By six forty-three, I had tried on six outfits and hated every single version of myself.

The black dress made me look like I was attending a funeral which, to be fair, was close enough. The red one looked like I was trying too hard. The jeans said I had not tried at all. The cream blouse looked too soft like something a woman wore when she wanted to be liked.

I did not want to be liked.

Especially not by Jaxon Kane.

I stood in front of my mirror wearing dark trousers, a fitted white top and a black jacket that said I had made an effort but would deny it under oath. My hair was down which was a mistake. Then I tied it up which was worse. Then I let it down again and glared at my reflection like she had personally betrayed me.

This was ridiculous.

It was fake.

It was business.

It was six months of pretending not to hate the man who had spent two years making my life on the Titans feel like a punishment.

The first day I walked into the Titans’ training facility, every man in that locker room had looked at me like I was either a joke or a problem. Some had smirked. Some had looked away. Some had stared too long while trying to decide where I fit in a world that had not been built to hold me.

But Jaxon had been different.

For one second, when his eyes first landed on me, I had not seen anger. I had seen surprise. Something sharp and unreadable had passed over his face, something almost like recognition as if I had stepped out of a thought he never wanted to admit he had.

Then it vanished. His eyes then turned cold, his mouth flattened and he looked me over like I was an error in the roster.

That was the Jaxon Kane I knew.

That was the Jaxon Kane I needed to remember when my doorbell rang at exactly seven.

I grabbed my purse and opened the door with my best expression of mild violence.

Unfortunately, Jaxon Kane was standing on the other side looking like a luxury advertisement with anger issues.

The suit should have been illegal. That was the first thought that came to me. It was dark charcoal, perfectly cut, fitting his broad shoulders like it had been sewn by someone who understood danger as an aesthetic. His hair was styled but not too styled and his jaw looked freshly shaved. He smelled faintly expensive.

Clean. Sharp. Annoying.

His eyes moved over me once. Slowly. It was not in a way that made me feel small but in a way that made me feel seen.

I hated that more.

“You’re late,” I said with a huff.

He checked his watch. “It is seven.”

“I opened the door at seven-oh-one.”

He rolled his eyes. “Tragic.”

“I could still close it.”

His mouth almost moved with a smile. “You look nice,” he said.

That threw me off so badly I nearly forgot to glare.

“Do not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that.”

“Compliment you?”

“Lie badly.”

His eyes dipped again, just for a moment. “I do not lie badly.”

Before I could answer, he turned and walked toward the elevator, clearly expecting me to follow. I did, because apparently the evening’s humiliation had only just begun.

Outside, a black car waited at the curb. It was sleek, polished and expensive enough to have its own tax bracket. Jaxon opened the passenger door.

I stopped just then.

He looked at me with an arched brow. “What?”

“I can open doors.”

“I am aware.”

“Then why are you doing that?”

“Because if someone is watching, I look like a gentleman.”

“You look like a man attempting not to be punched.”

“That can work too.”

I got in because arguing on the sidewalk felt like giving him a victory. The inside of the car smelled like leather and his cologne. It was too quiet, too private and too easy to remember that only yesterday his hands had been on my hips while his voice had brushed my ear. Jaxon slid into the driver’s seat.

“Rules,” he said.

I turned to him. “Excuse me?”

“Rules,” he repeated, starting the car. “No kissing unless cameras are present. No personal questions. No improvising without warning me first. This is business.”

I huffed and folded my arms over my chest. “Fine by me.”

His hand tightened briefly on the steering wheel in response.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere we will be seen.”

“Of course. God forbid our fake relationship not have witnesses.”

“That is the point of a fake relationship.”

“You have done this before?”

His eyes flicked to me just then. “No personal questions, remember?”

“That was a business question.”

“It sounded personal.”

“It sounded like you were avoiding it.”

He did not answer to that.

The city slid past the windows in streaks of gold and glass. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke as Jaxon drove. He then reached for the gear shift at the same time I adjusted my purse and his fingers brushed mine.

It was nothing. Barely a touch.

Still, both of us froze for half a second too long.

Then I pulled my hand back and stared out the window like New York traffic had suddenly become fascinating.

