Page 35 of Price of Victory
“I don’t…”
“You do. And it’s driving me crazy.”
The final check was the hardest yet, both of us putting everything we had into the contact. When we went down together, a mess of tangled limbs and scattered equipment, Aiden ended up partially on top of me, his face inches from mine.
“Hi,” he said softly, his breath visible in the cold air between us.
“Hi yourself.”
For a moment, neither of us moved, caught in that electric space between wanting and having, between what we’d done and what we wanted to do again. Then reality crashed back in as Coach’s whistle pierced the air, and we scrambled to separate before anyone noticed how long we’d been down.
“Nice work, everyone,” Coach called out as we gathered our scattered gear. “Hit the showers. Same time tomorrow.”
As the team started filing toward the locker room, I heard Lennox’s voice behind me, light and teasing but loud enough for several guys to hear.
“Should the rest of us just leave the rink next time? Give you two some privacy?”
My face went nuclear, heat flooding my cheeks so fast I probably looked like a stop sign. Several teammates laughed, and I wanted to sink through the ice and disappear forever. The last thing I needed was for people to start speculating about what was happening between Aiden and me.
But when I glanced at Aiden, he was grinning with unmistakable pride, like Lennox’s comment was some kind of compliment rather than a source of mortification.
“Jealous, Lennox?” Aiden shot back easily. “Not everyone can appreciate quality technique when they see it.”
More laughter from the guys, and I felt some of the tension ease as the attention shifted away from us and toward general post-practice banter. But as we made our way toward the locker room, Aiden skated up beside me, close enough that his words were meant for my ears only.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve never done it on ice. In a pair of skates. Sounds like it could be fun.”
The words made something swell in me, sending heat shooting through my entire body. My ears filled with the sound of my own heartbeat, so loud I was sure everyone could hear it echoing off the arena walls. The image his words conjured was so vivid, so impossibly appealing, that I had to grip my stick harder to keep from dropping it.
But despite the rush of want that his suggestion triggered, despite the way my body was already responding to the idea, I managed to laugh.
“You’re not trying it with me, sunshine.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied with that confidence that should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t.
The rest of practice cleanup passed in a blur of equipment checks and casual conversation, but I was barely present for any of it. All I could think about was Aiden’s suggestion, about the way he’d looked when he’d said it, about the heat in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t entirely joking.
By the time I made it back to my dorm room, I was wound so tight I felt like I might vibrate out of my skin. Lennox was at Oliver’s again, which meant I had the room to myself to process whatever the hell was happening to me.
The space still smelled like Aiden. His cologne lingered on my pillow and on my sheets, subtle but unmistakable. I sat on the edge of my bed and buried my face in the fabric, inhaling deeply and trying to figure out if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Because that’s what this felt like. A mistake. A massive, life-altering error in judgment that was going to have consequences I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
I thought about the history between our families, the warfare that had defined so much of my adolescence. The attempted takeover that had nearly destroyed everything my family had built, that had aged my father years in the span of months. The stress that had kept my mother awake at night, the lawyers and accountants who had swarmed through our house like locusts.
I remembered the last time our families had been in the same room together, some charity function that both sets of parents had been obligated to attend. The way Richard Whitmore had addressed my father with cold politeness that barely concealed years of professional animosity. The tension that had been thick enough to cut with a knife, the way other guests had seemed to sense the undercurrent of hostility and avoided both families all night.
My father had spent the entire evening looking like he was attending his own funeral, and my mother had gripped his arm so tightly I’d been afraid she might leave bruises. They’d left early, making polite excuses about prior commitments, but I’d seen the relief in both their faces as we’d walked toward the exit.
“Stay away from the Whitmore boy,” my father had said in the car afterward, the first and only time he’d ever directly addressed the family rivalry in front of me. “Nothing good can come from getting involved with that family.”
And here I was, not just involved but completely entangled, still able to taste Aiden on my lips and feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. Was I betraying everything my family had worked for? Was I putting them at risk somehow by letting myself get swept up in this attraction?
But even as the guilt twisted in my chest, even as I tried to summon the righteous anger that had sustained me throughyears of hating everything the Whitmore name represented, I couldn’t bring myself to regret what had happened between us.
Last night had been a revelation. Not just the physical pleasure, though that had been beyond anything I’d ever experienced, but the connection. The way Aiden had looked at me, touched me, made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered. The vulnerability he’d shown me, the gentleness mixed with that commanding confidence that had made me feel safe and desired and completely understood.
I flopped back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the war happening inside my head. Logic said this was dangerous, that I was playing with fire and likely to get burned. Family loyalty said I owed it to my parents to stay away from anyone connected to Richard Whitmore’s empire.
