Possession

SLOANE

The Hartley mansion had been transformed into a full-scale frat disaster.

What used to be pristine white marble and tasteful nautical accents was now drowning in red Solo cups, spilled beer, and the kind of bass that rattled your teeth. Speakers thumped from every corner of the pool deck. A keg stand was in full swing—blonde in a string bikini being hoisted upside down while three Titans players chanted her name like it was a war cry. Someone had dragged a beer pong table onto the patio, and the surface was already sticky with spilled drinks and regret.

And Chase—shirtless, naturally—stood at the center of it all like some dark, golden king holding court. Water still dripped from his hair from an earlier cannonball. Girls circled him like moths. Guys slapped his back. He laughed—loud, easy, the sound carrying over the music—but his eyes kept flicking toward the French doors.

Toward me.

I stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed, debating whether turning around and retreating upstairs would look too obvious.

*Why did I even come down?*

Because yesterday, after the game, in the quiet aftermath of the presser, he’d said—casual, almost offhand—“Having some of the guys over tomorrow. You don’t have to hide upstairs the whole time.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

More like… permission.

But I’d taken it anyway.

Stupid.

I turned to go back inside.

“Leaving already?”

The voice was deep, warm, effortless—not cocky, just comfortable in its own skin.

I turned.

Marcus Callahan stood there—beer in one hand, easy smile on his face. He’d swapped whatever he’d worn earlier for board shorts and a fitted white tee that somehow looked both casual and intentional. Dark hair still damp from the pool, dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I was thinking about it,” I admitted.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the chaos—the keg-stand girl was now being lowered while the crowd chanted—then back at me. “Yeah. I get that. This isn’t exactly… understated.”

“That’s generous.”

He laughed—low, genuine. “I’m Marcus.”

“I know. You’re Chase’s linemate.”

“And you’re Sloane. The infamous stepsister.”

I bristled at the word. “That’s me.”

“When I first saw you at practice, then the game, now here, I thought you were his latest puck bunny. Finally asked him. He looked like he wanted to murder me for even suggesting it.” Marcus grinned. “Want a drink? Something that hasn’t been contaminated by Tyler’s hot-dog incident?”

“Contaminated?”

“Long story. Involves a dare and poor judgment.”

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched. “Water’s fine.”

He led me around the edge of the madness to a quieter corner near the pool house—second cooler, still mostly untouched. He dug out two bottles, handed me one, then gestured to a pair of lounge chairs half-hidden by potted palms.

“Safe zone,” he said, dropping into the one beside mine. “You can actually hear yourself think over here.”

We sat. The music was still loud, but muffled enough that conversation didn’t require shouting.

Marcus took a sip of his beer, then looked at me. “So. How’s cohabitation with Chase treating you?”

I barked out a laugh. “Loaded question.”

“I’m guessing not great?”

“Let’s say we’re… adjusting.”

“Chase is a lot,” Marcus said diplomatically. “But he’s solid. Once you get past the—” He waved a hand vaguely toward the pool, where a girl was now attempting a backflip off the diving board. “—everything.”

“The ego? The shirtless parade? The revolving door?”

Marcus grinned. “Pretty much.”

I took a sip of water. “You two are close?”

“Best friends since freshman year. Roomed together at Dalton. He’s like a brother.” He paused. “An annoying brother who steals my protein bars and leaves wet towels on my bed.”

I actually smiled—real, small. “Sounds about right.”

“But seriously,” Marcus continued, voice lowering, “he’s under insane pressure. Scouts watching every shift. Everyone expecting perfection. It fucks with his head.”

I thought of Chase’s quiet answer in the presser. *You breathe. You remind yourself why you love the game.*

“He hides it well,” I said.

“Too well.” Marcus leaned back, stretching his legs out. “That’s his thing. Thinks if he shows any crack, people will stop believing he can deliver.”

“Do you believe in him?”

Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

The certainty in his voice made something in my chest tighten.

We talked—easy, natural. About hockey, about Dalton, about the road-trip chaos that came with being on a team this talented. Marcus listened more than he spoke. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t flex. Just… existed comfortably in the conversation.

It was nice.

Really nice.

“So what about you?” he asked eventually. “The laptop at practice—you run a hockey blog?”

“For now. Focusing on the summer games.”

“Why hockey?”

“My dad played in the NHL.”

Marcus’s brows shot up. “Wait—who?”

“Richard Winters.”

“Holy shit. *The* Richard Winters? Flyers, late nineties? That slapshot?”

“That’s the one.”

Marcus shook his head, half-laughing. “Your dad was a legend. I grew up watching his highlight reels. Does Chase know?”

I shrugged. “Probably not. We don’t exactly do family-history breakfast.”

“That’s wild.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So you grew up around the game. Do you feel pressure to live up to that?”