Jaxon cleared his throat just then. “Do not read into that,” he said.

“I was not.”

“Good.”

“Were you?”

His jaw ticked in response. I smiled despite myself.

There it was, I thought. My first victory of the night.

***

The restaurant was the kind of place where the lighting made everyone look rich and emotionally unavailable.

There were photographers outside. Of course there were.

I stopped near the entrance and said dryly, “You tipped them off.”

Jaxon placed his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Lena did.”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes, “Convenient.”

Jaxon looked at me. “Smile.”

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you are planning a murder.”

“That is my public-friendly smile.”

His fingers pressed once, almost like a warning before he guided me forward. The cameras erupted and flashes burst around us. Jaxon drew closer, his mouth near my ear.

“Try not to look like I kidnapped you,” he murmured.

“No promises.”

To the cameras, he laughed. Actually laughed. The sound moved through me before I could stop it.

Inside, the hostess practically melted when she saw him. I could not even blame her which irritated me on principle.

Jaxon played the part perfectly. His hand remained at my back. He pulled out my chair. He drew in when I spoke, like every sarcastic thing I said was the most fascinating sentence he had ever heard.

It was disturbing. Very disturbing.

By the time our drinks arrived, I had forgotten twice that I was supposed to hate him.

“So,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Why hockey?”

I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds dangerously like a personal question.”

“It is controlled curiosity.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

I should have ignored him. I should have made a joke, changed the subject or asked him whether his personality had been surgically removed at birth.

Instead, I answered.

“My dad played,” I said.

Jaxon went still in response.

I looked down at my water glass, suddenly annoyed with myself. “Not professionally. College, then amateur leagues. But to me, he was better than anyone on television. He taught me how to skate before I could spell my own name.”

Jaxon said nothing.

“He died when I was twelve,” I continued because apparently my mouth had decided to ruin my life. “Car accident. After that, hockey was…” I swallowed. “It was the last thing we shared.”

I looked up and immediately wished I had not. Jaxon was watching me without the usual ice in his eyes. No judgment. No sharpness. Just something soft that made my chest hurt more than his insults ever had.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Two words. And yet, they did something to my insides before I could stop it.

Then his hand covered mine on the table. I should have pulled away. There were no cameras inside. No reason to perform. No reason to let his warm palm rest over my fingers like he had any right to comfort me.

But I did not move. I did not fucking move.

For one reckless second, I forgot this was fake.

Then someone laughed too loudly at a nearby table and the spell cracked.

With a jerky movement, I slipped my hand away. Jaxon let me.

Dinner then passed in a blur of careful questions and careless lies. He asked nothing else about my father. I appreciated that more than I wanted to. Instead, we talked about safe things. Hockey. Training. How badly Coach needed a vacation. How Marcus pretended to be wise whenever he had absolutely nothing useful to say.

Jaxon laughed again when I imitated Marcus’s serious voice.

This time, I watched it happen. His face changed when he laughed. The sharp edges eased. The captain disappeared for half a second and underneath was a man who looked younger, tired and dangerously human.

I did not like that version. I did not like it because that version was harder to hate.

When we eventually stepped outside, the paparazzi were waiting like wolves who had been fed just enough to stay hungry.

“Jaxon! Rory! Over here!”

“Is it official?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Give us a kiss!”

My body stiffened even as Jaxon’s hand found mine.

He looked down at me and for once, he did not move like he owned the moment. He simply waited.

“May I?” he asked me.

The question did something strange to me.

Maybe because I had expected him to just perform. To take. To decide. That was what Jaxon did. He controlled things. People. Games. Rooms.

But right now, he was asking.

I nodded before I could think better of it.

I expected a quick kiss. Something clean and staged. A press-friendly brush of lips that would give the cameras what they wanted without costing either of us anything.

Jaxon stepped closer. His hand came to my waist in a careful but firm manner. The other rose to my hair, not gripping, just holding me there as if giving me one more chance to pull away.

I did not.

Then he kissed me.

And the noise around us vanished.

