On the way home a few hours later, I was so exhausted that I curled up against the passenger door, eyelids heavy. But that didn't stop Chase from grilling me about what happened with Luke.

As we drove, the streetlights cast flickers of shadows across Chase's profile. Reluctantly, I gave him the whole story, including the part where Luke called me a slut. The more I spoke, the more his face clouded over with anger. Not just anger—rage. His grip on the steering wheel got tighter and tighter, the cords in his neck tensing to match.

"Then he drove away," I said.

"Fucking Christ!" Chase smacked the steering wheel with his open palm. "I'm going to snap his neck like a twig."

Drawing in a breath, he exhaled loudly, and a low growl escaped from the back of his throat.

"Maybe break his legs first," he muttered, shaking his head. "Or his fingers. One at a time. Pull out some teeth with pliers, too."

He fell silent. I stole a glance at him but said nothing because I didn't know what to say. He seemed to be on a precariously short leash, especially given that he was operating a motor vehicle. It wasn't that he was flying off the handle. Just the opposite. An eerie, overly quiet type of calm had settled over him. The kind where you knew something lethal was brewing beneath the surface.

"I hope you know I'm not mad at you," Chase said quietly. "Just at him and what he did."

"I know." Somehow, part of me felt strangely guilty that he was so upset.

"Has he texted you since I wrote him back from your phone?" His tone was unnaturally even. "I need the truth."

"No."

Chase's threats did seem to put Luke off temporarily. It just never stuck.

"Are you sure?"

"Promise. I can show you if you want."

"You need to block him, baby."

"Good call." I yawned. "I will now that I've moved."

Chase added, "Better yet, change your number so he can't contact you from someone else's phone. And for the love of god, no more attending games alone. Please."

"Deal. On both counts."

Getting a new number seemed like a hassle, which was why I'd been resistant initially, but Chase was right—Luke wasn't above using other people's phones to contact me. I knew that from experience. A clean slate was worth the inconvenience. Plus, it wasn't like I talked to that many people regularly anyway.

The game thing might be trickier, but I would make it work somehow. I wasn't eager to live through a repeat of what Luke did, either.

Chase turned onto the freeway entrance ramp, shoulder checking and merging into the middle lane. I closed my eyes, snuggling against a black hoodie that I'd snagged from the backseat and folded into a makeshift pillow. It smelled just like him. He probably wasn't getting it back. Sorry, Carter.

A few more seconds of silence passed. He sucked in a sharp inhale. "I'm sorry, I can't get past this. Knowing how bad that situation actually was, why the hell did you not call me? What if he'd hurt you?"

"A few reasons," I said, eyes still closed.

"Like..."

"I guess part of me feels like it's my fault."

My fault for dating Luke in the first place, my fault for seemingly not handling him correctly and somehow provoking him, my fault for going to the hockey game alone.

"James." His voice softened. "That's not even a little bit true."

"How is it not?"

"You're not responsible for anything that fucker does."

Somehow, it didn't feel that way.

"Well, that and I don't want you to get yourself into trouble," I said.

"One of these days I'm going to have to make good on my threats to him or they won't mean anything."

"Can you limit beating him to when you're on the ice so you don't go to jail?"

"Trust me when I say, I am trying very, very hard to do that. Counting down the days until the next game just so I can demolish him," he said. "But if he pulls something like that car thing again, he's leaving in a body bag."

"Chase." I groaned.

"Don't worry," he said. "I can afford a top-notch lawyer. Call it self-defense or something, whatever."

He paused. "Or maybe I should just hire a hit man. It would be money well spent."

I couldn't tell whether he was serious.

*

Bailey dozed for the rest of the ride home after she spilled the ugly truth, which gave me fifteen minutes to breathe deeply and cool down before got back to her place.

Or, at least to shift into quietly planning Morrison's dismemberment while attempting to behave like a normal human, outwardly speaking.

It's not that I was upset with her—especially not anymore. As soon as she said she felt like it was her fault, guilt smashed me in the face like a slapshot.

I hated him that much more for making her think that.

And I really fucking hated him for scaring her.

Tomorrow was supposed to be my rest day and now Morrison fucked that up too, because I had serious amounts of aggression that needed to be worked out on the ice or in the gym. Maybe both.

Or I could find his address and take it out on the source...Like I should.

Was also planning to consult Ward and Ty about orchestrating the most damaging on-ice hit possible that wouldn't also land me a suspension or expulsion from the league. Still needed to mull that one over. Maybe get out the whiteboard and draw up some diagrams evaluating potential plans of action, optimizing speed and leveraging angles. Watch some videos online from other games, like compilations of the NHL's most devastating hits. You know, research that shit and really get it right.

I pulled into the visiting parking for Bailey's apartment building, shifting the ignition into park. As I did, the truck lurched slightly, causing her to stir. Bailey let out a cute, tiny groan as she pushed herself upright, stretching sleepily.

