The Hockey Star Who Sent His Teammate to My Bed

I woke up before he did.

The sheets were twisted around my legs. My neck throbbed on the left side, and when I lifted my head, I saw why in the mirror across the room. Red marks ran down my throat, across my collarbone, and wrapped around my waist where his hands had held me.

Good. Proof.

Declan lay face down beside me, one arm thrown over the pillow. The empty wine bottle sat on the nightstand next to a second one I'd opened after midnight. He'd finished most of that one too.

He stirred. Groaned. Rolled onto his back and pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

I yanked the sheet up to my chin.

By the time he turned his head, I was already crying.

He stared at me. Then at the marks on my skin. All the color drained out of his face.

"Camille?"

"Don't." My voice cracked right where I wanted it to. "Don't look at me."

He sat up fast, and the sheet slid off his hips. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his lap like a teenager caught in the wrong room.

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember—" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Pieces. The couch. The wall. You said no. You kept saying no."

"I did."

"And you said Mason's name."

"Because I love him." I pulled my knees to my chest and sobbed into the sheet. "I love him, Declan. I've never even thought about another man. Not once in four years."

He flinched like I'd slapped him.

"There was a text," he said slowly. "On my phone. You said something. You said I knew, or—"

"Knew what?" I lifted my wet face. "That you were drunk? That I was drunk? I don't even know what I said. I don't know anything right now."

He rubbed his jaw. His hand was shaking.

"How am I supposed to look at him?" I whispered. "How am I supposed to wake up next to him tomorrow? Or the day after? I don't know how to live the rest of my life after this."

"Hey. Hey, no." He reached toward me, then caught himself and pulled his hand back like the air between us was on fire. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Camille, I'm sorry." He slid off the bed and grabbed his jeans from the floor. He dressed with his back to me, fumbling the zipper twice. "I'm so sorry. I had too much. I wasn't thinking. I should've left the second I walked in."

"But you didn't."

"No."

He turned around. His gray eyes were red at the edges. For one second, he looked like the boy from Mason's old junior-hockey photos, the one who always stood at the end of the row.

I almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

"Can I ask you something?" I wiped my cheek with the corner of the sheet. "And will you tell me the truth?"

His throat moved. "Yeah."

"Why did you come here last night?"

The room went still.

I watched him. I gave him every second he needed. I thought about the equipment room and the stick hitting the floor and the way he'd said no to Mason, flat and sure, before he folded.

Tell me, I thought. Just tell me, and I'll stop.

"To watch film," Declan said. "Mason said he'd be late. I drank too much and I lost control. That's it. That's all it was."

Something in my chest closed like a door.

"Okay," I said.

"Camille—"

"Please just go."

He hesitated at the bedroom door. "If you need anything—"

"Go, Declan."

He went. I heard the front door shut, then his truck start in the lot.

I stopped crying the second the engine faded.

---

Declan walked into the locker room at nine-forty. Mason was already there, taping his stick at the bench.

He looked up. His hands stopped.

"What the hell is that?"

Declan didn't answer. He dropped his bag and peeled off his hoodie.

Mason stood. He crossed the room in four strides and jabbed a finger at Declan's neck, where a bruise the size of a thumbprint sat just under his ear. Another one marked his shoulder. Scratches ran down his back in thin pink lines.

"She did that?"

"You asked if it was done." Declan pulled a practice jersey over his head. "It's done."

"I said make it look like something happened." Mason's voice climbed. "Get her drunk. Get a photo of you two on the couch. I didn't say fuck her!"

A rookie at the far end of the room glanced over. Declan shot him a look, and the kid suddenly found his skates very interesting.

"Keep your voice down."

"You actually slept with her." Mason laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. "You slept with my girlfriend. In my apartment."

"In your bed, actually."

Mason grabbed a fistful of his jersey.

Declan didn't move. He just looked down at the hand twisted in the fabric, then back up.

"This is what you asked me to do, Mason. You set it up. You sent me over there. So why are you standing here like some guy who just found out his wife's been cheating?"

Mason's jaw locked.

"She said no," Declan added quietly. "She kept saying your name."

Mason's grip loosened. Something flickered across his face, too fast to read.

"Then she must've liked it, huh?" he said.

Declan shoved him off. Mason stumbled into the bench and caught himself.

"We're square now," Declan said. "Junior hockey. The suspension. All of it. Don't ever ask me for anything again."

He grabbed his gloves and walked out to the ice.

Mason stood alone in the locker room for a long time.

---

Fallon opened her hotel door in nothing but a white robe.

"You're early," she said.

Mason pushed her backward into the room and kicked the door shut.

"Somebody's in a mood."

"Shut up. Get on the bed."

She laughed and let the robe slide off. She was all long legs and tan lines, perfect in the way her photos were perfect. He'd wanted this for three months.

He shoved her face down on the mattress and dragged her hips up.

"Tell me you missed my cock, Fallon."

"I missed your cock."

He pushed into her hard. She moaned loud, the way she always did, like there was a camera somewhere in the room.

"Harder, Mason."

He fucked her harder. He grabbed her hair. He watched her back arch, watched her grip the sheets.

But his mind kept sliding sideways.

To a red mark on Declan's neck. To scratches down a back that wasn't his.

She kept saying your name.

He thrust deeper, angry now. "Say my name."

"Mason—Mason, fuck—"

It was wrong. Her voice was too high. Too practiced.

He came anyway, fast and hollow, and rolled off her onto his back.

Fallon curled into his side and walked her fingers across his chest. "Again in an hour?"

"Sure."

She fell asleep twenty minutes later. Mason stared at the ceiling.

He thought about Camille in the green silk dress. The soft sound she made when she was close. The way she used to say his name in the dark, low and breathless, like it meant something.

Had she made that sound for Declan?

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He grabbed it. A text from Camille. Just one line.

Camille: We need to talk tonight. I know about Fallon.