What I’d always done.
And yes, seeing Bentley at work every day . . . it hurt like acid on an open wound.
But we understood each other.
Understood that while our love was real, the timing wasn’t right.
Sometimes I wondered if it ever would be.
I sighed, shifting in my office chair.
One step at a time.
First, I had to survive tonight.
Then, I could figure out if some distant future included the kind of happiness I’d only dreamed of before.
The kind of happiness I’d touched with Bentley and let slip through my fingers all too quickly.
I wasn’t a nail-biter, but if I was, I would’ve chewed every single one clean off. The game was that intense.
Each team brought the kind of ferocity that only comes with a deeply rooted rivalry—likely so buried no one remembered how it started.
Didn’t matter.
They glided and stalked and hunted each other like Sharks—so many fights, penalties, and scores.
Too many times the ice splattered with red.
Sweat and spit and spite mixed in.
Clashing, thrashing, unbridled testosterone swarmed the arena, transmitting to the die-hard fans who watched from the stands. Creating a kind of war-like-battle-cry among them as they clung to every second of the game.
Coach split Bentley and Gage’s time in half—weaving them in and out—wielding their powerhouse combination so well Ontario didn’t know who or what had hit them. A brilliant strategy—utilizing the rare gift of having two of the best grinders around—but one that made my heart ache.
I felt every hit Bentley placed on the opponents, gasped at every returned threat.
I’d seen him play a million times before, but tonight—with my emotions so raw, my heart still bleeding from the Bentley-sized hole shot through it—I barely hung on to my sanity.
More than anything, I wanted the night to be over.
For it to be tomorrow and the conversation I had to have after the game be done.
And at the same time, I almost didn’t want the game to end.
Because then I would have to face him.
Alone.
But I had no other choice.
His threats had to stop.
I had to stop living with his shadow over my shoulder.
I needed his claws unhooked from my skin.
With freedom, I hoped I could find clarity enough to sort everything else out.
Twenty minutes later, the crowd erupted in a chaotic frenzy of cheers and screams—the Sharks won in overtime.
I celebrated with the team, my cries more of relief that it was finally over but still ecstatic they won all the same. Smiling a painful grin at Bentley as he rushed into the locker room with the rest of the team.
I saw myself out, knowing Coach would talk for at least half an hour, then showers then . . .
Well, I suppose it didn’t matter.
It wasn’t like I was meeting Bentley after.
No, my steps carried me toward my past.
Not the good kind filled with the boyish Bentley who stole my heart, but the terrifying kind where a true predator had damn near sucked the life from me.
My legs wobbled as I filtered through the crowds leaving the rink in excited bursts. Trembling, barely catching my breath as I made my way to the small coffee shop we’d designated to meet at—my choice, of course because there was no way I was meeting him anywhere outside the rink.
I selected a small table that rested near the edge of the arena’s walkways—a place with an eye-line to every exit or passerby.
No hiding.
No place for him to back me into a corner.
This was on my terms. And despite the ice-cold fear clutching its boney fingers around my spine, I would handle this.
I would be stronger.
Ordering two black coffees, I waited, watching as the crowds thinned to just stragglers.
And after too long and all too fast . . .
There he was.
My heart switched to stone, threatening to sink me to the floor, a helpless creature at his mercy.
Tall, dark, and brutally handsome—he’d been exactly what I thought I needed to move on. Who I needed to fall into to tear myself away from the torturous eye I kept on Bentley’s career, his life . . . all his conquests.
He sauntered up to the table, his black hair freshly washed, his right cheek slightly puckered from a hit on the ice. Towering over the table, over me, he shaped his lips into that smile that now turned my bones to jelly.
Cold crept into my gut, but I steeled my spine.
He’s not in control anymore.
He opened his arms. “Chloe, come here, honey,” he cooed. “I’ve missed you.”
I narrowed my gaze, hissing slightly. “Please,” I said, shaking my head. “Sit down, Archer.”
He cocked an eyebrow, all charm disintegrating from his eyes.
A lethal threat in a blink.
Before, when I’d been with him, that kind of sass would’ve earned me some serious reprimand—too-tight grips or an all-out verbal war on my character. The kind that was just real enough to make me believe it. Make me never want to embarrass him again.
Finally, he sat, his sleek black athletic pants hiking around his ankles. The Ontario t-shirt he wore straining over his massive chest.
Every piece of him disgusted me and roiled my stomach—such a revelation when I once had purred in his presence. Once believed him to be a salvation from my ruined heart. When he had been charming and kind and listened.
Then . . . the day I moved in . . . everything changed. A switch flipped.
It was like I’d been in a fog. A dark nightmare that surely I wasn’t a part of.
Some other woman let him treat her so terribly.
Some other woman had believed his lies, believed she deserved to be punished, believed she was never good enough.
Idiot.
I’d like to think I would’ve shaken out of it eventually—even if I hadn’t had the jarring wake-up call that my mother was sick and alone and left with no one—but I honestly was glad I’d never know.
Because whatever the reason, I had woken up.
And now I wanted him out of my life for good.
“Damn,” he said after a sip of his coffee. “You do look delicious. Even with that hideous shirt on.” His dark eyes grazed over my incredibly modest outfit—jeans and a Shark’s jersey.
I wished it was Bentley’s number, but that would’ve raised too many questions.
And I wouldn’t put him at risk. Not anymore.
“Tough loss,” I said, jabbing him over the shirt comment.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
Easy. My inner voice warned. I’m here for closure. Keep it peaceful.
Right, because he’d been so kind in the past.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at myself.
“Archer,” I said. “I wanted to see you tonight because—”
“You realized you made a huge mistake leaving me and you want to come home.” He pursed his lips, the overly cocky glare enough to set my teeth on edge.
I took a steadying breath.
“No. We’re o
ver. We’ve been over. You know I was never good for you. I constantly embarrassed you or let you down.” As you so aptly reminded me nearly every single day. I didn’t bother speaking those words. “You have a million women dying to be with you. Please, Archer. I need you to leave me alone. You live your life there, and I’ll live mine here.”
His eyes twitched, and he tilted his head and nodded. “A million women. That is true. But only one of them is dying to get away from me.” A sick smirk slid over his face. “What can I say? I like the chase.”
“This isn’t a chase,” I snapped. “This is my life. And you threatening to upheave it at a moment’s notice is cruel.”
He had the audacity to look offended. “How can you say that?”
I gaped at him. “Archer, it’s over.” I sighed. “Please. Can you let me go?” I hated the question, hated the desperate plea in my voice.
My soul was wrung out and raw, and I just wanted it to be done.
For the threats to stop.
For the fear to subside long enough for me to put myself back together again.
“What . . .” he said, his gaze narrowing as he shifted in his seat, leaning his elbows on the table to draw closer to me. I instinctively moved back in my seat. “ . . . is the rush?”
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to hold those dark eyes.
To not submit.
To not show fear.
I trained the best players in the business.
I laid out men bigger than him.
I was stronger than this shit.
“It’s my life,” I said. “I don’t need an excuse. You have to let this go.”
Threatening him with the authorities had crossed my mind a dozen times, but he was so much more powerful than me when it came to terms of public image and money. He had lawyers for his lawyers. He had millions in the bank. And he had proof of our relationship before we declared it to HR—he could, and threatened to often, take that knowledge to Coach Harris, the CEO of the Sharks, everyone.
Paint them a seedy picture of my character.
And since I’d been with Bentley—I hadn’t risked the threat.
But if he didn’t let up, I’d have to.
If he didn’t see reason, I’d have no other choice.
Perhaps, since Bentley had ended things—shredding us both to protect what we needed—it would be okay.