There were cameras, shouts, flashes, the cold bite of evening air but all I felt was Jaxon. His mouth was warm, sure and far too convincing. It was not rushed. It was not polite. It felt like an argument neither of us wanted to lose.

And I kissed him back. That was the fucking problem. I kissed him back.

My fingers curled into his jacket before I could stop them. I leaned into him like my body had been waiting for permission my pride would never give. When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing harder than we should have been. His eyes were dark as he stared at me.

“That should…” His voice sounded rough and he paused like the words had gotten caught somewhere. “That should sell it.”

I could not speak. What could I possibly say after what had just happened?

The ride back was worse. The silence in the car was no longer tense. It was unbearable.

I stared out the window and tried not to touch my lips. Tried not to think about his hand at my waist. Tried not to remember the way he had asked before kissing me, as if my answer mattered.

“That was—” I began after taking a deep breath that was tantamount to a shot of bravery.

“Necessary,” he said simply, cutting me short.

The word landed between us like a door slamming shut.

I turned away from him. “Right.”

His eyes stayed on the road. “Do not make it complicated.”

I looked back at him with a glare. “I was not the one who kissed like my life depended on the reviews.”

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Careful, Callahan.”

“Why? Afraid I will start thinking you enjoyed yourself?”

He said nothing in response. That silence was answer enough.

When he pulled up in front of my apartment minutes later, I reached for the door handle, desperate to escape before my brain did something humiliating like replay the kiss in slow motion.

Then Jaxon said, “They are announcing the living arrangement tomorrow.”

I froze. “What living arrangement?”

“The one where I move in with you…for authenticity.”

I turned slowly with my eyes as wide as saucers. “Absolutely not.”

His mouth flattened and he looked away. “It is already decided.”

“By who? The same people who thought this entire circus was a good idea?”

“Management.”

“Management can move in with me.”

“Rory.”

“No. Do not Rory me. I agreed to fake dating. I did not agree to share my bathroom with you!”

He finally looked at me. Really looked. And there was something in his face I had never seen before. Frustration, yes. Anger, obviously. But beneath it, something raw enough to make my breath catch.

“You think I want this?” he asked quietly. “You think I want to watch you walk around my space, smell your shampoo, hear you laugh on the phone with people who are not me?”

My heart stopped. “What?”

His expression shut down so fast it was almost frightening. The captain returned in a cold, controlled and untouchable manner.

“It is not a choice,” he said. “My lease is already terminated. I will take the couch.”

Then he looked away again as if the conversation was over. I opened the door and stepped out of the car but my legs felt unsteady. Before I could say anything else, he drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk, my lips still tingling, my world tilting on its axis.

Jaxon Kane just admitted… what exactly?

By six in the morning, I had cleaned my apartment twice and hated myself for the third time before sunrise.

The kitchen counters were spotless. The living room rug had been vacuumed so aggressively it probably needed therapy. I had rearranged the throw pillows, wiped down the windows, scrubbed the bathroom sink and reorganized a bookshelf no one cared about except me.

Control.

That was what cleaning gave me. Control.

When my apartment was clean, I could pretend my life was not one bad headline away from collapse. When my skates were sharpened, my gear packed, my meals planned and my phone face down, I could pretend I was not constantly waiting for the next hit.

People thought I survived on stubbornness. They were wrong.

I survived by keeping distance.

Distance from teammates who smiled too easily. Distance from coaches who called cruelty “toughening up.” Distance from reporters who wanted tears and men who wanted gratitude for doing the bare minimum.

And especially distance from Jaxon Kane.

The doorbell rang just then.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Of course he was early.

I opened the door and prepared to say something sarcastic as usual but the words died somewhere behind my teeth.

Jaxon stood there in dark jeans, a black T-shirt under a grey jacket and that impossible, irritating face that looked like it had been designed to ruin perfectly good mornings. Two large boxes sat at his feet and a duffel bag hung from one shoulder.

In his right hand was coffee. He held it out.

“Oat milk,” he said. “Two sugars.”

I stared at the cup. Then at him.

“How do you know that?”

“You order it before morning practice.”

Incredulity filled my face. “You watch my coffee order?”

