Chapter 15: Rinkmates: Chapter 15

Even though my name is Huntington, I lost the hunt against the plumber.

By the time I made it downstairs, he had vanished into thin air. But that didn’t stop me from making sure he faced the consequences of his actions—I called his firm right away and gave them a piece of my mind.

That fucker took an unauthorized photo of us. The nerve. I want him fired immediately.

Of course that scumbag is going to sell the photo and make a fortune, while those magazines spin some sensational tabloid story. But Liora…If it shows her skin. I want to be the only one who gets to see her like this.

I have no idea how much I’ve revealed since my hands were all over her, and I can’t even guess how far we might have gone if he hadn’t interrupted. I completely forgot he was even there.

My fists clench. I should’ve caught him, should’ve slammed his head.

Wait—no.

I force my hands to relax. This is exactly why I started anger management therapy. Shit. I thought I was better, that I could manage my temper. But clearly, my control is still tenuous at best. I don’t know what I would have done to him if he hadn’t run for his life. Just the thought of it scares me.

I need to keep my distance from Liora. Lock myself in my room until I get a grip on myself. But as I enter the living room, I hesitate. She’s curled up on the couch, blonde hair spilling over her face. The lost, frightened look in her blue eyes twists my heart. And it’s like all this suffocating hatred inside of me just vanishes. As if all I’ve thought about seconds ago is erased. All I see is her. That look on her face.

“Lia…” I sink down beside her with a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry. I tried to catch him, but he got away.”

She meets my gaze, vulnerability tempered with steely resolve. “It’s okay. What’s up with that nickname by the way?”

“I like how it sounds.” Lia. It’s short and beautiful. I think it fits her perfectly and the way she blushes right now just tells me she likes it too. “Sorry. I feel like shit.”

“You did your best.”

“No. I should’ve done more. Him invading your privacy like that…” I swallow hard. “It makes me want to track him down and teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

“Hey.” She lays a comforting hand on my arm. “You can’t solve everything with your fists, no matter how justified it feels. You’ve come so far. Don’t let one jerk ruin that progress.”

I run a hand through my hair, probably a tangled mess by now. “It’s just…when something triggers me, like that guy taking a photo of you, my mind goes into overdrive. I don’t know how I can fix it.” Fix me.

Sometimes it feels like I’m watching myself from the outside, punching and punching, like a ghost standing next to me, completely lost in the hurt and anxiety of losing something. Something I can’t even identify.

She’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Usually, people don’t want the real me.

They want Deadshot, not a whiny nepo baby who struggles with his emotions. Oh, that poor rich guy. Look at his problems.

“I appreciate you standing up for me, Ri. But you need healthier ways to handle this,” she says and then brushes away some strands of hair. It’s a simple gesture, but it makes my heart flutter in a different kind of way. “You can do it. You’re more than that.”

I look at her. I’d love to believe her. But what did my therapist say? I know how to love but not how to be loved.

“You know,” I look down at my hands in my lap, “hockey used to be my outlet for that aggression, but…” I sigh, feeling the weight of my shortcomings. “I guess I never really learned how to manage it.”

“Change needs time, Ri,” she begins softly. Her lips are still swollen from our kiss, but somehow we manage to pretend it was nothing. Just a practice kiss—but what if it’s not even pretend at all? Maybe it was nothing for her. Just the way she kisses any guy. But I don’t kiss girls like that. I never have. “I always thought you were a hotheaded guy. I like being honest, and I don’t like that side of you, but you know what? I like the side you’re showing me right now.”

I have no idea how to respond to that, so I chuckle nervously and keep talking, not wanting to reveal how deeply her words affect me. How much I need someone I care about to say something like this. “Yeah, I have that reputation, and moments like today show why I need you—our fake relationship, I mean. These blackouts aren’t something I’m proud of. When you grow up with hockey and all those expectations…it’s easy to let it define you. It defined me.”

She shifts closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “I get it. It’s hard to break free from what people expect of you. But you’re more than just a wall of steel for your team.”

Her words hang between us. Great. She’s devastatingly beautiful and smart but I can’t have her. I can’t because all that I touch turns to shit. “Thanks.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t answer if this touches something you’re not ready to talk about. But I’ve been wondering why men are triggering you so hard? You seem so nice to women. I just saw you carrying bags for the old lady downstairs, even though you seem to hate the guy next door.”

“Look at you, Sherlock,” I say, hesitating. Usually, I clam up whenever someone asks me a deep question. I deflect with sarcasm or change the subject. But when I look at her, I want to tell her everything. I don’t want her to think I’m a bad person. I want her to understand me. But what if I don’t even understand myself?

“I think it’s about my father. I really am the one with the daddy issues, I guess.” I finally admit. And dang this feels good.

“Isn’t your father a hockey player, too, Henry Huntington, right?” she asks.

“He was, yes. He’s big in finance now. He did everything to get me up the ranks, but at some point, he became my rival. At first, when he was still better than me, he loved showing me how to play. But when I got faster, better than him in general, he started playing it down. He did everything to get me where I am now, but he always told me that I’m nothing without him. He still loves to remind me of that. The only time I got any sort of affection from him was when I beat others up.” She narrows her eyes, processing my words. It’s the first time I say this out loud, and I just keep talking. “I felt like his pit bull, and I guess I was.

