Price of Victory, page 11
I stared at the messages for a long moment, trying to figure out how to respond. Part of me wanted to match his casual tone, to pretend that last night had been just another hookup. But that felt wrong, dishonest in a way that made my stomach twist. Instead, I typed: “Sorry for keeping you up thinking about me. Can’t help that I’m unforgettable. And my cologne is expensive. You should be honored your sheets smell like success now.”
I sent it before I could second-guess myself, then immediately worried it was too much. Too flirtatious, too presumptuous, too something. But my phone buzzed with his response almost immediately.
“Smooth, Whitmore. See you at practice.”
Three little words that shouldn’t have meant anything significant but somehow made everything feel manageable again. See you at practice. Like we were going to be okay, like last night hadn’t made everything more complicated between us.
I finished my cereal, which suddenly tasted better than it had all morning, and started getting ready for the day. Classes, practice, normal college student activities that felt surreal after the emotional whiplash of the morning.
But as I showered and dressed, I found myself thinking about Rhett’s text messages, about the easy humor and underlying warmth. About the way he’d handled the morning after with grace and intelligence, giving us both space to figure out what came next without making it weird or complicated.
Maybe this didn’t have to be the disaster I’d been imagining. Maybe we could figure out how to navigate whatever this was between us, how to balance the attraction and the family complications and all the other messy realities that came with crossing the line we’d crossed last night.
Or maybe I was being naive, and everything was about to get infinitely more complicated.
Either way, I was going to see him at practice in a few hours, and I had no idea what that was going to be like. Would things be awkward between us anyway? Would I be able to focus on hockey when all I could think about was the way he’d looked underneath me, the sounds he’d made, the way he’d said my name, or the way his eyes widened in the moment he came?
I grabbed my gear bag and headed for the door, trying to push those thoughts out of my mind. Whatever happened at practice, whatever came next between us, I would deal with it when I got there.
But as I waited for the elevator, I found myself smiling despite everything. The conversation with my mother, the family pressure, the guilt about my father—all of that was still there, still waiting to be dealt with.
But Rhett’s text had made me laugh, and somehow, that felt like hope.
Maybe that had to count for something.
THIRTEEN
RHETT
The ice felt different under my skates today, like it was crackling with the same energy that had been humming under my skin since I’d woken up this morning. Every stride felt purposeful, every movement charged with anticipation that I was trying desperately to keep under control.
I’d been thinking about Aiden’s response to my text all day, that cocky reply about expensive cologne and success that was so perfectly him it made me want to laugh and shake him at the same time. The easy banter between us felt natural in a way that should have been impossible, given everything that had happened between us, but somehow wasn’t.
Now, watching him glide across the ice during warm-ups with that fluid grace that made hockey look effortless, I found myself remembering exactly why I’d been fighting this attraction for so long. He was beautiful in motion, all controlled power and confident precision, and knowing what he looked like underneath all that gear was making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
“Morrison!” Coach Webber’s voice cut through my distracted thoughts. “You planning to join us for practice, or are you just here to admire the scenery?”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I realized I’d been standing motionless near the boards, obviously staring at Aiden. “Sorry, Coach. Just working out some muscle tension.”
“Work it out on the ice. We’re running checking drills again. Same pairs as last week.”
Of course we were. The universe had a sense of humor that bordered on cruel.
I skated over to where Aiden was waiting, noting the way his eyes tracked my movement with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. He looked perfectly composed, like nothing had changed between us, but I could see something different in his expression. A heat that hadn’t been there before, a knowledge that made my stomach flip with nervous anticipation.
“Ready for round two, Morrison?” he asked as I approached, his voice carrying just enough innuendo to make my breath catch.
“Try to survive,” I shot back, settling into position across from him.
The first check was exactly what I’d expected. Hard, technical, perfectly executed within the bounds of what Coach considered acceptable contact. But when Aiden slammed into me, there was something extra in it, a force that sent me stumbling backward harder than necessary.
“Shit, you okay?” he asked immediately, skating closer with genuine concern in his voice.
The question annoyed me more than it should have. “I’m fine. What do you think I am, made of glass?”
“Just checking. You seemed a little distracted during warm-ups.”
“I wasn’t distracted.”
“No? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were thinking about something pretty intensely. Someething nice?”
The way he said it, with that knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, made it clear he knew exactly what I’d been thinking about. Heat crept up my neck, and I had to resist the urge to wipe that smug expression off his face.
“Your turn,” I said instead, taking possession of the puck and lining up for my approach.
When I hit him, I made sure to put every ounce of frustration and want and confusion into the contact. The impact sent him sliding backward, but he recovered with that damned grace of his, already grinning before he’d fully regained his balance.