His expression did not change at all. “You drink coffee like it is a medical requirement. It is hard to miss.”

I took the cup because refusing caffeine on principle felt like self-harm.

“This does not make us friends,” I said though.

“I was not under that impression.”

“Good.”

His gaze moved past me into the apartment. “Can I come in or do we plan to perform the entire fake relationship in the hallway?”

I stepped aside and he carried the boxes in without another word.

My apartment was small by professional athlete standards which meant it did not have six bathrooms, an indoor gym or an elevator that opened directly into my ego. It had one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, a living room with too many books and a view of the building across the street.

Jaxon looked around.

“Cozy,” he said.

“It is called affordable.”

“I did not say it was bad.”

“You thought it loudly.”

That almost-smile threatened his mouth again. “You hear thoughts now?”

“Only arrogant ones. Yours are practically shouting.”

He set the boxes down by the couch. “Where do you want me?”

The question should not have done anything. Yet, it did.

Oh God, help me, I thought desperately.

I took a sip of coffee to buy time and nearly groaned because it was exactly perfect.

God, how did he get my coffee so damn right? I thought with an inward sigh.

“The couch,” I finally said.

His eyes dropped to it.

My couch was comfortable for me. I was five foot nine. But then, Jaxon was built like a wall learned how to skate.

He nodded once and simply said, “Fine.”

“You can complain. I know you want to.”

“I have slept in worse places.”

“Luxury hotels with bad pillows do not count as hardship.”

Something flickered in his face, quick and gone. “You would be surprised.”

I did not know what to do with that so I said nothing.

For the next hour, my apartment became a battlefield. Jaxon’s clothes appeared from boxes like an invasion. Expensive shirts. Dark sweaters. Training gear folded with military precision. A watch case that probably cost more than my first car. He took up space without trying and I hated that the apartment did not feel smaller exactly.

It simply felt different. Louder somehow, even when he was silent.

“You get one side of the closet,” I said.

He looked at the closet then back at me. “One side?”

“Yes.”

“There are two hangers.”

“Use them wisely.”

“Rory.”

“No. This is not your glass palace. This is my apartment. My rules.”

His eyes held mine for a second. “Your rules,” he repeated quietly.

Again, that tone. Like he was saying something else beneath the words. I turned away before I could wonder what.

While he unpacked, I noticed a worn hockey stick leaning carefully against one box. It did not match the rest of his things. Everything else about Jaxon was polished, controlled, expensive. But the stick was old, the tape frayed, the wood scratched with use. There was a faded signature along the blade:

To Jax. Keep your head up. — Dad.

I looked at it too long.

“That is not for public viewing,” Jaxon said to me. His voice had gone cold as he spoke.

I turned around.

He was watching me with the same expression he wore on the ice before a hit.

I swallowed hard before I could stop myself. “I was not touching it.”

“You were looking.”

“Usually that is allowed in homes with electricity.”

He crossed the room and picked up the stick, his grip tight as he did so. For a second, the hard captain disappeared and I saw something younger beneath him. Something wounded and furious that did not want witnesses. Then he placed the stick inside the closet and shut the door.

A photo slipped from one of the boxes as he moved.

I bent automatically to pick it up.

A young Jaxon stood beside a woman with silver-blonde hair and a perfect smile. He could not have been more than ten. His face in the picture was open, bright and painfully different from the man standing in front of me.

“That your mom?” I asked despite the tension from earlier.

His face closed so fast it was almost violent. “Yes.”

One word.

It was clear it was a locked door.

I handed him the photo. His fingers brushed mine but this time there was no spark. Only ice.

“Do not ask about her,” he said.

I lifted both hands. “Fine.”

The morning settled into something strange after that. We argued over closet space, then over fridge space then over the bathroom counter after he placed three expensive-looking bottles beside my moisturizer.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“Skincare.”

“You have more products than I do.”

“Your jealousy is showing.”

“My concern is showing. There is a difference.”

Then, to my complete shock, Jaxon cooked. He cooked actual food. Not protein powder poured sadly into a shaker. Food. Eggs, toast, avocado, grilled tomatoes and some kind of seasoned potatoes that smelled unfairly good.