“It’s because you never healed, Ri.” She looks down on her knees and there’s something telling me that she knows what she’s talking about. “Ignoring your father is just like running away from it and we can’t shake off a feeling that’s buried inside of us. We first have to find it and release it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No, it’s not.”

And just like that, there’s a flicker of understanding between us. Maybe she sees more than just the hockey player with a temper. Maybe she sees someone who’s trying to do better, someone with vulnerabilities and scars. Because fuck, that’s what I am.

“So, what picture do we post?” she asks, changing the subject lightly, and I’m glad she did.

“I think my ex-plumber just decided what our ‘grand reveal’ looks like. How about we wait until his photo hits the gossip rags, then post the one with you kissing my cheek? Unless you want me to go after him and get the pic deleted.”

I look at her with pure honesty. I would do anything she asks me.

“No. It will be good PR wise. Any press about us is good press, right? And I like the one where you’re looking at me like you’re in love,” she teases gently, dragging out the word love.

I snort. “That’s not love. That’s called ‘tolerating your antics.’”

She chuckles softly. “Tomato, tomahto. But I’d definitely pick that one.”

I prepare the Instagram post and use that photo as my phone’s background. Next, I call my therapist. I need to talk to him about Liora. The situation is getting out of hand.

Of course, that slippery skunk sold the pic.

Ethan called me the minute US Life published it.

The caption was TikTok Hottie Riley Huntington Spotted in Steamy PDA with rumored Olympic Athlete Girlfriend!

Ethan asked if my fake girlfriend had turned into a real one and reminded me of the contract. I told him it was staged. But was it? Liora and I keep pretending it is—or rather, we pretend it never happened—and I’m fine with it. Turns out, if I can’t have someone I want, I immediately turn into a jerk and channel all that pent-up energy into being annoyed by practically everything she does.

My therapist said it’s a tactic to keep me from shouting my feelings at her. I told him I definitely don’t have any feelings for her, and his chuckle on the phone made me want to hang up. But I didn’t because I’m trying to change. Still, it’s driving me insane.

I’m starting to think I should just sleep with her because maybe I’m pushing her away due to my mood swings rather than risking breaking her heart since I don’t do girlfriends. It’s like choosing between pests or cholera while I try to relax in the tub. The practice for the play-offs was intense and all my muscles are sore, so my physician suggested a bath with some kind of herbs.

My phone buzzes on the table next to my tub.

Bladezilla: Come out of that damn bathroom!

I check the door. She’s banging on it, and I realize the music was so loud I didn’t hear her. My bad.

Riley: Nope. Living my spa prince dream right now. Bubbly bath and cucumber mask and all that shit. I learned from you, baby.

And all those hours of blow-drying that hair.

Bladezilla: You’ve got ten seconds to open that door! I need to get to set for our costume fittings.

Riley: Or what?

Bladezilla: Or I’ll donate your PS5.

My heart drops in my pants. She wouldn’t. I’d lose all my trophies.

Riley: Does your mom know she gave birth to the devil?

Bladezilla: I’ll contact Nina, I bet she’d love to donate it for us.

I run to the door and yank it open so that she’s satisfied. But I do it naked. Here you go, princess. “Pleased?”

Her eyes widen, moving from the tattoos on my arm downstairs and looking at my shampooed abs, my dick, my balls, and even though I don’t have any problems with that, since I’m packed and I know it, she seems to have the shock of her life. And fuck, I turn around and grab a towel because I can’t have her know she can give me a boner just looking at my cock.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen a proper dick?” I ask, trying to hide the way I blush.

“No,” she grunts. “No, please get out of here. I really need to get ready, Ri.”

“Okay, okay.” I wink at her. “Don’t get off on the thought of showering in the same spot as I do.”

“I won’t,” she says, pushing me out and slamming the door behind me.

Well, I do. Thinking about her showering is a tantalizing turn-on. Especially after that kiss.

I spend the rest of the day watching cooking shows and posting that adorable pic of us. My followers gobble it up, gushing about how perfectly we fit together. I can’t help but laugh at it—if they knew we were at each other’s throats daily, they’d think otherwise. But they’re doing exactly what I hoped for. They’re taking my ex-plumber’s videos and mixing them with the photos I posted, creating new clips. In no time, there are hundreds of videos of us circulating on the web, and my bar brawls are nowhere to be seen. They’re all buzzing about Grace on Ice, hyping it up, and I’m thrilled because Liora’s finally getting the attention she deserves.

I’m a happy man, until Liora comes back home with a plant. A dead one. Bigger than her. And she calls it Oscar. Who gives their plants names?

She got it from the production crew, who forgot to water it, and I learn that she loves all plants and apparently takes great joy in trying to rescue them. The downside: that plant looks like a mess, and I’m left to watch Oscar die. It’s a brown stick with actual black leaves and moldy points, sitting in the middle of my living room, slowly withering away.

I couldn’t resist her puppy-eyed look, especially since she’s been sleeping on the couch while we wait for the technicians to fix her bedroom. They’ve removed all the carpets and the damaged furniture. I count down the hours until she moves back into her room because once night falls, I find myself unable to leave mine. It seems like she has cast a spell on me after all.