Page 7 of Pucking Unhinged
He’s in the doorway, silent, filling the frame like he owns it. His black hair damp, probably from a shower. His green eyes locked on me, unreadable, heavy. My stomach flips violently. It’s been a few nights since we cuddled in his bed, since I tried to breathe life back into him. I miss it, and I can see the dark circles under his eyes coming back. I wish he’d just let me comfort him, even if it isn’t the healthiest remedy, being dependent on one another, it would at least take some of the bite away.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there looking at me expectantly. I don’t know how much he heard of my conversation with his father, but he’s very observant. He knows it wasn’t Madi or Lilac, and aside from a few other female friends like Paris and Blair.
The words claw at my throat because I know he’s going to be annoyed at this whole situation. Even though Tristan doesn’t mention his mom’s death, ever. It still has to be so fresh for him, because it for sure is for me. And she wasn’t even remotely motherly to me in any way.
“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
It spills out, too blunt, but I don’t take it back. We don’t do secrets. Not after everything we’ve been through. Actually, now that I think about it. We’ve never done secrets. Not from the first moment we met. It was like we had this instant bond, and it’s been unshakable. It’s been exclusive, just for the two of us.
His eyes sharpen, green dark in the light of the studio. He doesn’t move, just waits, and the silence presses until my chest aches. Tristan isn’t someone who pushes things to happen before they’re ready. He’s not like Hayden who would have already scaled his way to the roof of the phone company with a hostage demanding to know who had the audacity to call Madison’s phone.
Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much. I’m dreading her bachelorette party because I know he’s going to pop out in a server uniform holding a cake and screaming at every man in the building. It will be a cute cake, though. I’m sure Lilac will specify that it will have lots of pink bows in the exact shade of pink Madi uses to make her jerseys.
Tristan clears his throat and says, “Are you okay?” We don’t have secrets, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that I just went through a whole scenario in my mind wherein his teammate gets arrested with pink frosting on his face. So instead, I just say what has to be said.
“Your father called me,” I say, steady even though my stomach turns. “He said he’s getting remarried. He wants us to go to Black Crown Resorts to meet her and her kids. A family getaway.”
For a moment his face is stone, unreadable. His jaw ticks once. He doesn’t explode, doesn’t curse, doesn’t lash out. Tristan only overreacts when it’s about me. Never himself.
The reminder scrapes across my nerves as my mind flashes pictures of the fire in his eyes when he thought those men would take me away from him.
Tristan Vale only breaks for me.
He moves then. Not in a rush, not with violence. Silent steps across the marley floor until he’s in front of me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. Now that I haven’t been moving, I’m starting to feel the chill of the studio. His hand lifts, brushes the back of my neck, and tugs. The pins slip free, one by one.
My bun unravels, my braid falling heavy down my back. His fingers graze my skin as he works, calloused and careful. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.
The gesture shouldn’t feel intimate. But it does. His knuckles ghosting my neck, the weight of my hair freed under his hand. My breath stutters, and I hate how much it feels like he owns me in this small, silent act.
“He said the woman has foster kids our age,” I push out, filling the silence before I drown in it. “If they’re coming to Castlebrook, which I assume they are because your dad will only have the best of everything, maybe it wouldn’t be bad to meet them.”
My voice is cautious, testing.
He frowns, slow and heavy, the lines cutting deep into his face. The refusal is there, even if he doesn’t voice it. His eyes flash, fixed on me like the thought itself is offensive.
So I rise to my toes. My hand finds his cheek before I can think better of it. His skin is warm, definitely damp from his shower. My palm cups him there.
And he melts. Just like that. His broad frame softens, his face tipping into my palm. His lashes lower to the apples of his cheeks and my breath hitches too fast.
It’s natural, this closeness. Too natural. Touching him this way feels like breathing. But it’s dangerous too, because I know what it means. What it always means. The loss when we pull away will hurt.
My pulse jumps, but I leave my hand there anyway.
“I don’t like that he’s contacting you to get to me, so I’ll take care of it,” he mutters finally. His voice is low and clipped. His eyes are still dark, but the decision is made, and it surprises me how easily he budged on this. “But I’m not going to be nice to any of them.” Ah, there it is. The Tristan I know and love.
A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
It’s not a joke, not really, but it lands like one. The kind of banter that only exists between us. It’s dry, blunt, threaded with something sharper to anyone else’s ears.
His mouth shifts with the faintest curve. No teeth, no laugh. Just the ghost of a smirk. For Tristan, it’s everything. A flicker of warmth that most people would miss, but I hoard it, greedy for the rare proof that he can still feel something beyond rage and guilt.
And then he lowers himself, dropping down to one knee, but my hand follows, not willing to pull away from his cheek
The move steals my breath, though it’s nothing grand, just Tristan kneeling in front of me like it’s the most natural thing. He reaches for my foot, large hand curling under my ankle. Carefully, he tugs at the ribbons of my pointe shoe, loosening the knot. The satin slips against his calloused fingers.
The shoe gives way, sliding off with a faint hiss of fabric. His hand trails up my calf as he steadies me, fingers rough against my skin, warm where they linger too long. Heat flares under my flesh, racing higher, leaving me trembling with the effort of pretending it’s nothing.
My breath catches audibly, sharp and thin. I hate that he hears it, but I know he does. I feel his fingers flex against my skin, and that’s the only confirmation I need.