“Now, that’s more like it,” he said, close enough that only I could hear him. “I was starting to think you’d gone soft on me.”
“Never.”
“Good. I’d hate to think last night made you weak in the knees.”
The words sent a bolt of heat straight through me, and I had to grip my stick tighter to keep my hands from shaking. This was dangerous territory, flirting on the ice where anyone could overhear, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “The only thing that’s weak is your trash talk,” I said, already lining up for the next repetition.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Take it however you want.”
What followed was the most intense checking drill I’d ever participated in. Every hit was loaded with subtext, every collision an excuse to get close enough to whisper something that made my face burn. Aiden was relentless, using every opportunity to get under my skin with comments that walked the line between hockey banter and outright dirty talking.
“Nice form,” he murmured after a particularly solid check. “You always look good when you’re aggressive.”
“Shut up and play hockey.”
“I am playing. Just enjoying the view while I do it.”
By the time we’d been going for twenty minutes, I was wound so tight I thought I might snap. Every brush of contact sent shivers shooting through my gear; every low comment made in the heat of the drill left me more flustered than the last. The other guys were starting to notice something was different, the way we were hitting each other harder than necessary, the way we stayed close together longer than the drill required.
“Jesus, you two,” Patrick called out during a water break. “Save some energy for the actual game.”
“Just working on technique,” Aiden replied easily, not even breathing hard despite the intensity of our contact.
“Right. Technique.” Patrick’s tone suggested he wasn’t buying it, but he skated away without pushing further.
The drill continued, and so did our increasingly heated exchanges. Aiden was getting bolder with his comments, his voice dropping to that rough whisper that made my knees weak every time he got close enough to use it.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” he said after slamming me into the boards with enough force to rattle my teeth.
“Your lack of subtlety?”
“The sounds you made last night. The way you said my name when you…”
“Aiden.” The warning in my voice was clear, but he just grinned and skated backward, completely unrepentant.
“What? I’m just making conversation.”
“That’s not conversation. That’s…”
“That’s what?”
I couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t admit that his words were affecting me so much I could barely think straight. Instead, I took the puck and charged at him with everything I had, the hit hard enough to send both of us sliding across the ice in a tangle of gear and limbs.
“Fuck,” Aiden gasped as we untangled ourselves, but he was laughing despite the force of the collision. “Remind me not to get you worked up before a real game.”
“You started it.”
“And I’m thoroughly enjoying finishing it.”
The exchanges got progressively dirtier as the drill continued, Aiden pushing boundaries with every comment until I was red-faced and barely able to form coherent responses. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in my flustered state, his eyes bright with satisfaction every time he managed to leave me speechless.
“You’re thinking about it, too, aren’t you?” he said during one particularly close encounter, his body pressed against mine as we fought for control of the puck in the corner. “About last night. About what we did.”
“Everyone can hear you,” I hissed back, but my voice came out breathier than I’d intended.
“No, they can’t. And even if they could, would that be so bad?”
“Yes, it would be bad. This is…”
“This is what? Fun? Exciting? The best checking drill either of us has ever participated in?”
He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, I shoved him away and skated toward center ice, trying to put some distance between us before I did something stupid like kiss him in front of the entire team.
But Aiden followed, because of course he did, staying close enough to continue his running commentary on my technique, my form, and the way I looked when I was trying not to think about him naked.
“I have to say,” he murmured as we lined up for what Coach had announced would be the final repetition, “you’re even more beautiful when you’re trying not to want me.”
“I don’t…”
“You do. And it’s driving me crazy.”
The final check was the hardest yet, both of us putting everything we had into the contact. When we went down together, a mess of tangled limbs and scattered equipment, Aiden ended up partially on top of me, his face inches from mine.
“Hi,” he said softly, his breath visible in the cold air between us.
“Hi yourself.”
For a moment, neither of us moved, caught in that electric space between wanting and having, between what we’d done and what we wanted to do again. Then reality crashed back in as Coach’s whistle pierced the air, and we scrambled to separate before anyone noticed how long we’d been down.
“Nice work, everyone,” Coach called out as we gathered our scattered gear. “Hit the showers. Same time tomorrow.”
As the team started filing toward the locker room, I heard Lennox’s voice behind me, light and teasing but loud enough for several guys to hear.
“Should the rest of us just leave the rink next time? Give you two some privacy?”
My face went nuclear, heat flooding my cheeks so fast I probably looked like a stop sign. Several teammates laughed, and I wanted to sink through the ice and disappear forever. The last thing I needed was for people to start speculating about what was happening between Aiden and me.
