Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Bryce
“Don’t say it.”
Dex doesn’t even look at me. “Say what?”
I narrow my eyes. “Whatever smart-ass comment is currently trying to escape your mouth.”
Colby snorts as he tapes his stick. “So… all of them?”
I glare, and suddenly it’s a full circus.
Dex lifts his stick like a mic. “Breaking news from rink-side! Blackhorn is officially whipped and refuses to comment.”
Colby bows dramatically. “I’d like to thank the academy, the fans, and the mysterious woman who finally shut him up.”
Eli taps his helmet. “Boys, moment of silence. Our guy has caught feelings. A rare disease. No known cure.”
Shelly glides past and flicks a puck at Dex’s skate. “All of you shut up and skate before Coach has a cow."
Dex winks at me as he pushes off. “Skate angry, lover boy. It helps stamina.”
Colby nods. “Ten bucks says they’re making out again within seventy-two hours.”
I flip all three of them off.
They cheer like I just scored.
“Unreal,” I mutter.
Warm-ups end and we head toward the tunnel. The arena shakes with noise, lights flashing, fans pounding the glass like they’re trying to communicate through morse code.
And I should be thinking about positioning, line matchups, strategy.
But instead?
I’m thinking about Annabelle.
She’s across the arena in the media section, wearing a tight black blazer over a hot red blouse, hair pulled back with sharp precision, posture straight like she’s holding herself together with sheer intimidation.
She hasn’t looked at me once.
Correction: She has absolutely looked at me. She’s just pretending she hasn’t.
Colby elbows me. “If you glare any harder, she’s gonna file a restraining order.”
“Shut up.”
He smirks. “Hit a goal for her.”
“Hit a goal for my team, genius.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but 'for her' sounds hotter.”
Before I can respond, Coach Hale shouts from behind us as we head for the locker room for our pre-game meeting.
“Blackhorn! Play hockey, not Romeo and Juliet!”
Dex gasps dramatically. “Coach reads romance!”
"I read you turkeys like a grocery list" Coach fires back.
The guys howl.
He blows his whistle twice, loud enough to rattle teeth.
"Circle up. Now. Before I start benching egos for sport."
We form a loose semicircle in the locker room. Coach plants his hands on his hips like we’ve already disappointed him and the game hasn’t started.
"Alright, geniuses. You want first in the division? Earn it. This team we’re facing tonight isn’t going to roll over because you’re handsome menaces, and occasionally capable of adult decisions. They’re fast, they’re physical, and they play like someone owes them money."
Dex raises his hand. "Do we owe them money?"
The coach ignores him. "Stay disciplined. No stupid penalties. No hero plays unless your name is on the back of the jersey AND on the scoreboard. Clear?"
We nod.
"And for the love of sanity, stop chirping at each other and focus. The puck doesn’t care about your drama or who kissed who in what hallway. Win the damn game."
We push off, filing toward the rink, the rush already crawling up my spine.
***
We hit the ice.
Instant adrenaline. Instant clarity. Instant speed.
I chase the puck, crash the boards, take a hit and give one back. Clean. Hard. Focused.
Except my focus keeps flickering.
Because every time I skate where she's sitting, I can feel her gaze like heat against the back of my neck.
She thinks she’s subtle. She’s not.
Halfway into the second period, I break through the defense and fire a wrist shot top shelf.
Goal.
The crowd roars.
I skate past her section and keep my gloves to myself. No tap. No signal. Just restraint, even if it kills me.
Somewhere in the noise, Dex yells,
“THAT’S RIGHT! CHANNEL YOUR REPRESSION INTO SPORTS!”
I ignore him. Mostly.
We grind through the rest of the game. They score once on a greasy rebound, and the refs miss two blatant slashes…
classic. Coach Hale is losing his mind behind the bench, screaming something about "charging interest on penalties" while Dex chirps the other bench like he's auditioning for stand-up comedy.
We tighten up the forecheck, block shots, and play like the division depends on it, because it does.
The clock ticks under a minute. The other team pulls their goalie. Bodies everywhere. Eli clears the puck, Colby beats two defenders to it, and buries the empty netter.
We win 3-1.
The horn blares, gloves and helmets scatter, fans scream like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to celebrate something.
I jog down the tunnel, boys chirping and laughing.
“Great game, loverboy,” Eli says.
“Do NOT start that nickname,” I warn.
“Too late,” Colby says. “It has been spoken.”
I shake my head, shower fast, change into jeans and a black henley, and head toward the exit.
Her heels click before I even step fully into her line of sight.
“Before you disappear, meet me in my office in ten minutes. I have your revised PR schedule,” she says, voice clipped, all business, like she didn’t have her tongue in my mouth recently.
"Will do."
***
Ten minutes later, I’m heading toward her office, still fired up from the win tonight. Her door is open, desk lamp on, so I knock once and step inside.