I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked suspiciously at him. “Who are you?”

He did not look up from the pan. “Hungry?”

“That depends. Did you poison it?”

“If I wanted you dead, I had better opportunities during practice.”

“Comforting,” I replied dryly.

He plated the food and handed it to me. I took one bite, then immediately regretted making eye contact with him because his expression said he knew exactly how good it was.

“Say it,” he said.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Say you are impressed.”

“I am mildly alarmed.”

“That is close enough,” he replied with a laugh.

After breakfast, he played music from his phone while washing the pan. It was old rock. Dramatic. Loud. Predictable.

“You listen to breakup music for divorced dads?” I asked.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “You listen to angry workout playlists made by people who think bass is a personality.”

“That is because bass is a personality.”

He laughed in response.

For a moment, we were almost normal.

That was the problem.

Normal with Jaxon Kane felt more dangerous than war.

By afternoon, Lena had sent us a document titled, ‘COUPLE BACKSTORY — FINAL APPROVED VERSION’, which was as horrifying as it sounded.

Jaxon and I sat on the couch, a safe distance apart, going through the lies we were expected to memorize.

“We bonded after a late practice?” I read aloud. “That is the best they could do?”

“It is believable.”

“No, it sounds like a sports detergent commercial.”

Jaxon relaxed back, his laptop open on his knees as he did so. “What would you prefer?”

“The truth.”

His eyes slid to mine.

I smiled without humor. “Relax, Captain. I am joking. We both know the truth is bad for business.”

Something shifted in his face but before I could read it, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen and stood immediately.

“I need to take this.”

“Secret girlfriend?”

He did not smile. “No.”

He walked toward the kitchen, leaving his laptop open on the coffee table.

I told myself not to look.

I really did.

But then the screen lit up with a notification.

My eyes caught the words before I could stop them.

Re: Contract Amendment — Callahan Resolution Clause

The room tilted just then.

Callahan. Resolution. Clause.

My name had no business sitting in Jaxon’s email beside words that sounded like they had been written by lawyers.

I did not click on it yet but my stomach dropped so hard it felt like it was falling through ice.

Jaxon returned less than a minute later. “You okay?”

I looked up too quickly. “Fine.”

His eyes narrowed. “You look pale.”

“Just tired.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

I stood. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence that followed was different from the others. His gaze moved from my face to the laptop, then back again. I walked to the bathroom before he could ask anything else.

By evening, we were dressed for team dinner. Mandatory bonding, according to Coach. Punishment with appetizers, according to me.

The restaurant was loud, dim and packed with Titans players who greeted Jaxon like a king and me like a punchline they were still deciding whether to laugh at.

Jaxon sat beside me because we had to sell it. His thigh brushed mine beneath the table.

I hated that I noticed. God, how I fucking hated it.

The jokes started before the first round of drinks arrived.

“So, Captain,” Brad said from across the table, grinning like an idiot. “Did not know you were mentoring Callahan off the ice too.”

A few guys laughed. I reached for my water. Jaxon’s hand curled around his glass.

Someone else added, “Guess she finally found a way to get extra training time.”

More laughter came just then.

I smiled because women like me learned early that sometimes smiling was armor. Sometimes silence was strategy. Sometimes letting men reveal themselves was better than wasting breath trying to prove they were exactly what everyone pretended they were not.

But Jaxon was not smiling. His shoulders had gone rigid.

“Enough,” he said with a growl and the table quieted a little in response.

Brad, because he was apparently committed to stupidity, moved his body forward. “What? We are all happy for you two.” His eyes slid to me. “So, Callahan, you always fuck your way into playing time or just this season?”

The table went dead immediately.

Jaxon moved so fast his chair scraped back. I caught his arm before he could lunge across the table.

Not because Brad did not deserve it.

He did.

But because Jaxon punching another man for me would only become another headline about Jaxon’s temper and my supposed drama.

I stood slowly and my voice came out Ice-cold as I spoke, “Brad, the only fucking happening here is how badly I am going to fuck up your stats when I steal every assist you thought you had coming. Watch me.”

