Reckless on Ice

ASHLEY There are two rules when attending a hockey victory party. 1. Don’t show up if your ex is the star of the team. 2. If you break rule one, at least pretend you’re unbothered. Tonight? I’m zero for two. Because I didn’t just crash his victory party—I also, unwillingly, unfairly, and through absolutely no fault of my own, ended up standing right in front of him. Beckett. f*****g. Langley. It’s been exactly 731 days since I last saw him, and yet, somehow, he still fits into the hollow spaces of my ribs like he never left. I could ignore him. Should ignore him. Beckett Langley is a category-five disaster, and I have spent the last two years rebuilding myself from his wreckage. Which would be so much easier if he hadn’t just dumped an entire beer down my front. I snapped my head up. “Seriously, Beckett? Are you blind?” Beckett—six-foot-four of NHL-bound arrogance, my ex-boyfriend, the captain of the Ashford Havoc hockey team, and apparently, still clumsy—just stands there, towering, unapologetic, a beer bottle still loose in his grip. His lips part slightly, head tilting—then the bastard grins. “s**t,” he says, not sounding even remotely sorry. “Didn’t see you there.” I blink. Didn’t. See. Me. There. I swear to God, my soul leaves my body. “Beckett.” My voice is sharp, dangerous. “You just poured a beer on me.” He shrugs. “I mean…” A casual tilt of his head. A smirk threatening to pull at his lips. “Technically, it poured itself.” I stare. Two years ago, I would’ve laughed, shoved him, let him peel my ruined shirt off with his teeth while we giggled about how clumsy he was. Now? I’d rather set myself on fire. “Don’t you have a spare shirt in your car, or do you want to borrow mine?” I swear, a strangled sound leaves my throat. Because this bastard—this actual demon in hockey skates—has the f*****g audacity to tug at the hem of his own jersey, like he’s actually considering taking it off for me. I lift my chin. “I’d rather walk around naked.” His smirk widens, slow, obnoxious. “Tempting,” he muses, tilting his head. “But if I remember correctly, Brooke, you get cold easily.” I do. Shit. Wait—he remembers? Not that it matters. But—what the f**k? I need to get out of here. Now. My car isn’t far. It’s just a quick walk compared to the f*****g disaster who is breathing in front of me. I turn on my heel, but I only make it three steps before his voice reaches me. “Ashley.” I don’t stop. “Cupcake.” I stop. Fucking hell. Why does he still call me that? Does he think this is funny? Does he think I haven’t spent the last two years clawing that nickname out of my skull? I keep moving. Someone shouts my name—some guy I barely know, holding up a shot, waving me over. I sidestepped him, still moving, still pushing forward, wiping beer from my arms like I could scrub Beckett-f*****g-Langley out of my bloodstream. This was supposed to be a fun night. One where I drink, gloat, maybe flirt with someone just to prove a point that I can replace him. Instead, I got beer-drenched and, as they call it, I got Beckett-f*****g-Langley’d which, for the record, is something girls say after they’ve had an encounter with him. I reach my car, yank the door open, and grab for my spare shirt—except it’s gone. Or rather, it was there for half a second before Beckett’s stupid, veiny, hockey-player hands came out of nowhere and snatched it from my grip. I whip around. And there he is. Beckett f*****g Langley, standing a few feet away, spinning my damn shirt around his fingers like it’s a hockey puck and he’s about to take the winning shot. “What,” I say slowly, dangerously, “the actual f**k are you doing?” Beckett tilts his head, then he shrugs. Grins. “Helping.” Helping. Helping? My f*****g eye twitches. He’s still the same immature, arrogant, insufferable asshole he’s always been. He grins. “You want this back?” Beckett lifts my damn shirt between two fingers, swings it just slightly, “Cuuupcake…” I swear to God, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. I claw for the fabric, fingers catching just the hem, but he reacts fast, too fast, always too f*****g fast. “Langley,” I seethe, lunging again. He steps back, easy, effortless. “ Yes, cupcake?” “Give. It. Back,” I grit out. His smirk widens. “You didn’t say please.” "Give me the shirt, Langley," I grit out, breath punching from my chest as I pivot—fake right, cut left, force him to react. It works. For half a second, my fingers graze fabric—almost—until the bastard shifts, using his height like a weapon, yanking it just out of reach. Oh, for f**k’s sake. I lunge again—and miss. My foot slips, my balance goes to hell, and instead of grabbing my shirt, I grab his shoulders. I jerk my head up, eyes wide, pulse hammering, screaming, trying to catch up to the fact that I’m standing chest-to-chest with my six-foot-four ex-boyfriend, whose hands are on my… “Get your hands off my ass, Langley.” He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head, eyes flicking lazily around the parking lot, mock concern dripping from his voice. “s**t. Quiet down, Kara’s here.” My pulse spikes. Before I can think, before I can even breathe, I grab Beckett by the collar, yank him close, and shove us both behind the nearest car. “What the—” I slap a hand over his mouth, shoving him hard against the car, forcing him to stay put. “Shut up.” Beckett immediately tries to pry it off but I slap my hand harder, titling to the side to look where Kara is. Why the f**k is she not leaving? She pauses, scanning the parking lot, and I quickly duck lower, heart pounding. “Do you think she saw me?” Beckett makes a noise—low, amused, muffled against my palm. I