PLAYING DEFENSE
The ambient temperature inside the Portland Pioneers’ private training facility was kept at a brisk forty-five degrees, but Elara was burning up.
She sat three rows up in the empty, cavernous bleachers, wrapped in a heavy, fleece-lined team jacket that Julian had casually draped over her shoulders before he stepped onto the ice.
It smelled exactly like him—cedarwood, clean soap, and that dark, intoxicating masculine heat that had been rewiring her brain for the past seventy-two hours.
Since the coffee shop incident in Los Angeles, their dynamic had shifted into something entirely uncharted.
The PR contract in Marcus’s briefcase dictated a slow, carefully orchestrated showmance.
But reality was a completely different beast.
They had spent the last three days in Portland entirely inseparable.
Julian had cleared his schedule outside of practice, fiercely guarding her time, her space, and her peace of mind.
He was systematically dismantling her defenses, not by forcing his way in, but by quietly proving that he was the only man she didn't need them for.
Down on the ice, the sound of fifty-pound weights slamming into the boards echoed like cannon fire. The team was running aggressive offensive drills, and Julian was an absolute force of nature.
Elara pulled her knees up to her chest, watching him.
He was wearing his black practice jersey, the captain’s ‘C’ stark white against the dark fabric.
He didn't just skate; he dominated the ice.
He moved with a brutal, calculating precision, his massive frame shifting effortlessly as he drove the puck past two defensemen and fired it into the top corner of the net.
The goalie didn't even have time to react.
Julian pulled up sharply, a spray of white frost flying from his skates. He tapped the goalie on the pads with his stick, a gesture of respect, before turning his head.
Even through the dark visor of his helmet, across a hundred feet of ice and empty seats, Elara felt the exact moment his eyes locked onto hers.
He didn't wave or smile. He just stopped, allowing himself ten seconds of absolute stillness amidst the chaos of the practice, entirely focused on her. It was a silent check-in. Are you okay? Do you need me?
Elara offered a small, genuine nod.
Julian’s broad shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch before he spun away, barking a command to his left winger and diving back into the drill.
"He’s never played like this," a voice said.
Elara jumped slightly, pulling her eyes away from the ice.
Coach Baxter was walking up the concrete steps, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
The older man possessed a permanent scowl, a byproduct of thirty years in professional hockey, but as he sat down in the row in front of Elara, his expression was surprisingly soft.
"Like what?" Elara asked, her voice dropping into its natural, husky register.
"Like he has something to lose," Baxter replied, his sharp eyes fixed on his captain.
"Julian has always been our best player. He’s aggressive, he’s a tank, and he plays with a chip on his shoulder. But the last three days? He’s playing with a different kind of fire. He’s focused. He’s not picking unnecessary fights, he’s not taking reckless penalties.
He’s playing like a man who knows exactly what he’s protecting."
Baxter turned his head, looking at Elara. "Whatever PR stunt Sarah cooked up in that boardroom, I don't care. I know Julian Thorne. That boy hasn't faked a damn emotion in his entire life. You’re good for him, Elara."
A hard, painful knot formed in Elara’s throat. The guilt of the lie clashed violently with the terrifying truth of her own heart. "I’m just... trying to be supportive, Coach."
"Keep doing it," Baxter grunted, standing back up. "Because if he leads this team to the playoffs with that kind of focus, I’ll personally build a statue of you outside the arena."
As Baxter walked away, Elara’s phone vibrated violently in the pocket of Julian’s jacket.
She pulled it out. The screen lit up with Marcus’s name, accompanied by five missed text messages, all marked urgent. Her stomach plummeted. The fragile, beautiful peace of the morning shattered in an instant.
She answered on the first ring. "Marcus?"
"Where are you right now?" Marcus demanded, his voice tight with an anxiety that immediately spiked Elara’s heart rate.
"I'm at the practice facility. Why? What’s going on?"
"Declan’s team just went nuclear," Marcus said, the sound of furious typing echoing in the background. "They dropped an exclusive with a tabloid five minutes ago. It’s an audio clip, El. From the night in the hotel lobby."
The air in Elara’s lungs turned to ice. "What audio clip? We were alone."
"He recorded you, Elara," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, absolute fury.