No one moved at first. Then Marcus started clapping. A laugh broke from someone near the end of the table in a nervous and low manner. Brad’s face turned red.

I sat down then. Jaxon was staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

Back at the apartment, I could not settle. Adrenaline buzzed under my skin. I kicked off my shoes, paced the living room then stopped because Jaxon was still watching me from the doorway.

“You did not need me to defend you,” he said.

“No, I did not.”

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

“But you tried anyway.”

He looked away.

“Why?” I asked.

His gaze returned to mine.

The air changed just then. He took one step closer. Then another.

“You really do not know?”

My breath caught.

“This is fake,” I said, though it sounded weaker than I wanted. “You hate me.”

Jaxon stopped inches away.

His voice dropped. “I really, really do not.”

My heart hit my ribs. For a second, neither of us moved.

He was close enough that I could see the tiredness beneath his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to remember the kiss outside the restaurant and how my body had betrayed me by wanting more.

His gaze lowered to my mouth.

I should have stepped back.

I did not.

Jaxon's phone rang just then and he froze at first. He checked the screen and whatever he saw drained every trace of warmth from his face.

“I have to take this,” he said.

He walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I stood in the living room, still breathing like I had just sprinted laps while I eavesdropped.

His voice came through the wall, low and muffled.

“…told you not to call.”

Pause.

“No. That does not change anything.”

Another pause.

Then,

“The contract is the contract.”

I stopped breathing just then.

Ten minutes later, he came out.

The man who had nearly kissed me was gone. The Ice King was back.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair.

“I am sleeping at a hotel tonight,” he said. “Need space.”

I stared at him. “What just happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Jaxon.”

He looked at me then and the emptiness in his face scared me more than his anger ever had.

“That is the problem,” he said. “Nothing can happen.”

Then he left and the door shut behind him. The apartment became too quiet. For a long moment, I stood there with my pulse pounding in my ears. Then I turned toward the coffee table.

His laptop was still open. The email was still there. My hands shook as I clicked it.

What I read made my blood run cold.

Jaxon,

Per our discussion, the amendment is finalized. Five-million-dollar bonus will be paid upon resolution of the female player situation within twelve months of signing. Current status: four months remaining.

Resolution

defined as: voluntary resignation, trade acceptance, or contract termination.

Your cooperation in facilitating said resolution is appreciated.

Performance metrics attached.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, because apparently my brain had decided there must be another meaning hidden somewhere between the words. Maybe “female player situation” meant something else. Maybe “resolution” was not me being erased from the Titans roster like a scheduling mistake. Maybe “your cooperation” did not mean Jaxon Kane had been paid to help push me out of the only thing I had ever fought to keep.

But the words did not change. Not in the slightest.

My name was not written in the email but it was everywhere.

Female player situation.

Resolution.

Voluntary resignation.

Trade acceptance.

Contract termination.

I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

When it was over, I stayed on the cold tile floor, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, my throat burning and my eyes wet for reasons that had nothing to do with nausea.

The apartment was silent. Too silent. Jaxon’s laptop still glowed in the living room, waiting like a loaded weapon.

I should have closed it. I should have walked away. I should have told myself that reading more would only hurt worse.

Instead, I went back.

Because apparently I was the kind of woman who needed to watch the knife enter before she believed she was bleeding.

My fingers shook as I opened the attachment.

Performance Metrics: Rory Callahan.

It was a neat file with clean fonts and professional formatting. There were charts for everything. My penalty minutes. My injuries. My media appearances. My “incidents.”

Every headline I had tried not to read was listed there like evidence in a trial. Every time I spoke up in an interview. Every time I reacted to a bad call. Every time I pushed back when reporters asked whether I was physically strong enough to survive in the league.

There were notes beside the entries:

Subject demonstrates heightened emotional response to public criticism.

Subject displays increased aggression following perceived exclusion by teammates.

Subject remains socially isolated within team structure.

My stomach rolled again but this time nothing came up.

Subject. Not Rory. Not Callahan.

Subject.

I scrolled lower, my breathing turning shallow. Then I found the recommendation.