“Hey,” I say low, steady, like I already own the air between us.
“Hi. Here’s the updated schedule. Media availability, sponsor interviews, community meet-and-greets. Read it. Stick to it. And for the love of God, avoid unnecessary headlines.”
She holds out the paper.
I take it.
I don’t move.
Her throat tightens almost invisibly. But I see it. I see every demolished wall she’s trying to rebuild.
“Don't look at me like that,” she says quietly.
My voice drops without permission. “Then stop looking at me like you want me to fail.”
Her spine stiffens as she stands and moves around her desk toward me. “I… I don’t.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, stepping closer, “you do.”
She retreats a step like her body acts faster than her logic.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” I lower my gaze to her mouth. “So am I.”
Before she can answer, the metallic click of the hallway security system echoes behind us.
The doors seal.
The overhead light flips from green to red.
She blinks. “Oh great.”
“Lockdown?” I ask.
She checks her phone. “Temporary. After events the system cycles and… oh perfect. No signal.”
She tries one doorway. Then another.
Nothing.
She exhales sharply, more rattled than annoyed.
“I don’t have time for this.”
I lean against the wall, watching her pace. “Seems like the universe disagrees.”
She turns and freezes when she realizes how close I am.
Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her. Close enough to notice she smells like winter air, vanilla, and the kind of trouble I’d ruin a career for.
“Bryce,” she warns.
“Annabelle.”
“This… whatever this is… it can’t happen.”
I tilt my head. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Rules?”
Her silence confirms it.
“Rules don’t change attraction.”.
Then she backs up. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just enough that her shoulders touch the wall.
“This is a mistake. We work together. My father is the owner. I just ended an engagement. I’m basically a mess.”
“Yeah, you may be a mess, but you’re a hot mess I want to taste and ruin slowly.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
She doesn’t move.
So I do.
I grab the lapel of her blazer and pull her to me.
She gasps but my mouth is already on hers.
The kiss is instant wildfire. Messy. Hungry. Starving. Her hands slide to the back of my neck and she pulls me closer instead of pushing me away.
I deepen it. Hard. Slow. Focused entirely on learning the way she tastes when she stops pretending she doesn’t want me.
Her fingers dig into my shirt. My hand slides under her blouse, fingertips brushing bare skin. She shivers, and the sound she makes... quiet, breathy, and wrecked...nearly undoes me.
She lifts one leg and my body moves on instinct, pinning her gently, firmly, like she belongs there.
“God, Belle…” My voice isn’t steady. It isn’t controlled. It’s pure want.
She kisses me again, deeper this time, her hand slipping under my shirt, fingertips against my stomach.
I break. Not the kiss. My restraint.
And I don’t just stop holding back. I take.
My mouth stays on hers as I walk her backward. Her fingers fist in my shirt, holding on like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
I don’t.
The couch hits the back of her legs and she drops onto it, breathless, lips swollen, eyes wild.
I follow, caging her with my body.
She reaches for the hem of my shirt and I yank it over my head, tossing it somewhere I don’t care about.
Her blouse is next. I undo button by button until her bra is exposed and she gasps like she’s realizing how far this is going.
Too late.
I slide my hand behind her back and unclasp her bra in one smooth motion. She sucks in a sharp breath when the fabric falls away.
“Bryce…” she says in a soft moan.
“That sound you just made?” I growl, kissing down her throat. “I’m gonna make a hell of a lot more of them.”
She arches into me, and I can feel every point of her wanting me. Her nipples are erect, begging me to kiss them. So I do. One at a time. Licking and sucking while she whimpers. Her hips roll instinctively and I respond, pressing her down and moving with her, hard and slow.
Dry humping is an insult to what I want, what we both want, but right now it’s gasoline.
Every grind, every moan, every drag of her body against mine is wrecking us.
She clings to me like she’s already ruined and wants more.
And I’m right there with her.
Her breathing is uneven. Her lips flushed. Her pupils dark enough to drown in.
“If we cross this…” she whispers, voice shaking, “everything changes.”
I cup her jaw, thumb sweeping her cheek. “Annabelle… it already has.”
One move away from losing every boundary we pretended existed.
Then…
A loud metallic click.
The lockdown ends and the doors click open.
Suddenly reality slams back into her and she grabs her bra, scrambles to button her blouse and smoothes her clothes like she might combust if she stays any closer.
“Let’s go!” She’s demanding as she grabs her purse and coat with shaking hands before forcing us toward the exit.
“Goodnight,” she manages, voice soft but trembling.
She walks down the hallway ahead of me.
Halfway there she stops.
And turns.
Just one second. Just long enough for me to see the truth in her eyes.
Fear. Want. And inevitability.
She looks away first.
I swallow, slow and certain.
She may have walked away.
But her body remembers mine.
And next time?
She won’t stop it.