“Not really. I’m not trying to play. I’m trying to tell the stories.” I took another sip. “Dad pushed skating lessons when I was little. Wanted me in the rink. I hated it. Liked watching. Breaking it down. Understanding from the outside.”

“And he was okay with that?”

“Eventually. After I wrote a piece on his old team for school and he realized I actually knew what I was talking about.”

Marcus smiled—slow, appreciative. “So you’re good at this. The journalism.”

“I’m trying to be.”

I felt myself relaxing—shoulders loosening, guard dropping—in a way I hadn’t since stepping foot in this house.

And then I felt it.

The weight of a stare.

I looked up.

Chase stood near the deep end—still shirtless, water streaming off his shoulders like he’d just climbed out. He was supposed to be talking to Jax and Tyler.

He wasn’t.

He was staring at us.

At me.

At *Marcus*.

His jaw was locked. Eyes dark. Shoulders rigid. Hands flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from moving.

Marcus didn’t notice. He was mid-story—some disastrous road trip to Boston involving a lost wallet and a gas-station hot dog. I tried to focus on his words, but Chase’s gaze burned into me like a physical thing.

Then Chase turned—sharp—jaw working, and disappeared through the French doors into the house.

“—and that’s when Tyler realized he’d left his wallet two hundred miles back,” Marcus finished, grinning.

I forced a laugh. “Classic Tyler.”

Marcus studied me for a second. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

“By the chaos?” He gestured vaguely at the pool, where someone had just attempted a backflip and mostly succeeded in creating a tidal wave.

“Something like that.”

Marcus leaned back, still smiling. “It’s been twenty minutes and you haven’t thrown anything at me yet. Chase warned me to watch my head.”

I laughed—real this time. “The night’s young.”

“Fair.” He took another sip of beer. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you plan on blasting music at midnight.”

“Not my style. I’m more of a noise-canceling-headphones guy.”

“Then you’re safe.” I glanced toward the pool where a group of girls shrieked and splashed. “Aren’t you missing the fun? The puck bunnies are circling.”

Marcus’s brows shot up. Then he laughed—deep, genuine.

“Puck bunnies? Jesus. Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“That’s what they were screaming in the pool earlier. ‘Daddy Tyler, throw me higher!’ It was traumatic.”

He shook his head, still grinning. “Yeah, that tracks. Tyler lives for that shit.”

“And you don’t?”

“Me?” Marcus set his beer on the ground beside his chair. “Nah. That scene’s fun for a minute. But I’m looking for something more… substantial.” He met my eyes—direct, unguarded. “The parties are loud. The girls are loud. But actual connection? Someone who sees past the jersey, past the stats, past the fantasy? That’s rare.”

I stared at him—surprised by the honesty.

“That’s not what I expected.”

“What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. The typical hockey-guy line. Live in the moment. No attachments.”

Marcus smiled—small, knowing. “We’re not all the same.”

“Clearly.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice lowering. “Truth? Most of them don’t see me. They see the potential. The draft stock. The future NHL paycheck. But someone who actually gives a shit about what I think off the ice? About who I am when the skates come off?” He shook his head. “That’s hard to find.”

“Is that why you came over here? To talk to me?”

“Partially.” He shrugged. “But also because you looked like you were about to bolt, and I figured you could use someone who wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“Or throw you in the pool.”

“Exactly.”

We fell into easy silence again—the party noise fading to background static.

And then Chase reappeared.

Storming across the patio—still dripping, jaw set, eyes locked on Marcus like he was about to commit a felony.

“Marcus,” he said. Voice low. Tight. Controlled. “Need to talk to you.”

Marcus looked up, unruffled. “We’re kind of in the middle of—”

“Now.”

The word cracked like a whip.

I felt my spine stiffen. “Chase—”

But he wasn’t looking at me. His stare stayed pinned on Marcus—dark, possessive, barely leashed.

Marcus sighed, set his beer down, and stood. “Yeah. Sure.” He glanced at me—half-apologetic, half-amused. “Be right back, Sloane?”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine.” He gave me a quick, reassuring smile. “Two minutes.”

Chase turned—already walking toward the house—without waiting.

Marcus followed, throwing me one last glance over his shoulder.

I sat there—alone now—water bottle sweating in my hand.

The party raged on around me—music pounding, laughter spiking, someone shrieking as they got tossed into the deep end.

But all I could see was the look on Chase’s face.

Dark.

Furious.

Possessive.

Like Marcus talking to me had personally violated something he hadn’t even claimed.

Like I was already his.

And he didn’t like sharing.

I stared at the French doors they’d disappeared through.

Heart pounding.

Pulse racing.

Wondering what the hell was about to happen inside that house.

And wondering—more than anything—why the thought of Chase losing control over me felt less like fear…

…and more like something dangerously close to want.