Subject responds poorly to public criticism but shows vulnerability to perceived personal connection. Suggest continued proximity strategy.

I stopped moving as the entire apartment narrowed to those words.

Vulnerability to perceived personal connection.

I saw Jaxon’s hand covering mine at dinner.

Perceived.

I heard his voice saying, I really, really do not.

Personal connection.

I felt his mouth on mine outside the restaurant, his hand in my hair, his body close enough to make me forget who he was.

Strategy.

A laugh broke out of me and it sounded wrong. Sharp. Small. Almost broken.

So that was what I had been. Not a teammate. Not a challenge. Not a woman he hated and maybe wanted and definitely did not understand.

A problem. A situation. A subject with weaknesses.

The brutal checks during practice were not just Jaxon being Jaxon. They were pressure. Wear her down. Make her hurt. Make the ice feel unsafe enough that leaving would look like her choice.

The stance corrections were not lessons. They were humiliation. Hands on my hips, breath at my neck, the entire team watching while he turned my body into another place where he could prove his control.

The fake relationship was not inconvenient. It was useful. A way to get close. A way to study me. A way to find out exactly where to press until something cracked.

And the kiss—

I closed my eyes.

No.

I would not think about the kiss.

Too late.

I thought about it.

I thought about the way he had asked, May I? Like he was giving me power. Like I had a choice. Like my yes meant something more than permission to play the next scene.

My chest hurt so I pressed a fist against it and hated myself for that too.

There were women who cried beautifully. Quiet tears. Shaking shoulders. Soft tragedy.

I was not one of them.

I cried like I was angry about it.

The tears came hot and fast and I wiped at them like they had personally offended me. Then the crying stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving something colder behind.

Fine, I thought angrily. He wanted to play. I could play.

I would play.

***

By the time Jaxon returned the next morning, I had slept for forty minutes, showered twice, deleted nothing from his laptop and learned how to put my face back together.

He came in carrying breakfast. Of course he did. Because the devil apparently remembered oat milk and bought croissants.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair damp from the shower, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee I had not tasted.

He paused when he saw me. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

His eyes moved over my face. “You look tired.”

“Did not sleep much.”

He set the bag on the counter. “About last night—”

“It is fine.”

His brows drew together.

I smiled.

“You were right,” I continued. “We were getting too comfortable. This is business.”

Something shifted in his face. Relief came first. Then something else.

Disappointment?

I didn't want to know or care.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Business.”

“We should practice couple stuff,” I added, standing.

His eyes narrowed. “Couple stuff?”

“For photos. Interviews. Whatever performance Lena wants from us next.”

I walked toward him before my courage could fail. Jaxon did not move. That was his mistake. I placed my palm against his chest and his body went still beneath my hand.

Hard muscle. Steady heartbeat. Warmth I had no business noticing.

His pupils widened slightly. I filed that away.

“So,” I said lightly, tilting my head up, “if I touch you like this, you do not look like someone being forced to tolerate me.”

His voice dropped. “Rory.”

“What?” I drew closer, my voice turning husky. “Too much?”

His hand twitched at his side and I smiled sweeter.

“See?” I said. “Just acting.”

Then I pulled away.

I did not look back quickly enough to see his fists clench but I heard his breath change.

Good, I thought with a smug smile.

***

At practice, I played like my body had been built from broken glass and revenge.

Every pass was sharp. Every turn was fast. Every hit was clean.

Mostly.

Jaxon knew what I was doing within the first five minutes.

He knew because he always knew.

I clipped his shoulder during a drill and stole the puck before he could reset. He came after me on the next rotation and boxed me in along the boards with enough force to rattle my teeth but not enough to draw a whistle.

“Problem, Callahan?” he asked.

I smiled behind my mouthguard. “Not anymore.”

His eyes flashed.

We did not practice after that.

We fought.

We fought not with fists. Not with words, at least not at first. Rather, we fought with speed and steel and sharp turns. We fought with shoulders and checks and stolen pucks. We fought like the ice was the only place our bodies were allowed to tell the truth.

He hit harder. I moved faster. He blocked. I cut around him. He anticipated. I adapted.

