Page 51 of Arrogant Puck

The blindfold was his request. A trust between people two people in love. But I see now that he was never in love with me. Just wanted me for my face, used my body for his own sick fantasies, having his friend join in without my consent.

I literally picked up my entire life to run away from that night. Running from a sick fucking nightmare.

This has nothing to do with Slater. It’s about me. About the part of myself I lost that night and have never been able to get back. The part that used to enjoy sex, that used to feel comfortable in my own skin, that used to believe desire was something beautiful instead of something that could be used and broken.

I want to trust men. God, I want to feel safe enough to let someone in. But every time I think about being seen, being vulnerable again, all I can think about is how quickly love can turn to shit.

How quickly pleasure can become pain.

I sit on the office floor for a long time, letting the panic run its course, knowing that tonight I’ll have to face him again. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to explain why the thought of his eyes on my body feels less like invitation and more like violation.

Even when part of me desperately wants to say yes.

I force myself to stand, wiping my face with the back of my hand and smoothing down my hair. Professional. I need to be professional. I have a job to do, and falling apart in Riley’s old office isn’t going to help anything.

The training room is busy when I emerge, players scattered across various stations working on their bodies like the finely tuned machines they are. I grab my supplies and approachthe nearest player—Davidson, the one Slater slammed into the boards the other day.

“How’s the shoulder today?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound steady.

“Better,” he says, settling onto the table. “Whatever you did helped.”

I begin working on his shoulder, focusing on the familiar rhythm of assessment and treatment. It grounds me, gives my hands something to do and my mind something to focus on other than the memory of Slater jerking off as soon as I left the room last night.

I can feel eyes on me.

I glance up and find Slater in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His chest is rising and falling heavily, and there’s something dangerous in his expression as he watches my hands move across Davidson’s skin. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet.

I can read him like a damn book. The possessiveness, the barely controlled anger, the way his jaw clenches every time I adjust my grip or move to a different muscle group. He doesn’t like my hands on other players. The realization should probably scare me, but instead it sends an unwanted thrill through my stomach.

He doesn’t stop staring.

I inhale, wondering when the hell he took to liking me? Because it was so sudden and out of nowhere, and I’m not sure I fully understand it.

“Jesus,” Davidson mutters under his breath. “What did you do to anger the bull?”

I try to keep my expression neutral. “Is that what you guys call him?”

Davidson lets out a quiet laugh. “Nah. We usually say don’t poke Satan.” He shifts on the table, glancing toward Slater’s corner.“Seriously though, be careful around him. Guy’s got a reputation for a reason.”

I wish I could find that funny, but there’s nothing humorous about the file that Riley read to me. His brother died on the ice? He tried killing himself by overdosing? It’s no wonder why he’s so damn brooding. There’s also nothing funny about the way Slater’s watching me right now. Nothing funny about the threat he made earlier or the way he’d trapped me against the wall.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, finishing up Davidson’s session.

Twenty minutes later, one of the coach’s calls me into his office. The space is exactly what you’d expect from a hockey coach—organized chaos. Plays are scribbled on whiteboards, trophies crowd every available surface, and stacks of game footage DVDs teeter precariously on his desk. The smell of old coffee and determination hangs in the air.

“Sit down, Monroe,” he says, not looking up from a clipboard covered in illegible handwriting.

I settle into the chair across from his desk, noting the way his office feels lived-in compared to Riley’s sterile space.

“We’re traveling this weekend,” he says, finally looking up. “Chicago, then Milwaukee. Two games, three days. Since Riley decided to bail on us”—his tone makes it clear he’s not buying the resignation story—“we need you there.”

My stomach tightens. “Really?”

“Riley didn’t mention it?” he questions.

I shake my head. “Neither did Mrs. Martinez, but I will be there, sir.Coach. I understand what the job entails, and I will be there.”

He slides a packet of information across the desk. “Flight details, hotel info, meal allowances. Pretty standard stuff, but since this is your first trip with us, figured you should know what to expect.”

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