shoot him a glare, realize a second too late that he cannot talk. “If they see me with you, I will actually f*****g die.” Literally. If Kara sees me here—with him—she’s going to start asking questions. And the last thing I need is one of my own writers sniffing out the truth: that Beckett Langley isn’t just my favorite target in the paper. He’s my ex. Beckett shifts. His chest brushes mine. I open my mouth to tell him to back the hell up but then his head dips—his tongue swipes across my palm. "What the—EW." I choke, yanking my hand back so fast I nearly knock myself over which is a big mistake because the second I yank my hand back, Beckett takes advantage, flipping us in one sharp move and slamming my back against the car. Suddenly, I’m trapped. Beckett’s hand presses against the car beside my head, the other curling around my waist, fingers just barely grazing my hip. We look too comfortable which isn't okay. At least, not for my racing heart. “I’m hurt, Cupcake. Why are you hiding us?” “Stop calling me that.” “Oh?” What is he suddenly thinking? At this angle, I barely reach his chest. If he were to tilt his chin just slightly, his smirk would be level with my forehead. Instead, he angles his head, gaze dragging lower, settling somewhere between my lips and my throat, like he’s measuring the space between us. I shift again, arms crossing over my chest, as if that’ll somehow make up for the height difference. “ Is she still there?” Beckett’s gaze flicks up—just briefly—before settling right back on me. His smirk twitches then he nodded his head. “ Yeah. You’re here snooping articles for your newspaper?” “Why?” I deadpan, arms still crossed, foot tapping against the pavement. “You wanna give me something?” Beckett exhales a short laugh, low and amused, like I just told the funniest joke he’s heard all week. “Nah, pass. Pretty sure you’ve already got a whole folder labeled ‘Ways to Ruin Beckett Langley’s Life.’” “How very observant of you.” Beckett tilts his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “You know, it’s kinda ironic,” he muses. “Considering the only girl I ever dated just so happens to be the editor-in-chief, Ashley Brooke.” Liar. It’s not like he didn’t date half the cheer team after me. I scoff, shoving at his chest, more distraction than effort, eyes darting past him. s**t. Kara’s heading this way. So is Ryan. Panic slams through me like a truck. “They’re coming here!” Beckett’s eyes flick past me, spotting my friends. “I have a solution.” “What? Run?” “Better.” He’s smirking. That’s never good. “What are you thinking? His dips lower, breath tracing my cheek, mouth so close I could fall in. “What do you think I’m thinking, Ashley?” “I…” I clear my throat and look away. “I don’t—” His mouth curves further. “You what?” Why the hell am I stuttering for? I need to move. Now. I need to shove him off, tell him to back the f**k up, get in my car, and drive far away from this, from him, from whatever the hell we’re doing right now. “Ashley?” Shit. That’s Ryan. My breath catches. I snap my head toward the voice, but before I can fully turn, Beckett moves—gripping my wrist, stopping me cold. "What the hell are you doing?" I hiss under my breath, pulse rabbiting against my ribs. “Improvising.” His fingers tighten around my wrist, his other hand dragging me closer until my spine meets the car. “Unless, of course, you do want to be caught in a scandal with me?” I don’t. I do. I don’t. I do. I could shove him off. I could turn my head. I could stop this. However, before I can, before I even have the chance— Beckett f*****g Langley kisses me and just like that, I’m gone. All the anger, all the hurt, all the f*****g years I spent trying to forget him it shatters the moment his lips crashes into mine. It’s humiliating, how easily I fall into this. How effortlessly my body remembers the shape of him, the way he tastes, the way he feels. My lips part before I can stop them, and Beckett—**always waiting, always one step ahead—**takes exactly what I give him. A sharp inhale. A quiet groan. Then—his tongue brushes against mine, slow and sure, the way the tide kisses the shore. I shudder. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. But **the way he kisses me—the way he drinks me in like I’m something he was never meant to have—**undoes me. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my chin, deepening the kiss, steadying me, wrecking me, pulling me closer, closer, closer. I moan before I can stop myself, and he devours it—swallows the sound, groaning into my mouth like it’s the first thing he’s tasted in years. That’s what snaps me back. That desperate, wrecked sound. No. No. I rip myself away like I’ve been burned, gasping, shaking, horrified at the way my body still hums, still aches, still wants. Beckett lets me go, but barely. His hands stay on my waist, his forehead drops against mine, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts like he’s just been dragged back from the same edge. What the f**k did I just do? Beckett steps back, hand dragging through his hair. He looks ruined. He looks like he’d do it again. “Kara’s gone,” he exhales, voice hoarse, raw, like kissing me took something out of him. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me again. I blink up at him, lips parted, brain slow, body still reeling. “Yeah… uh…” That’s all I can manage. His gaze flickers to my mouth. I stop breathing. Then, he exhales. “See you around, Cupcake,” before he was gone. I press my head against the wall, breath ragged, lips swollen, body trembling. And for the first time tonight, I wonder if leaving me wrecks him even half as much as it wrecks me.