Page 85 of Chips & Checks
Bowen turns but doesn’t move. “He had her cornered. You think I’m sorry?”
“Now!” Sergio booms.
My lip trembles as I step out from behind Bowen. “Sergio, please. This isn’t what it looks like. He didn’t start it. Can we just talk—”
He cuts me off with a swat of his hand. “Not now, Violet. Nothing justifies hitting a teammate.”
“But he—”
“There’s nothing to explain! Go to your room!”
I flinch.
Bowen growls. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“Bowen,” I whisper. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Sergio. “None of this is. What the fuck kind of organization are you running here, Giovanetti?”
Camden and Viktor step in again, trying to defuse, but Bowen won’t let go of my hand. Not this time. Not after what just happened.
Meanwhile, a group of passersby and hotel guests have stopped and are capturing the moment with photos and video. They’ve probably been here the whole time.
Camden tugs at his shoulder. “Come on, man. Not here. Not now. Not with the cameras.”
Finally, Bowen moves—but only because I do. His fingers tangle with mine, anchoring him, anchoring me. He leans in close as we walk. “I’m not letting go of you,” he says. “Not again. Not ever.”
We reach the elevators. My hands are still trembling. My pajama pants are wrinkled, and my chest is bare under my t-shirt, but none of that matters now.
All I can do is hold on to the man who came for me. Who saw me. Who didn’t let go.
“This is bad,” Viktor mumbles. “This is really, really bad.”
Everyone’s phones are chiming. Mine, too. We reach Bowen and Cam’s rooms before I realize that I’ve abandoned my ice bucket and snacks, but the slight fizz in my stomach has been turned up on high, and I can’t make myself care enough to ask one of the guys to go back for them.
“Can we talk?” Bowen asks. His voice is raw.
The room’s still buzzing with tension and teammates and phones going off like slot machines, but none of it matters. I nod and take his hand. It’s warm, shaking, and clenched so tight I can feel every tendon twitch under my palm. We duck into the bathroom and lock the door. I flip the fan on, more for the illusion of privacy than any real use.
He’s on me in a second—not sexually, not possessively—protectively. His hands frame my face like I’m made of glass. “Vi. Violet. Are you okay?” His voice cracks at the end. “God, I’m so pissed I didn’t get there fast enough to save you.”
I flinch.
Just that. The gentlest touch, and I still flinch.
And God, the look on his face when I do. Like someone drove a spike through his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely. He unzips his hoodie and wraps it around me without asking, tugging the hood up like a shield. It smells like him. Like pine soap, post-practice sweat, and the espresso he keeps pretending he doesn’t like. My whole body caves in.
He’s still staring at me like he doesn’t know where to touch without hurting me. “Violet, I’m not thinking about Sergio. Or the team. Or the damn cameras.” His throat bobs. “I’m thinking about you. You’re the only thing I care about.”
“You should be thinking about all that.” My voice is thin. Hollow. “You might lose everything.”
Bowen shakes his head. “If they keep that asshole, I don’t want to play for them anyway. This is a fucking hostile work environment.”
I blink.
