CHAPTER 6

BLAKE

She shouldn't be here.

Not in the locker room. Not in my space. But the team approved press access, and Elle has legitimate credentials, and there's no good reason to refuse her except for the fact that watching her move through the locker room watching other men watch her move through the locker room is making my chest tighten in a way that borders on violent.

She's professional about it. Her camera is up, her notepad out, she's talking to Martinez about his recovery from a minor injury. She's doing her job. She's not trying to be provocative or attention-seeking or anything other than exactly what she's supposed to be.

That doesn't matter.

What matters is that Martinez is standing too close to her. What matters is that Vault is grinning like he knows something funny. What matters is that she's in my locker room, in my territory, and every player in here knows that we have history, and they're all trying to figure out what that history is.

I wait until she's done with her interview. Then I wait until she's moving toward the next player. Then I intercept her before she can get there.

"Elle. Walk with me."

She looks up, startled. Her eyes are guarded. "I'm working."

"I know. Walk with me anyway."

I don't give her a choice. I take her elbow—not roughly, but with enough certainty that she understands this isn't a suggestion—and I guide her toward the private corridor that leads away from the locker room proper. It's the same corridor where she followed me to my penthouse earlier this week.

Once we're out of sight, I release her arm and lean against the wall. I'm only half-dressed—towel around my waist, chest bare, deliberately using my physical presence like a weapon.

"Stay close to me," I say. "I don't want you alone with anyone else."

"That's not how journalism works." Her voice is sharp, defensive. She's angry, but there's something underneath the anger that I recognize: attraction. Or at least the muscle memory of it.

"I don't care how journalism works. Those are my terms."

"Blake, you can't dictate—"

"I can, actually." I lean forward slightly, and she takes a small step back. Good. That's the reaction I want. "You remember our deal? Six months of embedded access in exchange for proving that my photos mean nothing to you?"

Her face goes tight.

"Well," I continue, "part of that deal is that you don't interview my teammates alone. You don't develop relationships with them. You don't give them reasons to ask you out or think about you outside of this arena. You stay close to me. You make it very clear that you're here as a journalist, nothing more, nothing less."

"That's—"

"That's the term. Accept it or we're done."

She stares at me, and I can see her calculating the costs. The assignment. The story. The career momentum. All of it balanced against her need to maintain independence.

She chooses the assignment.

"Fine," she says quietly. "I'll stay close to you."

"Good girl."

I don't know why I say it. The words just come out, and the moment they do, I see her pupils dilate. I see her throat move as she swallows. I see her remember exactly how I used to talk to her when she was mine.

"Let's go back," I say, and I position myself between her and the rest of the locker room for the remainder of the afternoon.

TWO YEARS AGO

The team gala is boring as hell.

It's the kind of event that requires tuxedos and small talk and pretending to care about charity when what you actually care about is the open bar. I'm holding Elle's hand, and she's wearing a black dress that makes her look like she's going to seduce someone, and she's talking to Derek, one of the newer defensemen—and his girlfriend, and everything is fine until Derek's friend shows up.

The guy's name is something forgettable. He's tall, attractive in a way that probably works on some women, and he immediately zeros in on Elle like she's exactly what he came to find.

"You must be Blake's girlfriend," he says, and he's smiling, and he's moving into Elle's space in a way that makes my entire nervous system light up red.

Elle smiles politely. "Yes, I am."

"I'm surprised he lets you out of his sight," the guy says, and it's meant as a compliment but it sounds like a challenge, and I'm already moving before I've fully processed the thought.

I take Elle's hand and pull her away from the group.

"Blake, what—" she starts to say, but I'm already steering her toward the exit, toward the terrace, toward a space where we're alone and this guy isn't looking at my girlfriend like she's a piece of prize meat.

"Don't ever let him talk to you like that again," I say, and my voice is sharp.

Elle pulls her hand away from me. "He wasn't doing anything wrong. He was just being friendly."

"He was flirting with you."

"So? People flirt. It doesn't mean anything."

"I don't care." I pull her back against me, my hand on her waist, possessive and certain. "You're mine, Elle. Everyone in that room needs to know that. Everyone in the world needs to know that. I don't want any other guy thinking he has a chance with you."

She looks up at me, and there's surprise in her expression, but there's also something else. Heat. Desire. The look of a woman who finds possession attractive when it comes from someone she loves.

"Is that so?" she asks softly.

"Yeah. That's so."

I kiss her then, hard enough that she gasps, and she tastes like the champagne she was drinking, and her hands come up to grip my shirt, and I feel like I'm reclaiming something that was always mine.

Later, back at the apartment, she's breathless and flushed, and she says, "That was hot. You being possessive like that."

I tell myself that it's love. I tell myself that wanting to keep her close, wanting to know where she is and who she's talking to and what she's thinking, is just evidence of how much I care.

It takes another year for me to realize that I'm wrong. That somewhere between love and possession, I crossed a line. That making her feel like she can't talk to anyone else without my permission isn't sexy, it's control.

By the time I realize it, it's too late.

PRESENT DAY

I'm not going to make the same mistakes.

I'm going to be smarter about this. I'm going to position myself as her protector rather than her jailer. I'm going to make her feel wanted instead of imprisoned.

Except I'm not doing any of that. I'm doing exactly what I did two years ago. I'm claiming her in front of other men. I'm making it clear that she's mine. I'm using her proximity to me as a statement of ownership.

The difference is that now she *knows* what she's getting. Now there are photos on my phone that prove she was mine once. Now there's a deal between us that makes the possession explicit rather than something she can pretend isn't happening.

For the rest of the afternoon, I keep her close.

When she's interviewing one of the rookies, I stand nearby, making it clear that I'm listening. When Vault tries to crack a joke, I cut him off with a look. When the equipment manager asks Elle if she wants a team jacket, I answer for her: "She's fine."

She should be furious. She should be pushing back, reasserting her independence, calling me out on the hypocrisy of claiming I just want to control her "for the deal" when it's obvious I want to control her, period.

Instead, she stays close. She answers questions to me instead of the players when I position myself between them. She moves through the afternoon like she's tethered to me, and I realize that she likes it.

Or at least, she likes some version of it. She likes the version where possession feels like protection. She likes being wanted so much that I can't stand the thought of anyone else being near her.

It's sick. I know it's sick. But I also know that I would do it all again, just to have her look at me the way she's looking at me now.

When she's leaving the arena at the end of the day, she pauses at the exit. She doesn't turn around, but she says quietly enough that only I can hear:

"This doesn't mean anything."

"What doesn't?" I ask, even though I know exactly what she means.

"This. You claiming me like that. It's just part of the deal. It doesn't change anything between us."

I know she's right. I know that what we had five years ago is over, and what we have now is complicated and broken and probably unsalvageable.

But watching her walk away, watching the way she holds herself like she's trying to convince herself of the words she just said, I feel something dangerous stir in my chest.

It's hope. Or it's the ghost of love. Or it's just possession wrapped up in pretty language.

Either way, it's going to destroy us both.