But when I glanced at Aiden, he was grinning with unmistakable pride, like Lennox’s comment was some kind of compliment rather than a source of mortification.
“Jealous, Lennox?” Aiden shot back easily. “Not everyone can appreciate quality technique when they see it.”
More laughter from the guys, and I felt some of the tension ease as the attention shifted away from us and toward general post-practice banter. But as we made our way toward the locker room, Aiden skated up beside me, close enough that his words were meant for my ears only.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve never done it on ice. In a pair of skates. Sounds like it could be fun.”
The words made something swell in me, sending heat shooting through my entire body. My ears filled with the sound of my own heartbeat, so loud I was sure everyone could hear it echoing off the arena walls. The image his words conjured was so vivid, so impossibly appealing, that I had to grip my stick harder to keep from dropping it.
But despite the rush of want that his suggestion triggered, despite the way my body was already responding to the idea, I managed to laugh.
“You’re not trying it with me, sunshine.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied with that confidence that should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t.
The rest of practice cleanup passed in a blur of equipment checks and casual conversation, but I was barely present for any of it. All I could think about was Aiden’s suggestion, about the way he’d looked when he’d said it, about the heat in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t entirely joking.
By the time I made it back to my dorm room, I was wound so tight I felt like I might vibrate out of my skin. Lennox was at Oliver’s again, which meant I had the room to myself to process whatever the hell was happening to me.
The space still smelled like Aiden. His cologne lingered on my pillow and on my sheets, subtle but unmistakable. I sat on the edge of my bed and buried my face in the fabric, inhaling deeply and trying to figure out if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Because that’s what this felt like. A mistake. A massive, life-altering error in judgment that was going to have consequences I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
I thought about the history between our families, the warfare that had defined so much of my adolescence. The attempted takeover that had nearly destroyed everything my family had built, that had aged my father years in the span of months. The stress that had kept my mother awake at night, the lawyers and accountants who had swarmed through our house like locusts.
I remembered the last time our families had been in the same room together, some charity function that both sets of parents had been obligated to attend. The way Richard Whitmore had addressed my father with cold politeness that barely concealed years of professional animosity. The tension that had been thick enough to cut with a knife, the way other guests had seemed to sense the undercurrent of hostility and avoided both families all night.
My father had spent the entire evening looking like he was attending his own funeral, and my mother had gripped his arm so tightly I’d been afraid she might leave bruises. They’d left early, making polite excuses about prior commitments, but I’d seen the relief in both their faces as we’d walked toward the exit.
“Stay away from the Whitmore boy,” my father had said in the car afterward, the first and only time he’d ever directly addressed the family rivalry in front of me. “Nothing good can come from getting involved with that family.”
And here I was, not just involved but completely entangled, still able to taste Aiden on my lips and feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. Was I betraying everything my family had worked for? Was I putting them at risk somehow by letting myself get swept up in this attraction?
But even as the guilt twisted in my chest, even as I tried to summon the righteous anger that had sustained me through years of hating everything the Whitmore name represented, I couldn’t bring myself to regret what had happened between us.
Last night had been a revelation. Not just the physical pleasure, though that had been beyond anything I’d ever experienced, but the connection. The way Aiden had looked at me, touched me, made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered. The vulnerability he’d shown me, the gentleness mixed with that commanding confidence that had made me feel safe and desired and completely understood.
I flopped back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the war happening inside my head. Logic said this was dangerous, that I was playing with fire and likely to get burned. Family loyalty said I owed it to my parents to stay away from anyone connected to Richard Whitmore’s empire.
But my heart, traitorous thing that it was, kept pulling me back to the memory of Aiden’s smile when he’d seen me in the locker room this morning. To the way he’d immediately asked if I was okay after that hard check. To the heat in his voice when he’d whispered those filthy suggestions during practice.
I wanted to see him again. I wanted to touch him again, to taste him, to lose myself in that electric connection that made everything else fade away. I wanted to find out if what had happened between us was just physical release or something deeper, something that might actually be worth the risk.
The realization scared me more than anything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Because wanting Aiden was one thing. But wanting something real with him, something that went beyond just taking the edge off our mutual antagonism, was a complication I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
My phone buzzed with a text, and my heart leaped before I even looked at the screen. But it wasn’t Aiden. It was my mother, asking if I wanted to come home for dinner this weekend, mentioning that my father had been asking about me.
I stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A weekend at home meant family dinners and questions about school and subtle pressure about my future plans. It meant sitting in rooms where the Whitmore name was still spoken like a curse, where my father’s jaw would tighten if the business rivalry came up in conversation.
