Page 72 of Boards & Betrayal

The taste of him was intoxicating—a mix of mint and something uniquely Tom. Each movement of his lips sent shivers down my spine, igniting a fire within me that I thought had long been extinguished. It was as if we were trying to pour all our unspoken words and pent-up emotions into this one kiss.

His grip tightened around my waist, anchoring me to him as if he were afraid I might disappear. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer. The intensity of the kiss left me breathless; it was raw, consuming, and utterly perfect.

Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in each other. The only sounds were our mingled breaths and the faint hum of the outside—distant and unimportant compared to this moment.

"Come with me to this charity event," Tom murmured against my lips, his breath warm and inviting.

"An event?" I pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"It's a charity event my team sponsors every Halloween," he explained, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "At the college."

"That's, like, weeks from now," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

He nodded, not missing a beat.

"You think we'll still want to be around each other in a few weeks?" I tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell flat.

His eyes softened, and he took my hand in his. "I won't get sick of you, Ally," he said firmly. "I want you to come. With me. As my girl."

My heart skipped a beat. The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. Would agreeing make me seem too eager? But it wasn’t like he was pushing me for sex—we’d already crossed that line. And honestly? I wanted to go.

"All right," I murmured, feeling a rush of excitement and apprehension. "I'll go with you."

He smirked, pulling me closer. "It's a date," he said, sealing the promise with another kiss.

I smiled. It sounded crazy, maybe more romantic than I cared to admit, but at that moment, everything felt right in the world, like nothing could go wrong.

Chapter 22

Tom

Iclenched my fists so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The desire to hit something consumed me, each heartbeat a drumbeat of frustration and helplessness. The bruise on Ally's face had triggered a cascade of emotions I couldn't afford to feel. So, I replaced the pain with rage, pushing it down until anger was all that remained.

I stormed out of the house and jumped into my truck. My mind raced as I drove, the streets blurring together. I needed an outlet, a place to channel this fury.

The ice.

The familiar sight of Pandora's Box came into view just as the sun began to set. Its fading light cast long shadows across the parking lot.

I pulled in, tires screeching, and slammed the door shut behind me. The rink stood silent and empty, its cold air offering a semblance of clarity. I headed straight for the locker room, yanking open my locker with more force than necessary. My skates felt like an old friend as I laced them up, each tug on the laces grounding me slightly.

The ice was pristine, untouched. I loved hockey season, but fuck, every now and then, I loved when the rink was as silent as the fucking grave. I stepped onto it, letting the cold seep into my bones. It wasn't enough to cool the fire inside me, but it was a start. Pushing off hard, I glided across the surface, each stride faster and more forceful than the last. The sound of my skates cutting through ice echoed in the empty rink.

Skating had always been my sacred ground—a place where I could lose myself and forget everything else. But tonight, it felt different. The memories I tried so hard to bury surfaced with each lap around the rink. Nick's face during our last argument flashed before me, followed by Ally's pained expression when she looked at me during the awards ceremony.

I stopped abruptly at center ice, panting heavily. The rage hadn't subsided; if anything, it had intensified. My fists clenched at my sides as I looked up at the rafters where championship banners hung—a stark reminder of both my achievements and failures.

I bent down to touch the ice with my gloved hand, feeling its chill seep through even that barrier. A futile attempt to freeze out emotions too hot to handle.

There was no escape from this—no easy answers or quick fixes. All I had was this rink and these skates.

And a stick.

I skated off the ice, careful to only step on the rubber mats that lined the edge. The familiar creak of the locker room door welcomed me as I made my way to my office. The space felt cramped, cluttered with memorabilia that served as both trophies and ghosts. I ignored the framed photos and plaques, focusing instead on grabbing my stick and a few pucks from the corner.

Back on the ice, I positioned a puck in front of me and gripped my stick. My knee ticked, a sharp reminder of oldwounds, but I pushed through it. Pain had become a constant companion, something I had learned to manage rather than fear.

With practiced precision, I skated toward the net. Each movement was fluid, an extension of muscle memory honed over years. The cold air rushed past my face, but it did nothing to cool the fire inside me.

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