"He had his phone recording in his pocket during the argument. But they spliced it. They cut out the part where you found out about the co-star. They only released the audio of you screaming, throwing the necklace, and crying. They’re framing it as an unprovoked,
hysterical meltdown to prove to the public that you’re the unstable one, and that Thorne is just buying into a PR trap."
Elara couldn't breathe. The walls of the massive arena suddenly felt like they were closing in on her.
The betrayal was so profound, so deeply calculated, that it physically nauseated her.
The man she had loved for three years had weaponized her darkest, most vulnerable moment just to save his own marketability.
"How... how bad is it?" she choked out, her hand trembling so violently she could barely hold the phone to her ear.
"It’s trending number one worldwide," Marcus admitted reluctantly.
"The internet is tearing you apart. Sarah is drafting a cease and desist, and our legal team is filing an injunction against the publication for illegal recording, but the damage in the court of public opinion is already done. Don't look at social media, El. I mean it. Just stay put.
I’m coming to get you."
The line went dead.
Elara lowered the phone, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
The panic attack didn't hit her all at once; it crept up her spine like freezing water.
Her chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, jagged gasps.
She felt entirely exposed, like the walls of the arena had been stripped away and the entire world was staring at her, laughing, judging, destroying her.
She stood up blindly, her only instinct to run. She needed to hide. She stumbled down the concrete stairs of the bleachers, the heavy jacket slipping off her shoulder.
Down on the ice, Julian had just received a pass. He wound up for a slapshot, his entire body coiling with kinetic energy, when his peripheral vision caught movement in the stands.
He didn't take the shot.
Julian stopped dead, his skates carving deep grooves into the ice. He looked up into the stands and saw Elara practically running toward the tunnel. Her face was ashen, her hands pressed over her mouth, and she was shaking.
The puck slid harmlessly into the corner.
"Thorne! What the hell are you doing?!" the assistant coach yelled from the bench.
Julian ignored him. He dropped his stick on the ice. He didn't skate to the bench door; he skated directly to the boards, vaulted his massive frame over the plexiglass with a terrifying, athletic grace, and hit the rubber flooring of the tunnel at a full sprint.
"Julian!" Baxter shouted, completely stunned.
Julian didn't look back. He tore his helmet off, tossing it onto a gear trunk as he ran down the concrete hallway.
He found her in the secluded alcove near the medical wing.
Elara was backed into the corner, her knees pulled to her chest, her hands tangled in her dark hair.
She was hyperventilating, the raw, tearing sound of her panic echoing in the quiet hallway.
She was completely trapped in the memory of the betrayal, drowning in the sudden, violent resurgence of the scandal.
"Elara," Julian breathed, his heart slamming against his ribs in sheer terror.
He dropped to his knees on the hard concrete right in front of her. The sheer size of him completely blocked her in, but he didn't crowd her. He knew exactly what she needed. She didn't need space; she needed an anchor.
"Elara, look at me," Julian commanded softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
She shook her head blindly, tears spilling over her lashes, her breath hitching in agonizing gasps. "He recorded me. He... he recorded me crying, Julian. Everyone is listening to it. Everyone thinks I'm crazy."
Julian’s blood turned to absolute ice. The urge to fly to Los Angeles and literally beat Declan Hayes within an inch of his life was so violent it made his vision blur. But he ruthlessly forced the rage down. Elara didn't need his anger right now. She needed his calm.
"Hey. Stop," Julian murmured, reaching out. His large, heavily calloused hands gently grasped her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. "Look at my eyes, Elara. Right here."
Elara finally looked up, her whiskey eyes wide, dilated, and overflowing with tears.
"Breathe with me," Julian instructed, holding her wrists firmly, pressing his thumbs into her racing pulse points. He took an exaggerated, slow breath in through his nose, expanding his massive chest. "In."
Elara tried, a shuddering gasp pulling past her lips.
"Good. Now out," Julian said, exhaling slowly.
He stayed there on his knees in his heavy hockey gear, the cold air rolling off his jersey, holding her wrists and forcing her to match his steady, rhythmic breathing.
It took five agonizing minutes, but slowly, the frantic, terrifying speed of her heart rate began to decelerate.
The panic attack crested and broke, leaving her utterly exhausted, completely drained, and shivering.
Julian didn't let go. He shifted his grip, sliding his hands down to intertwine his large fingers with hers. He squeezed gently.
"Tell me what happened," he said, his voice quiet but carrying a terrifying, absolute authority.