bursts. There’s no wasted movement. Just control and force, over and over again.
My eyes drag over him, taking him in. This is the first time I’ve seen him without layers on, and unfortunately, my imagination had not been overselling things. If anything, it’s been modest.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, defined chest, hard stomach, every muscle in his torso working under a fine sheen of sweat every time he moves. All lean, brutal strength with not an ounce of softness.
And the tattoos are everywhere. Ink stretches over his chest, down his ribs, across his stomach, over his shoulders and arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweeping across muscle that shifts every time he throws another combination. The bag jerks hard under another set of hits.
Any person could take one look at him and agree on two things immediately.
One, that he is incredibly good-looking.
And two, that he looks like the kind of man who would mess you up properly if you ever let him close enough.
Not in the fun little bad-boy way that still feels basically safe underneath.
I mean genuinely not built for gentleness.
Not the first thing he’d reach for. Maybe not the second either.
That’s exactly why I need him to leave me alone.
My eyes drop to his stomach, armed with a defined six-pack. Which, naturally, does nothing to make him less appealing in this exact moment.
He lifts one wrapped hand to brush his hair back, breathing hard but steady. And then, without warning, his head turns straight toward me.
I immediately consider pretending I was just passing by and happened to glance in, but I need to do what I came here to do.
His eyes land on me and hold, pale and cutting. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. The silence stretches just long enough for heat to creep up my neck.
His chest rises and falls once, slow and deep. Then he reaches for the towel slung over a nearby bench, wipes it over his face, and keeps looking at me the entire time. There is something almost unbearable about being looked at by him.
I clear my throat and force myself to move.
“Hi,” I say as I cross the room so I don’t have to shout for him to hear me.
Very strong start.
His chest is rising hard from exertion, and his wrapped hands hang loose at his sides. He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks like this is becoming a pattern.
“I need to talk to you.”
He picks up the water bottle from the bench beside him, tips his head back, and drinks. The black design on his throat shifts when he swallows. Water catches on his lower lip, and he wipes it away with the back of his wrapped hand.
Oh, God. Focus.
“Well?” He looks at me again.
No easing into it, then. Fine.
“I’m done.”
“Done?” He lowers the bottle.
I make myself hold my ground.
“Yes,” I say. “Done.”
He starts toward me, a slow, steady closing of space that’s becoming a pattern with him. My whole body lights up with warning signs. He stops in front of me, his eyes staying on my face.
“With what?”
I straighten my spine. “This.”
That gets nothing visible from him.
“What’s this?”
“Look, I don’t know what impression you got,” I say, keeping my voice stern by force, “but whatever this is needs to stop.”
He waits. That’s all. He just waits for me to elaborate. That’s what he does. He makes you keep talking until you dig yourself deeper.
Unfortunately, it’s working.
“So, if you think this is heading toward sex,” I say, “you’ve got the wrong idea.”
There.
Out.
It’s only after I say it that I hear how bad it sounds. Because it reveals a line I should never have admitted was even on my mind.
“Who said anything about that?” His dark brows dip.
“You implied it.” Heat rises hard and instant.
“I asked you what you’d give me in return, and your mind came up with sex.” His voice stays low, but hearing the word “sex” come out of his mouth is enough to make my face burn.
“Don’t twist things.” I shake my head.
“I could’ve meant anything, Lilly.” He takes one slow step closer. “A coffee.” His eyes stay on mine. “A favor.” He lets that sit for a bit. “But you decided I meant sex.” He pauses. “Interesting leap.”
“Still not appropriate to ask me something like that,” I argue, already feeling the tingles down my body.