Chapter 4 Rory's Pov

Jaxon,

Per our discussion, the amendment is finalized. Five-million-dollar bonus will be paid upon resolution of the female player situation within twelve months of signing. Current status: four months remaining.

Resolution

 defined as: voluntary resignation, trade acceptance, or contract termination.

Your cooperation in facilitating said resolution is appreciated.

Performance metrics attached.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, because apparently my brain had decided there must be another meaning hidden somewhere between the words. Maybe “female player situation” meant something else. Maybe “resolution” was not me being erased from the Titans roster like a scheduling mistake. Maybe “your cooperation” did not mean Jaxon Kane had been paid to help push me out of the only thing I had ever fought to keep.

But the words did not change. Not in the slightest.

My name was not written in the email but it was everywhere.

Female player situation.

Resolution.

Voluntary resignation.

Trade acceptance.

Contract termination.

I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

When it was over, I stayed on the cold tile floor, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, my throat burning and my eyes wet for reasons that had nothing to do with nausea.

The apartment was silent. Too silent. Jaxon’s laptop still glowed in the living room, waiting like a loaded weapon.

I should have closed it. I should have walked away. I should have told myself that reading more would only hurt worse.

Instead, I went back.

Because apparently I was the kind of woman who needed to watch the knife enter before she believed she was bleeding.

My fingers shook as I opened the attachment.

Performance Metrics: Rory Callahan.

It was a neat file with clean fonts and professional formatting. There were charts for everything. My penalty minutes. My injuries. My media appearances. My “incidents.”

Every headline I had tried not to read was listed there like evidence in a trial. Every time I spoke up in an interview. Every time I reacted to a bad call. Every time I pushed back when reporters asked whether I was physically strong enough to survive in the league.

There were notes beside the entries:

Subject demonstrates heightened emotional response to public criticism.

Subject displays increased aggression following perceived exclusion by teammates.

Subject remains socially isolated within team structure.

My stomach rolled again but this time nothing came up.

Subject. Not Rory. Not Callahan.

Subject.

I scrolled lower, my breathing turning shallow. Then I found the recommendation.

Subject responds poorly to public criticism but shows vulnerability to perceived personal connection. Suggest continued proximity strategy.

I stopped moving as the entire apartment narrowed to those words.

Vulnerability to perceived personal connection.

I saw Jaxon’s hand covering mine at dinner.

Perceived.

I heard his voice saying, I really, really do not.

Personal connection.

I felt his mouth on mine outside the restaurant, his hand in my hair, his body close enough to make me forget who he was.

Strategy.

A laugh broke out of me and it sounded wrong. Sharp. Small. Almost broken.

So that was what I had been. Not a teammate. Not a challenge. Not a woman he hated and maybe wanted and definitely did not understand.

A problem. A situation. A subject with weaknesses.

The brutal checks during practice were not just Jaxon being Jaxon. They were pressure. Wear her down. Make her hurt. Make the ice feel unsafe enough that leaving would look like her choice.

The stance corrections were not lessons. They were humiliation. Hands on my hips, breath at my neck, the entire team watching while he turned my body into another place where he could prove his control.

The fake relationship was not inconvenient. It was useful. A way to get close. A way to study me. A way to find out exactly where to press until something cracked.

And the kiss—

I closed my eyes.

No.

I would not think about the kiss.

Too late.

I thought about it.

I thought about the way he had asked, May I? Like he was giving me power. Like I had a choice. Like my yes meant something more than permission to play the next scene.

My chest hurt so I pressed a fist against it and hated myself for that too.

There were women who cried beautifully. Quiet tears. Shaking shoulders. Soft tragedy.

I was not one of them.

I cried like I was angry about it.

The tears came hot and fast and I wiped at them like they had personally offended me. Then the crying stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving something colder behind.

Fine, I thought angrily. He wanted to play. I could play.

I would play.

***

By the time Jaxon returned the next morning, I had slept for forty minutes, showered twice, deleted nothing from his laptop and learned how to put my face back together.

He came in carrying breakfast. Of course he did. Because the devil apparently remembered oat milk and bought croissants.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair damp from the shower, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee I had not tasted.

He paused when he saw me. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

His eyes moved over my face. “You look tired.”

“Did not sleep much.”

He set the bag on the counter. “About last night—”

“It is fine.”

His brows drew together.

I smiled.

“You were right,” I continued. “We were getting too comfortable. This is business.”

Something shifted in his face. Relief came first. Then something else.

Disappointment?

I didn't want to know or care.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Business.”

“We should practice couple stuff,” I added, standing.

His eyes narrowed. “Couple stuff?”

“For photos. Interviews. Whatever performance Lena wants from us next.”

I walked toward him before my courage could fail. Jaxon did not move. That was his mistake. I placed my palm against his chest and his body went still beneath my hand.

Hard muscle. Steady heartbeat. Warmth I had no business noticing.

His pupils widened slightly. I filed that away.

“So,” I said lightly, tilting my head up, “if I touch you like this, you do not look like someone being forced to tolerate me.”

His voice dropped. “Rory.”

“What?” I drew closer, my voice turning husky. “Too much?”

