Heat Check

CHASE

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

SLOANE.

I pressed my palms harder against the railing until the wood grain bit into my skin and left red lines.

Brittany being here was fine. Brittany was… fine. She was Marcus’s friend now as much as mine. Victoria’s friend. She existed in this orbit long before I learned to stop wanting her to be the one specific thing she could never be. We’d carved out something smaller and steadier on the other side of that wreckage. Or I thought we had.

But watching her turn that clinical, competent attention toward Sloane—watching Sloane meet it without blinking, without retreating, without giving an inch—

I didn’t know what to do with that.

I didn’t know what to do with most of what had happened in the last four days.

The kitchen this morning. Her back against the island. The two inches I’d been closing in every slow, inevitable degree since the bonfire, the café, the ice, the basement.

Brittany walking in.

*My stepsister,* I’d said.

GOD… I FUCKING HATE HER.

Can’t believe she threw my mom in my face like that. I thought we—

Never mind.

She wants war?

Fine.

I’m going to give it to her. Raw. Fucking. Hard.

The door opened behind me.

I knew the footsteps before I turned.

“You always go somewhere the argument can’t follow you,” Brittany said. She stopped beside me, arms crossed lightly against the lingering heat, staring at the same overgrown garden like it was only mildly less interesting than I was.

“I will fucking kill her.”

“I know you would.” She smiled—small, knowing. “She doesn’t know you as much as she thinks she does. But she’s good.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.” She turned her head to look at me. “I’m observing. You’ve always needed someone to observe you so you’d stop doing everything inside your own head.”

“That was never your job.”

“I know.” No defensiveness. Just fact. “I’m not here to make it my job either. I’m here because Marcus said the summer games were good and I have a shoot.” She paused. “And yes. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You said that inside.”

“I’m saying it again. Out here where you can’t change the subject.”

The garden didn’t get any more interesting.

“I’m doing fine,” I said.

“Right.”

I looked at her.

She looked back—that same patient, infuriatingly accurate look she’d had since I was eighteen and she was also eighteen and she told me I was devaluing myself by taking every meeting that came in. She’d been right then. She was usually right. It was one of the things that had made the rest of it so hard.

“Fine,” Brittany echoed, the word soft, almost amused. She stepped closer—close enough that I could smell the coconut sunscreen and the faint vanilla of whatever perfume she still wore. The same one she’d worn the night after the championship freshman year, when we’d fucked against the hotel window until the glass fogged and the city lights blurred into streaks.

She didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

She just stood there, arms still loosely crossed, head tilted like she was studying a painting she already knew by heart.

“You’re shaking,” she said quietly.

“I’m not.”

“Your hands are.” She glanced down at where my palms pressed white-knuckled against the railing. “You always do that when you’re trying not to touch something you want.”

I laughed—short, ugly. “You think I want you right now?”

Her smile curved. Slow. Knowing.

“Chase,” she paused. “I really miss us. We only broke up because of distance, differing priorities, and fundamental incompatibility, but… we can still make it short. I know you’re committed to hockey—training, travel, summer leagues, development camps, scouts watching every move—but we’ve been on this since we started dating before you graduated. I know long distance was the default and we had to sacrifice our love for our careers.”

“Yeah. Career comes first,” I said.

“But people still make long-distance work. So why can’t we?” She stepped even closer. Her breasts brushed my chest. “I really miss you.”

“Thought you were dating Jack now.”

“Broke up a week ago.” Her hand slid up my arm—fingertips trailing over the muscle I’d spent years building, the muscle she used to dig her nails into when I fucked her from behind in that tiny off-campus apartment freshman fall.

“He doesn’t know how to touch me the way you do,” she whispered. Her palm flattened against my pec, fingers spreading. “Doesn’t know exactly how hard I like it when I’m angry. Doesn’t know to bite the spot right here—” She dragged one nail down the side of my neck, slow, teasing the place she’d marked more times than I could count. “—until I’m begging.”

My cock twitched against her thigh.

Traitor.

I hated that it did.

I hated that she felt it.

Her smile turned wicked—soft, but wicked.

“See?” she murmured. “Some things don’t change.”

She pressed her hips forward—just enough to grind against me once. Slow. Purposeful.

I sucked in a breath through my teeth.

“Brittany—”

“Shh.” She palmed my cock. Stroked once, base to tip, through the fabric of my shorts. “You’re so hard already. You always get like this when you’re pissed and turned on at the same time. Remember that night after you blew the game-winner against Michigan? You came home furious. Pushed me against the door before I could even say hello. Fucked me so hard the frame rattled. Left bruises on my hips I had to cover with concealer for three days.”

