Page 75 of One Pucking Secret
Chapter 28
Wyatt
I shift in bed,feeling Chloe’s warmth curled beside me, and mumble a groggy, “Good morning,” pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She stirs, a gentle hum escaping her lips, blending with the early stillness of our room.
“Morning,” she replies, her voice thick with sleep as her eyelids lift, revealing those vibrant green eyes.
“Sleep well?” I ask, keeping it light, though a part of me wonders if either of us has truly rested with everything we’ve been through.
She offers a sleepy smile, brushing her lips over mine in a tender, reassuring kiss. “Always with you,” she murmurs.
Her hand reaches toward the nightstand, fingers grazing her phone out of habit. I smirk, nudging her gently. “It’s Saturday—no emails, no work calls,” I tease. It’s been a week since the meeting, and the thought of a full day stretched out before us is both rare and enticing.
“It’s habit,” she retorts, though there’s only affection in her voice, softened by self-awareness.
But then, something shifts. Her casual glance tightens into a focused stare. Her grip on the phone grows firm as her jaw slackens, and a silent alarm seems to rise within her.
“Wyatt, you’ve got to see this.” Her voice, urgent now, cuts through the lazy intimacy of a moment ago.
“What is it?” I ask, the curiosity sparking a familiar tension that tightens along my spine. She tilts the screen toward me without another word, and the crisp voice of a news anchor slices through the air, turning the room electric.
Images flash across the screen, each second unfolding a revelation that could very well change everything.
The anchor’s voice claws at the silence of our bedroom, detailing Alec’s downfall with a clinical detachment that belies the chaos it represents. “Alec Harding, former star center for the Los Angeles Knights, has been formally ejected from the Hockey League,” the reporter announces.
“Furthermore,” she continues, “the League has imposed a fifty-thousand-dollar fine on Mr.Harding for his role in the recent drug scandal involving fellow Knights team member, Wyatt Banks. It is alleged that Mr. Harding swapped his own test sample with his teammate’s, leading to Wyatt Banks falsely testing positive for opioids. A representative of the LA Knights has issued an apology to Mr. Banks and assured the public that measures are being taken to prevent similar incidents.”
My heart hammers as a blend of vindication and disbelief courses through me. The screen shifts to images of LAPD headquarters, and I feel Chloe’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Additionally,” the anchor goes on, “a criminal investigation led by the Los Angeles Police Department is underway after evidence surfaced of Mr. Harding’s drug use and manipulation of mandatory testing protocols.”
Chloe’s breath catches, her eyes reflecting the weight of what we’re hearing. “He swapped his sample for yours and planted drugs in your locker,” she says, her voice a mix of anger and relief. “It’s the least he deserves.”
“And Sonia?” I ask, the name tasting like bile on my tongue.
“Gone,” Chloe replies. “At least, she’s vanished from social media. No posts, no sightings.”
“After admitting she made up the lies about you being abusive and needing anger management, she handed over everything she had on Alec and then just… disappeared.” Chloe’s tone has a hint of satisfaction but also caution, as if she knows people like Sonia don’t stay hidden for long.
“I hope she stays gone,” Chloe murmurs, pulling me into a hug that feels like home. Her arms wrap around me, her warmth seeping into every bone.
I run my fingers through her hair, inhaling the apple and vanilla scent that calms the sting of betrayal. She sets her phone aside, as though letting go of the world beyond our walls.
“Hey,” I say softly, tilting her chin to meet my gaze. “We made it through.”
“Like we always do,” Chloe says, a victorious smile spreading across her face.
I press my lips to hers, the kiss sealing our promises and honoring every battle we’ve fought. It’s tender at first, a quiet affirmation of us—Wyatt and Chloe against the odds.
Then, the kiss deepens, the weeks of tension unfurling. It’s more than passion. It’s reclaiming trust, a future that once felt fragile. She clings to me, her hands roaming over themuscles of my back, drawing strength from the connection.
Her kiss is fervent, a flame igniting in the dim morning light, consuming the remnants of doubt and fear. The taste of her, the heat between us—it reminds me why I fight so damn hard off the ice. For moments like these, for her, for us.
“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” I murmur, my fingers deftly undoing the buttons of her flannel pajamas. The fabric parts like curtains on a stage, revealing the soft skin beneath.
“Only if you’re next,” she teases, a playful glint in her eyes as she helps, her hands slipping the material from her shoulders. Her top falls away, and her breasts greet the morning air, full and inviting.
I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, eliciting a gasp that stirs the silent bedroom. I switch to the other, lavishing it with equal attention while my hand skims across the smooth expanse of her chest. Her back arches slightly, her moans punctuating the quiet with whispered symphonies of pleasure.
