Rinkside Ruin

5. SO MUCH FOR CLOSURE

MARA VOSS’ POV

—-----

(Literally Still Regretting My Life Choices)

The homemade glitter sign flaps in the wind behind me. “WELCOME BACK, SLUT.” Gee, thanks, Gigi. Truly.

I walk away from her and to the car like I’m dodging paparazzi and life itself, head down, face half-hidden behind my suitcase and emotional trauma. People are still recording Gigi, who’s now curtsying in her p***s suit like she’s Miss America of Public Humiliation. I do not wave. I do not acknowledge. I just bee-line for the blessed, tiny, roofless haven that is her bright red Mini Cooper Convertible.

I yank the passenger door open, shove my suitcase in the back like it personally wronged me, and dive into the seat so fast I nearly dislocate something. My arse barely hits the upholstery before I reach up to hit the roof toggle switch. The air is still thick with judgment and lingering giggles and I refuse to be the girl next to the human-sized dildo mascot cruising through Chicago traffic.

But as soon as my finger finds the button, Gigi’s hand shoots in and smacks it away like I’m about to launch missiles.

“Hey!” she says brightly, hopping into the driver’s seat with the kind of satisfied sigh only people on chaos highs can produce. “Don’t touch that.”

“What?” I glance over, hand still hovering mid-air. “We’re sitting ducks out here! Close the damn roof!”

“Can’t.” She grips the wheel with both hands, smiling serenely. “The costume won’t fit if it’s closed. My d**k head’s too tall.”

I blink at her slowly. Like maybe if I stare long enough, her neurons will rewire themselves.

“You’re telling me,” I say, sinking an inch lower into my seat, “that you chose this—" I gesture vaguely at all the plush, phallic glory surrounding her "—and now I have to suffer because of it?”

“Exactly!” She beams, then flicks her turn signal like she’s the pinnacle of civil society. “Teamwork makes the dream work, babe.”

I slide even lower, practically folding myself in half. My knees are up near my chest. I yank my hood up and hunch forward like a raccoon trying to disappear into a trash can. The seatbelt slices across my body at a 45-degree angle of shame.

“You good?” Gigi asks, glancing at me like I’m doing yoga poses instead of trying to melt into the car floor.

I grunt. It’s the only sound I can manage. My soul is already halfway in the astral plane from secondhand embarrassment.

She laughs like this is the best day of her life and shifts into gear. “Wanna grab something to eat?”

I slowly rotate my head toward her, my expression blank with horror.

“I am not,” I say carefully, “walking into a restaurant with you dressed like a smiling schlong.”

Gigi cackles loudly. “You should’ve seen your face,” she says through wheezing laughter. “Chill, you drama queen, I'm not that cruel. I got you takeout. It’s in the back.”

My stomach, which has been coiled in knots of fear and dread, perks up at the sound of food. I reach back, fishing around behind the seat until I find a warm bag.

“Korean fried chicken,” Gigi says proudly. “And rice. Because I love you. And because if you pass out from low blood sugar before meeting the team, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I unwrap the container like it’s fragile. It smells like heaven. Salty, crispy, spicy perfection. I take the first bite and let out a little groan of relief.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, chewing blissfully. “Okay. You live to embarrass me another day.”

Gigi blows me a kiss. “I love you, too, girlfriend.”

We coast through the city while I eat. I can’t tell if the chicken is actually this good or if I’ve just been running on raw panic fumes for the past twelve hours. Either way, I’m devouring it like someone’s gonna come and snatch it from me.

The wind messes with my hair, but I barely notice.

Because this — this moment right here — it’s weirdly comforting. The two of us, in a ridiculous little car, winding through the city that ruined my life and might do it again.

We weren’t always like this.

Back in grad school, Gigi and I were nothing more than familiar faces. All we shared between us were just polite nods in hallways and a quiet “hey” in the lab. We were course mates in Sports Therapy, both constantly stressed, surviving off kdramas and mutual suffering. But we never crossed past small talk.

Until the one fateful day.

It was a brutal Monday. I was cramping like I’d been personally cursed by the goddess of uteruses and trying to sit through a lecture without passing out. Somewhere between “neuromuscular efficiency” and “anatomical alignment,” I felt it. That mortifying squelch. The slow, cruel warmth of betrayal down below.

I bolted to the bathroom, heart pounding, and realized I’d bled through. Full-on crime scene. I had no backup clothes, no hoodie to tie around my waist, and no friends close enough to help.

Except one.

Gigi heard me crying quietly in the stall, pushed the door open, and handed me leggings from her gym bag without asking a single question. Said, “We’ve all been there,” and walked me out like it was nothing.

After that? We were inseparable.

Same clinic for residency. Same sarcastic sense of humor. Same love-hate relationship with the male-dominated sports medicine world.

And when my life fell apart last year, she was the one who held me up.

I still remember it like it just happened. Coming home early from work to surprise Nick. Six years of dating. Three months engaged. A dream apartment. A future I thought was locked in.

And then… there he was. The lying cheating bastard was shirtless and sweaty, mid-thrust in his secretary on the damn kitchen island.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even scream. I just turned around and walked out like my entire life hadn’t detonated right there.

Gigi was the first person I called. She showed up ten minutes later with tequila and a list of illegal ways to ruin a man’s life.

She wanted blood — and his balls chopped off — but I didn't think Nick was worth the trouble.

We argued over that, then we cried together and laughed in that hysterical, shell-shocked way you do when you’ve been completely gutted.

Then, like the little menace she is, she dared me to sleep with the first hot guy I saw at the hotel bar.

And because I was weak, grieving, and very stupid, I said yes.

