Chapter 3 Close Quarters

I didn’t go straight back to my room.

Instead, I stood in the narrow alley between the arena and the house, my breath puffing white into the dark. The wind nipped at my cheeks, sharp enough to make my eyes water. My fingers curled tighter inside my sleeves, nails pressing into my palms. The sound of footsteps still echoed faintly in my head, measured, heavy, almost lazy in their confidence. Whoever that was in the rink hadn’t called out, hadn’t made a move to stop me just walked in like they belonged there, like they’d been watching me long before I heard them.

I should’ve kept walking, but my curiosity has always been a problem.

I glanced back toward the facility. The side door was propped open now, a thin slice of fluorescent light spilling across the snow like someone had sliced the night open.

Liam stepped into it.

Still in most of his gear helmet dangling from one hand, hair damp, shoulder pads making him look like he could block out the moon. His breath came in small, steady bursts, misting in the cold air. The moment his gaze found me, he didn’t hesitate. He jogged over, the sharp crunch of his skate guards on the salted asphalt making a rhythm that sounded a little too deliberate.

“You shouldn’t hang around out here,” he said, voice low, warm in a way that carried despite the chill. His breath mingled with mine, the faint scent of ice and leather lingering between us.

“You shouldn’t tell me what to do,” I shot back.

That earned me a smirk, half amusement, half challenge. The corner of his mouth tipped like he knew exactly what buttons to push. Something low in my stomach tightened.

“Fair,” he murmured.

Up close, his cheeks still held the flush from skating, hair curling faintly at the ends where it was damp. A bead of water clung stubbornly to the edge of his jaw before sliding down his neck, vanishing into the collar of his undershirt.

“Who was it?” I asked, tilting my head toward the rink.

His jaw shifted. “No one you need to worry about.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” His eyes met mine steady, unreadable, like he could stand there all night without blinking first.

I hated that I wanted to see how long I could last.

Finally, he said, “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

I let him fall into step beside me, though I wasn’t sure which of us was actually leading.

We slipped into the side hallway connecting the arena to the house. The hum of overhead lights was the only sound at first. The air was warmer here, but it carried the tang of melted ice and damp gear, wrapping around us in a strange mix of comfort and tension.

We passed the locker room, the door cracked open just enough for me to catch a quick glimpse of benches scattered with gloves, pads, sticks leaning against the walls like sleeping soldiers. The smell of rubber and sweat curled into the air.

“You live here too?” I asked, my voice bouncing softly off the painted walls.

“Sometimes.”

“Convenient,” I said, letting it land somewhere between sarcasm and teasing.

“Practical,” he corrected without missing a beat. “Cheaper than renting downtown.”

“You don’t strike me as the frugal type.”

His eyes slid toward me. “You don’t know what type I am yet.”

The “yet” sat in the air longer than it should have.

When we reached the stairwell, he paused, one hand gripping the railing loosely, the other tapping against the wood.

“You didn’t tell your dad you were out, did you?”

I shook my head. “Why would I?”

That flicker of a grin appeared again small, quick, like he wasn’t supposed to let it out. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” I countered.

We climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft under my sneakers, muffling our steps, making the house feel even more still.

At the landing, he leaned back against the wall, shoulders broad enough to block part of the hallway. Close enough that I could see the way the light hit the faint scar near his mouth, softening the sharpness of his features.

“Do you like the city yet?” he asked.

“Ask me in a month.”

“I’ll ask you tomorrow.”

That pulled a reluctant smile out of me before I could stop it. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Depends who I’m talking to.”

There was a heat in his gaze that made me want to take a step closer—and also run in the opposite direction. My hands curled into my sleeves again, not because I was cold but because I wasn’t sure what I’d do with them otherwise.

I tried to pass him, but his voice caught me mid-step.

“Harper.”

I turned.

He’d pushed away from the wall, closing part of the distance between us in a slow, unhurried move that still made my pulse jump.

“If you’re going to sneak around here,” he said, voice pitched low, “you might as well do it right.”

“What’s the right way?” I asked, quieter than I intended.

His mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Not where your dad can catch you.”

A laugh bubbled up but caught in my chest, halfway between amusement and disbelief. I let my eyes drop for a second to the line of his collarbone visible above his shirt before forcing them back up.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

Before I could say anything, a door opened down the hall.

We straightened instantly.

My dad’s voice came out, muffled but still carrying a sharp edge. “Harper? That you?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Just getting some water.”

A pause. Then: “Lights out soon. Big day tomorrow.”

His door clicked shut.

Liam’s gaze lingered for another beat before he stepped back, retreating just enough for the air between us to cool.

“Goodnight,” he said, his tone almost polite except for the trace of something unspoken underneath.

I went into my room without answering, but his voice stayed with me, warm and stubborn, long after the door closed. And when I finally slid under the covers, I hated just a little that I was smiling.

Previous Chapter
Next Chapter