"Sorry," I said quietly. "We're home."

She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to me, still bleary-eyed with sleep. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." I had to put the Morrison thing on ice for the time being. I wasn't letting that creep ruin my night with her.

We headed upstairs, changing and getting ready for bed in a pattern that was nearly automatic by now. I knew everything down to the color of her toothbrush. She even had an entire drawer at my place. I didn't recognize myself, but that was a good thing.

Climbing under the covers beside Bailey, I threw an arm around her and she nestled against me, draping her arm over my stomach. She was wearing one of my shirts because she had a rotation of them now and it was, as always, fucking adorable. And her blonde hair smelled faintly of her fruity shampoo, which, oddly enough, was a turn-on for me at this point. I guess because of what I associated it with, which was her naked and wrapped around me while I pulled it.

God, I was in deep.

"I know we said we'd go for round two," she murmured, "but I'm pretty wiped out between the move and the late night."

"I kind of figured, seeing how you fell asleep on the way home. I'm bagged too, much as I hate to admit it."

I had done the bulk of the heavy lifting with the move, which was obviously fine, but had taken its toll. I mean, I could have rallied if she wanted. Not like I'd turn her down—ever. But I was still tired.

Bailey pulled the soft white comforter higher around her body, shivering. The room felt fine to me but as per usual, she was cold. Her bare feet told me as much, because they were pressed up against my calf like blocks of ice.

"Thanks for helping me today."

"Of course," I said. "I'm just glad you're moved."

She turned onto her stomach, propping herself up on one elbow to face me. Her blonde hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it away with her free hand.

Our eyes met and her lips tugged at the corners, a small smile forming on her perfect mouth.

Everything shifted, like the earth moving on its axis.

It felt like the moment before our first kiss, before our first real sleepover, before we had sex for the first time. One of those slivers of time you remembered forever, going into it as one person and leaving as someone else.

Her expression sobered as her green-gold eyes traced my face, lips slightly parted. She looked nervous for a split-second and her brow furrowed before she spoke.

"I love you," she said softly.

She beat me to it.

A rush ran through my body that I couldn't accurately compare to anything else. Closest thing was probably getting drafted, but even that didn't feel as good—partly because, on some level, I always knew that was going to happen.

But in the scheme of my life, I never expected her.

"I love you too, James. I've known that for a while."

For once in my life, I'd managed to filter something. Mostly because I was fairly certain I got there first. Also, because it took me a while to figure out what the hell was going on.

Her face brightened, smile returning. "Really?" She shifted, moving closer to me and placing a soft, warm hand on my bare chest.

"Yeah." Reaching over, I gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I just wanted to make sure you were there before I said anything. But I don't think it's a big secret, anyway. Pretty sure half the state knows how I feel by this point." I leaned in, mouth hovering above hers. "Feels good to say it, though."

She smiled against my lips. "Sure does."

*

The week flew by in a blur of classes, practice, and dryland. In addition to her usual heavy workload, Bailey was consumed with completing some massive scholarship application that required an essay, references, and a million other time-intensive items. Between our conflicting schedules, we barely had time to see each other, which sucked.

To make matters worse, Coach Miller was all over me again for some reason, which I couldn't understand because my grades were fine and so was my performance. I could barely breathe without him looking in my direction.

But even with staying busy, something was weighing heavily on my mind. It was like carrying a gigantic bag of hockey equipment around all week, metaphorically speaking. I tried to let it go, but I couldn't.

I debated for several days over whether to do it. Weighed the pros and cons. Considered talking to Bailey first. Ruled that out. Tried to listen to my conscience. Wrestled with what my conscience said versus what my brain knew. Went back and forth several times. Asked Ward and promptly disregarded his advice because it didn't align with what I wanted to do.

Finally, I decided to pull the trigger.

After getting Palmer to pass me along Derek's contact info, it took a shit ton of texting to twist his arm into meeting me for a simple beer.

Dick.

I slid into the dark green vinyl booth, facing the front so I could watch for Derek when he arrived. Maybe it was a little hypocritical of me to be doing this after giving Bailey a hard time about hiding the Morrison thing, but it was for a good cause. She'd understand.

Hopefully.

Plus, I did warn her that I was nosy.

Ten minutes later than we'd agreed, Derek pushed open the wooden double-doors of O'Malley's and crossed the room to my table. He flopped down into the booth across from me, giving me a wary look. His head-to-toe uniform of blue-and-grey Bulldogs gear was probably intentional, meant to remind me we were still firmly on opposite sides.

"What do you want, Carter? Is this about Bailey?"

Pretty cold reception from someone Bailey said was willing to give me a chance, but whatever. I guess he was singing a different tune when she was around.

"And here I thought Bailey said you were going to make nice."

"I still don't trust you," he said.

That was mutual. But, moving on. I was willing to at least be civil. We didn't have to be best friends.