By the time Coach blew the whistle, half the team had stopped pretending they were not watching.

“I do not know what foreplay looks like for you two,” Coach barked, “but save it for home!”

The team burst into laughter.

I ripped off my helmet and glared at Jaxon.

He glared back.

For one second, the rink disappeared again. There was only him and me and the ugly, burning thing between us that did not care whether it was hate or want, because either way, it demanded to be fed.

Marcus caught up to me near the bench.

“What is going on?” he asked.

“Practice.”

“That was not practice.”

I took a long drink of water. “Then what was it?”

Marcus looked toward Jaxon, then back at me. “War.”

My mouth curved in response. “Maybe it always was.”

His expression changed. “Rory?”

I walked away before he could ask the question I was not ready to answer.

By late afternoon, the team had decided my punishment for surviving practice was a couple’s photoshoot.

Lena called it “controlled intimacy.”

I called it “evidence for my future insanity hearing.”

The studio was bright, expensive, and full of people who kept telling me to relax while asking me to lean into the man who had a financial incentive to destroy me.

Jaxon arrived in a black sweater and dark jeans, looking unfairly calm.

I wanted to throw something at him.

Instead, I let the stylist fix my hair and tried not to think about the email still sitting like poison under my skin.

“Closer,” the photographer called. “Jaxon, hands on her waist. Rory, soften your shoulders.”

Jaxon’s hands settled on my waist and my body remembered him before my mind could stop it.

Traitor. My body was a fucking traitor.

“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now, Rory, lean back into him.”

I did. His chest brushed my back and my throat tightened.

“Beautiful. More heat. You are in love, remember?”

I almost laughed in response. In love? How ridiculous?!

Jaxon’s mouth lowered near my ear. “What is wrong?”

I kept smiling for the camera. “Nothing.”

“You have been different since yesterday.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

The photographer circled us. “Great tension. Hold that.”

Jaxon’s fingers tightened slightly against my waist. “Talk to me.”

That almost did it. Not the order. Not the closeness. The fact that he sounded like he meant it. It almost did it.

I turned my face slightly, just enough that my cheek nearly brushed his.

“Just wondering how far you will take this,” I whispered.

He went still.

“The fake relationship,” I continued. “How committed are you, Captain?”

His voice was low. “What does that mean?”

I smiled for the camera. “How badly do you want me gone?”

His hands tightened and his jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle jump.

“You have no idea what I want,” he said with gritted teeth.

The photographer shouted, “Perfect! That is the shot!”

Of course it was.

It was the perfect shot of a woman pretending not to break and the man being paid to hold the pieces.

***

That night, I pretended to fall asleep on the couch.

It was not hard. I was exhausted enough to collapse but my mind refused to shut down. The apartment was dark except for the thin light above the stove. Rain tapped lightly against the windows.

Jaxon came home late.

I kept my breathing even as I listened to him. He moved quietly but I knew the sound of him now. The soft scrape of his shoes. The pause near the doorway. The way he stood still before entering a room, as if deciding which version of himself to bring in.

His phone rang before he reached the bedroom. He answered in the kitchen. “No.”

A pause.

“I do not care about the money anymore.”

My eyes stayed closed but my heart did not.

“I know what I signed,” he said, voice rough. “I know.”

Another pause.

Then with a softer tone, he said, “She is not the problem. I am.”

The apartment seemed to hold its breath with me as I listened.

“No, I am not backing out,” he continued, “I just need more time. This is more complicated than—”

He stopped.

For one terrifying second, I thought he knew I was awake. His footsteps moved toward me. I stayed still. The couch dipped slightly as he stood beside it. I felt him there before he touched me. The warmth of his body. The hesitation.

Then a blanket settled over me in a careful, gentle manner. And his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

I almost flinched. Almost. But I didn't.

He stayed there for a moment and I knew without opening my eyes that he was watching me intensely. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than air.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. You will never know, but I am.”

My chest cracked just enough to let pain in where anger had been doing such a good job keeping everything else out.

Jaxon walked away.

I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even, and felt something break open inside me.

The man who was paid to destroy me had just tucked me in.

And I had no idea what was real anymore.