Her thumb circled the head through the fabric—slow, relentless.

I groaned—low, involuntary.

“You remember,” she whispered. “You remember how good it felt to just take. No thinking. No pressure. Just my legs around your waist and my nails in your back and my mouth telling you how fucking perfect you are even when you felt like shit.”

She squeezed.

My hips jerked forward—again, instinct.

She pressed closer—chest to chest, mouth hovering over mine.

“Let me take care of you,” she breathed against my lips. “Just me on my knees. My mouth. My throat. The way you like it—deep, messy, no mercy. Let me remind you what it feels like when someone already knows every filthy thing you need and doesn’t judge you for it.”

Her hand moved to the waistband, seeking entrance.

I grabbed her wrist. Hard.

“Not in the mood.”

“Since when?” Sloane’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

We both turned.

She stood in the open doorway—arms crossed, hip cocked, green eyes blazing with something that looked dangerously close to victory.

Brittany’s hand dropped.

“Sloane,” she said, tone shifting to something cooler, “you’re literally being a bitch right now. I mean—you were in the kitchen. Like… c’mon. You can’t just walk in on us like that.”

Sloane burst out laughing—sharp, genuine, delighted.

“Seriously,” I asked her, “what the fuck has gotten into you?”

“My bad.” She stepped fully onto the deck, letting the door swing shut behind her. “But I wasn’t going to let you have your way like the first night I got here. So when you’re finally in the mood, take it to the hotel.”

Brittany went very still.

I stared at Sloane.

She looked back at me—chin up, eyes bright with amusement and challenge and something else she wasn’t hiding anymore.

“The first night,” Brittany said quietly.

Not a question. Just repeating it. Processing.

“She heard,” I said. Flat.

“Through the wall,” Sloane confirmed pleasantly. “Great acoustics in this house. Victoria should mention that to the realtor.” She picked up her water glass from the railing where she’d set it. “Anyway. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You already interrupted,” Brittany said.

“And yet here we all still are.” Sloane looked at her. “Hotel, Brittany. I said what I said.”

Something flickered across Brittany’s face—not quite anger, not quite amusement. The expression of a woman recalibrating in real time.

“You’re territorial,” she said. Like it was a diagnosis.

“I’m direct,” Sloane said. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Territorial implies ownership. I don’t own anything.” She glanced at me—brief, deliberate. “I just have opinions.”

“About Chase.”

“About basic logistics. Hotel. Available. Problem solved.” She gestured vaguely toward the gate. “You know where it is. You drove here.”

Brittany stared at Sloane for a long beat—long enough that the silence started to feel like a third person standing between us.

Then she laughed.

Not the bright, musical one she used for rooms full of people.

A quieter, sharper one. The kind she used when she was genuinely surprised and not entirely sure she liked it.

“You’re actually serious,” she said.

“Dead serious,” Sloane replied. She took a slow sip of her water. “I’m not here to play territorial girlfriend. I’m here to say what everyone else is thinking but won’t: if you’re horny for nostalgia, book a room. This deck is family property now. And I’m not in the mood to watch reruns.”

“Reruns,” Brittany said.

“Your word, not mine.” Sloane set the glass down. “You drove here because you missed something that ended. That’s not a crime. But performing it on someone else’s property while his family is inside eating sushi—” She tilted her head. “That’s just bad timing.”

“She’s right,” I said to Brittany. “Bad timing.” I looked at her—really looked. “And right now the draft is more important. Do you really think I want a relationship now?”

“Chase, c’mon,” she said softly. “You know what? I’ll let you think on it.”

She walked past Sloane—close enough that their shoulders almost brushed—then past me, perfume trailing behind her like a ghost.

The door closed.

Sloane and I were alone on the deck.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

“So that’s it?” she said. “You let her grope you, groan like a bitch in heat, and then send her packing with a ‘draft is more important’ line? Real smooth, Hartley. Real fucking classy.”

I chuckled—low, bitter. “I was stupid to think we’d come to a truce.”

“Temporary truce. Remember?”

“You hit me hard by mentioning my mom.” I stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet my eyes. “Congrats, Sloane. You just made me hate you more.”

She smiled—slow, dangerous, beautiful.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I scoffed.

Turned.

Walked away.

And didn’t look back.

But I felt her watching me the whole way.

And for the first time in days, that didn’t feel like a win.

It felt like losing something I hadn’t even admitted I wanted.