Our server appeared and we quickly ordered a pint of beer each. The same beer, actually—Half Moon Pale Ale from the local Rockwood Brewery.

Maybe he would chill out after he had a drink. Nah, probably not. Aside from Morrison and Paul, I didn't really hold grudges, but Derek seemed like the type to take things much more personally than I did. Our bad blood went back pretty far, too, right to the beginning of my freshman year when I discovered he was one of the easiest targets on their team to rile up. Plus, he was really pissed after I got him thrown out of that game last spring.

I didn't want to jump right into it, so for a few minutes, I made a half-assed attempt at conversation about hockey and the weather while we waited for our drinks to arrive. It was painful. I wasn't a fan of small talk at the best of times, let alone when the person across me openly hated my guts.

My limited supply of patience dwindled quickly.

"What's going on with your parents?" I placed my forearms on the table, leaning closer.

Derek frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The house and money situation," I said. "Your sister was pretty vague with me. How bad is it?"

"Well...it's not great."

Our server returned, setting down two cardboard coasters and placing the beers on top before leaving again.

"Elaborate."

Derek looked down at his pint of beer, hesitating. "I don't want to tell you anything Bailey doesn't want you to know."

"Tell me anyway. Maybe I can help."

He snorted. "What, do you have a money tree?"

I don't know, asshole. Does a hefty trust fund count? Christ. Was he always this salty or was I just special?

"Maybe I do," I said. "How bad?"

Derek's expression shifted from overt hostility to poorly concealed embarrassment. "I don't know specifically. I just know they've fallen behind on everything." He shrugged, picking up his glass. "Being on one income for six months will do that."

Okay, so her dad wasn't laid off recently. I thought that sounded weird, given that he was a teacher and it was partway through the school year. Dammit, James. Why was she trying to save face with me?

"Plus, they used up all their savings back when Bailey—" he caught himself.

Um, what's this now?

"When Bailey what?" I leaned over the table, prompting him.

Derek looked at me, wide-eyed, like a goalie caught in the line of an oncoming puck without his pads. I guess an inability to lie well ran in the family. "Uh, nothing. Never mind."

I took a sip of my beer, pretending I was letting that Bailey thing slide. Even though I sure as hell wasn't.

"Are they in foreclosure?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"They're just behind on the loan payments?"

"The mortgage is in default. They have a few more weeks before it goes into foreclosure."

In other words, right before Christmas. Fuck.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn't even want to go home for Christmas to deal with my catastrophe of a family. And yet, it was all that Bailey wanted—but might not get.

"So that's why they're selling the house."

"Yeah, they're hoping to sell before the bank takes it," he said.

Double fuck. I was no realtor, but even I knew hardly anyone was buying a house around Christmas. Especially in the midst of an economic recession.

"Are they going to be able to get out of default before the deadline?" I asked. "Do they have anyone they can hit up for the cash?"

Derek sighed, avoiding my eyes. "Probably not. But they won't take your charity, if that's what you're trying to get at."

"Would they take an interest-free loan?"

"Doubt it," he said.

Did he actually doubt it, or did he just not want me to be the one to help?

"They could pay me back once the house sells."

Assuming it did sell and assuming they could afford to pay me back once it did. Hopefully they weren't underwater, too. But I wasn't going offer anything I wasn't willing to part with permanently.

He looked at me warily, studying me with eyes that were like a darker, duller version of Bailey's—more brown, less green. Then he shook his head slightly, like he was ruling it out.

"To be clear," I said, "unlike your dick friend, Morrison, my help won't come with strings. I just don't want Bailey to have to worry about this. And I definitely don't want her parents to lose their home at Christmas."

Derek's jaw tensed, probably because of the Morrison jab.

I wanted to ask him whether he was aware of the texts that fucker was sending his sister. Or the millions of other terrible things he'd done to Bailey.

But covering that would take all night—and those were just the things she'd told me about. I knew they were just the tip of the hockey stick.

"B would be pissed at you for going behind her back about this," he said.

He was right, but the alternative was worse. I thought the ends justified the means. I hoped Bailey would agree, at least once she forgave me for going behind her back. She'd never been really mad at me before; it was hard to say—a calculated risk.

"Let me worry about that," I said. "How much is the mortgage, do you know?"

"Around $1,500 a month."

"Do you think $5,000 would help?"

His eyes widened. "You're just going to cut a check for five grand like it's nothing?"

Why did everyone seem to think Morrison was the only person in the world with any cash? Because he rubbed it in everyone's faces constantly? Not everyone was a tacky asshole. And five thousand wasn't that much money. It was well spent in this case, anyway.

"Would it help or not?" Three months' worth of payments plus some change should help buy them some time. Maybe that way, they could hang on and sell the house in the new year. "Or do you need ten?"

"I mean, yeah. Five would help." Derek shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of accepting it.

"Okay," I said. "See if you can get them to take it."

"Where am I supposed to pretend I got it?"