And that’s how I met him.

Declan's little brother.

It was just one wild night. Nothing else. Just raw, mind-melting chemistry and a magnetic pull I didn’t understand.

Sex with him was the most incredible experience I've ever had. Off the charts. Soul-leaving-body stuff.

He was — how do I put this gently — life-ruiningly hot. Tattooed, cocky, dangerous in that way that makes your ovaries start chanting his name like a cult.

Rowan Kaine.

I shouldn’t remember his name. Or how he smelled. Or how his voice dipped when he said my name like it was holy.

I shouldn’t remember how he touched me like I was something sacred and sinful all at once.

But I do.

I remember everything.

“Uh. I almost forgot,” Gigi says, cutting through my memories like a record scratch. “The captain of the team will be at your place to welcome you specially.”

I blink. My chopsticks pause mid-air. “What.”

“Yeah,” she says casually, flipping on her turn signal. “He’ll explain your schedule. Some welcome crap. Protocol, or whatever.”

I finish the last bite and stuff the container in the backseat like I’m trying to bury the information with it. “What about you?”

“I’ve got a client.” She grimaces. “Tore his hamstring trying to do some workout he saw online. I’m already behind schedule. This pickup was just a detour.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

We fall into a comfortable silence as she turns up the music. We both sing along to the chorus of some overplayed pop song, her p***s hat bobbing along to the beat. I don’t even have the strength to protest.

She coasts onto the interstate, hair blowing wildly, singing off-key with full passion.

“We’re here!” she finally announces, pulling up in front of a five-storey building that looks charming in a “this place probably has mice but also rent control” way.

We climb out. She helps me get my suitcase from the back.

“I need to change out of this ridiculous thing,” Gigi says, peeling the foam balls off her head like she’s molting. “Then I’ll get ready for work.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, dragging my suitcase onto the curb. “You’re not gonna wear the p***s suit to work?”

She fake gasps, clutching her imaginary pearls. “What do you take me for?”

I give her a bright, sugary smile. “Someone with no shame.”

She winks. “Correct.”

“Wait. Why is the captain coming here?” It makes no sense that they would send the captain to welcome me. Unless… “Does he live here, too?”

Gigi throws her head back and laughs like I just asked if Star Wars is based on a true story.

“Nope. But you’ll be working closely, so he’s doing the whole welcome tour thing.” She starts heading toward the stairs. “Plus he has the keys to your apartment.”

I follow closely behind, my suitcase thudding behind me like a stubborn toddler.

Gigi lives on the second floor. Her apartment is still as slick as I remember.

I drop my suitcase beside the couch and let my eyes wander, taking it in. The sitting room looks like an Architectural Digest hockey shrine. Walls painted in that moody Blizzards deep ice blue, offset by gleaming silver trim and matte black doors that give it all a dark, sexy edge. Even the light switches match the palette. Someone really said, Go Team Go, but make it couture.

There’s a faint smell of lavender from the half-burnt scented candle on the side table. I flop briefly into the buttery-soft couch, which practically hugs my stress away, then pop back up to poke at the artfully-staged bookshelf filled with everything from sports medicine textbooks to romance novels with abs on the cover.

Ten minutes later, Gigi walks out of her bedroom in her scrubs, hair now in a neat bun, looking like a real professional instead of an extra from a very weird adult film.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and looks me up and down. “Wanna just wait here until he gets here? I can text you when he’s close.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’ll wait downstairs. Fresh air and mild heart palpitations sound like a vibe.”

She nods but still digs into her bag, fishes out a spare key, and drops it into my palm.

“Just in case he ghosts and leaves you standing outside like you’re homeless.”

I snort, pocketing the key. “Appreciate the foresight.”

We head back down the stairs together, her sneakers squeaking lightly against the worn wooden steps.

“He should be here any moment now,” she says, checking her phone as soon as we are outside again. “Will you be okay on your own?”

“Uh… yeah,” I murmur, eyes scanning the surroundings.

“He’ll fill you in on what you need to know. And I’ll catch you later. Oh— speak of the devil. Look.”

A dark grey SUV rolls into the lot. The door swings open and the driver steps out with a cocky smirk.

Six-foot-something of trouble.

He walks toward us in black hoodie and joggers. His outfit does very little to hide his athletic build and confident gait.

His dark hair is close-cropped, framing a face carved with a strong jaw. The sleeves of his hoodie are rolled up to reveal familiar tattoos peeking from under his sleeves.

Oh, heavens. It can't be.

Not here.

Not him.

The man I’ve spent a full year avoiding. The one I left in that hotel bed without looking back.

My stomach plummets. My limbs go numb. My brain shuts down.

Please don’t recognize me, I mutter under my breath.

He shouldn’t recognize me. Right?

It’s been a year. That’s three hundred and some nights since *that* night. That’s long enough. He won’t—

“Mara, this is Rowan,” Gigi says, motioning toward him like this isn’t the end of my emotional stability. “The captain of the Chicago Bli— Uh, Mara, are you okay?”

I don’t answer.

Because he’s looking at me now. He moves closer, eyes narrowing like he's trying to figure out where he knows me from.

And then his eyes widen as they light up with recognition.

His mouth parts slightly and that cocky smirk falls.

“Butterfly?” he says softly.

My throat closes. My lungs forget how to breathe. My heart is banging inside my chest like it wants out.

Of all the men. Of all the teams. Of all the cities.

What kind of cosmic joke is this?

I steel myself. I pull my spine straight. I channel every ounce of fake professionalism I’ve ever possessed.

I meet his eyes and force a polite, brittle smile.

“Hello, Rowan.”

This is going to be one long f*****g ride.