His hand twitched at his side and I smiled sweeter.

“See?” I said. “Just acting.”

Then I pulled away.

I did not look back quickly enough to see his fists clench but I heard his breath change.

Good, I thought with a smug smile.

***

At practice, I played like my body had been built from broken glass and revenge.

Every pass was sharp. Every turn was fast. Every hit was clean.

Mostly.

Jaxon knew what I was doing within the first five minutes.

He knew because he always knew.

I clipped his shoulder during a drill and stole the puck before he could reset. He came after me on the next rotation and boxed me in along the boards with enough force to rattle my teeth but not enough to draw a whistle.

“Problem, Callahan?” he asked.

I smiled behind my mouthguard. “Not anymore.”

His eyes flashed.

We did not practice after that.

We fought.

We fought not with fists. Not with words, at least not at first. Rather, we fought with speed and steel and sharp turns. We fought with shoulders and checks and stolen pucks. We fought like the ice was the only place our bodies were allowed to tell the truth.

He hit harder. I moved faster. He blocked. I cut around him. He anticipated. I adapted.

By the time Coach blew the whistle, half the team had stopped pretending they were not watching.

“I do not know what foreplay looks like for you two,” Coach barked, “but save it for home!”

The team burst into laughter.

I ripped off my helmet and glared at Jaxon.

He glared back.

For one second, the rink disappeared again. There was only him and me and the ugly, burning thing between us that did not care whether it was hate or want, because either way, it demanded to be fed.

Marcus caught up to me near the bench.

“What is going on?” he asked.

“Practice.”

“That was not practice.”

I took a long drink of water. “Then what was it?”

Marcus looked toward Jaxon, then back at me. “War.”

My mouth curved in response. “Maybe it always was.”

His expression changed. “Rory?”

I walked away before he could ask the question I was not ready to answer.

By late afternoon, the team had decided my punishment for surviving practice was a couple’s photoshoot.

Lena called it “controlled intimacy.”

I called it “evidence for my future insanity hearing.”

The studio was bright, expensive, and full of people who kept telling me to relax while asking me to lean into the man who had a financial incentive to destroy me.

Jaxon arrived in a black sweater and dark jeans, looking unfairly calm.

I wanted to throw something at him.

Instead, I let the stylist fix my hair and tried not to think about the email still sitting like poison under my skin.

“Closer,” the photographer called. “Jaxon, hands on her waist. Rory, soften your shoulders.”

Jaxon’s hands settled on my waist and my body remembered him before my mind could stop it.

Traitor. My body was a fucking traitor.

“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now, Rory, lean back into him.”

I did. His chest brushed my back and my throat tightened.

“Beautiful. More heat. You are in love, remember?”

I almost laughed in response. In love? How ridiculous?!

Jaxon’s mouth lowered near my ear. “What is wrong?”

I kept smiling for the camera. “Nothing.”

“You have been different since yesterday.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

The photographer circled us. “Great tension. Hold that.”

Jaxon’s fingers tightened slightly against my waist. “Talk to me.”

That almost did it. Not the order. Not the closeness. The fact that he sounded like he meant it. It almost did it.

I turned my face slightly, just enough that my cheek nearly brushed his.

“Just wondering how far you will take this,” I whispered.

He went still.

“The fake relationship,” I continued. “How committed are you, Captain?”

His voice was low. “What does that mean?”

I smiled for the camera. “How badly do you want me gone?”

His hands tightened and his jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle jump.

“You have no idea what I want,” he said with gritted teeth.

The photographer shouted, “Perfect! That is the shot!”

Of course it was.

It was the perfect shot of a woman pretending not to break and the man being paid to hold the pieces.

***

That night, I pretended to fall asleep on the couch.

It was not hard. I was exhausted enough to collapse but my mind refused to shut down. The apartment was dark except for the thin light above the stove. Rain tapped lightly against the windows.

Jaxon came home late.

I kept my breathing even as I listened to him. He moved quietly but I knew the sound of him now. The soft scrape of his shoes. The pause near the doorway. The way he stood still before entering a room, as if deciding which version of himself to bring in.

His phone rang before he reached the bedroom. He answered in the kitchen. “No.”

A pause.

“I do not care about the money anymore.”

My eyes stayed closed but my heart did not.

“I know what I signed,” he said, voice rough. “I know.”

Another pause.

Then with a softer tone, he said, “She is not the problem. I am.”

The apartment seemed to hold its breath with me as I listened.

“No, I am not backing out,” he continued, “I just need more time. This is more complicated than—”

He stopped.

For one terrifying second, I thought he knew I was awake. His footsteps moved toward me. I stayed still. The couch dipped slightly as he stood beside it. I felt him there before he touched me. The warmth of his body. The hesitation.

Then a blanket settled over me in a careful, gentle manner. And his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

I almost flinched. Almost. But I didn't.

He stayed there for a moment and I knew without opening my eyes that he was watching me intensely. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than air.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. You will never know, but I am.”

My chest cracked just enough to let pain in where anger had been doing such a good job keeping everything else out.

Jaxon walked away.

I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even, and felt something break open inside me.

The man who was paid to destroy me had just tucked me in.

And I had no idea what was real anymore.