Two hockey gods. One bed. No self-control. Tyler Reyes has rules. Don’t lose focus. Don’t get distracted. And don’t ever let the world know what he really wants — especially not him. Mason Grant doesn’t play by rules. He plays to win. And he’s never forgotten the boy who kissed him once, then acted like it never happened. Now they’ve been forced into the same room, on the same retreat, with cameras watching and tension thick enough to snap. The problem? Mason still wants him. Tyler still hates him. And the line between enemies and something filthier is already long gone. The press is watching. Their families are ready to explode. And someone else is following them too — someone who wants them torn apart. But Tyler’s never been good at staying clean. And Mason’s never been good at letting go.
Lihat lebih banyakCHAPTER 4TYLER I woke up to beeping.The ceiling was white. Everything smelled like alcohol and plastic. My ribs ached. My mouth was dry. My head throbbed like someone had boxed my ears from the inside out.I tried to move. Bad idea.“Hey, hey,” a soft voice said.I blinked. Slowly.My mom.She was sitting beside the bed, a paper fan in one hand, looking at me like she’d aged ten years overnight.“You’re awake,” she whispered, standing quickly. “Thank God.”“Ma,” I croaked.“Don’t move. Here. Water.”She reached for the plastic cup on the tray and held the straw to my lips. I drank. Cold water hit my throat, and it felt like heaven.“What happened?” I murmured.“You tell me,” she said gently. “They said a motorcycle skidded off Eastridge. You were alone.”“I just… needed to clear my head.”“By speeding on wet roads?”I didn’t answer.Her hand brushed my hair back, the way she used to when I had nightmares as a kid.“You scared me,” she said. “You really scared me, anak.”“I’m okay,”
CHAPTER 3TYLER The dining room smelled like garlic fried rice, eggs, longganisa.I sat at the head of the table, still half-sore from yesterday’s game. My shoulders ached. My jaw still clenched from him.I hadn’t checked my phone since the club. I didn’t want to see anything. Especially not that photo.The maids moved around quietly. The plates were warm. My coffee was untouched.And then—The voice. “You’re up early.”I looked up.My father walked in, all crisp polo and pressed slacks like he’d just stepped out of a business ad. Not a hair out of place. Always controlled. Always powerful.“Morning, Pa,” I said softly.He sat down across from me and gave a tight nod. “How’s your back?” “Fine.”“Your team played well. But you let your guard down. That Grant boy—he’s the one who scored?”I tensed. “Yeah.”“He’s gotten fast. I'm proud.”I said nothing.He took a slice of mango and placed it on his plate with precision. Everything he did was precise. Like the world had to obey him.
CHAPTER 2MASON“Grant! You cocky bastard!” Avery yelled, throwing a towel straight at my face.The locker room roared.I ducked it, half-laughing as I slumped onto the bench. My chest was still heaving. Sweat still rolling down my back.“That goal was filthy,” Caleb muttered, shaking his head as he peeled off his pads. “You could’ve passed.”“I don’t pass in the final three seconds,” I said, smirking. “You want pretty? Watch ballet.”“Or your sex tape,” Damien chimed in, winking as he tossed his gloves into his duffel.The boys lost it.“Ayeeee!” Avery whooped. “We got the national champ and certified slut!”I rolled my eyes, but smiled anyway. They were loud, messy, and a little stupid.Silverhollow Storm. My brothers. My team.“Seriously,” Damien said, grinning as he sat beside me. “That goal was fucking evil. You see Reyes’s face?”I paused.I had seen his face.Frozen. Shocked. Humiliated.He looked like he’d swallowed glass.“Guy looked like he saw Jesus,” Avery added, rubbing h
CHAPTER ONETYLERTyler Reyes – National Championship FinalNorthbridge Hawks vs Silverhollow StormThe arena was shaking. Deafening. The kind of loud that rattled inside your chest.“Thirty seconds!” Coach’s voice thundered behind me.I gripped my stick tighter, my gloves damp with sweat. My heart thudded like a war drum.One–one. Final period. Championship game.Twenty thousand people screaming from the stands, but I only saw him.Mason Grant.Silverhollow’s golden boy. Big, tattooed, fast as hell.Wearing that stupid cocky grin. Like he already knew he’d win.Not tonight. No fucking way.“Eyes on the puck, Reyes,” Malik snapped, skating to my left.“I am on the puck,” I muttered.“No, you’re on Grant.”I didn’t answer. Because yeah, I was.Grant had the puck now, weaving past center ice. Fluid, sharp, stupidly smooth.God, I hated how good he was.“He’s coming left!” I shouted. “Double him!”I lunged forward, blade stretched out——caught the edge of his stick——but he spun, dropped
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