Collision Course
1977 Words
SLOANE
Revenge tasted like shirtless pettiness and the faint scent of cedar body wash.
I was starving for anything that wasn’t Victoria’s artfully plated grilled salmon, so I’d claimed the kitchen while the happy couple was out “finalizing wedding details.” The massive marble island gleamed under recessed lights, air conditioning humming cold enough to justify my oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Comfort over cute. Always.
I diced bell peppers with quick, precise strokes—thud, thud, thud—indie playlist spilling from my phone to fill the sterile silence. Halfway through an onion, the kitchen door swung open.
Chase.
Shirtless. Again. Blue practice jersey slung carelessly over one shoulder like a trophy he couldn’t be bothered to wear.
He crossed straight to the fridge, yanked out a pre-made protein shake, shut the door with unnecessary force. “I need the stove. Chicken’s on the menu.”
“Then wait your turn.”
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, biceps and pecs flexing in that deliberate, infuriating way guys like him think is subtle. “How long?”
“Long enough for you to shower and put on actual clothes. Some of us have standards.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a serious shirt allergy, huh?”
“I’ve got a serious problem with locker-room behavior in shared living spaces.”
Chase’s smirk arrived slow and lethal. “You’re in *my* house, Winters. My rules.”
Winters. Last name now. Cute.
I set the knife down with a deliberate clack. “It’s Victoria’s house. Now it’s also my dad’s. Which makes it *ours*. Plural. Jerk.”
He pushed off the counter and rounded the island. Too close. Heat radiated off his skin like he’d just finished sprints. “You’re using *my* cutting board.”
“It’s a cutting board. Not your d**k. Relax.”
A surprised laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Jesus. Mouth on you.”
“Boundaries on you? Zero.”
We stared across six inches of marble. The air thickened, same electric crackle from the hallway yesterday, only now it had nowhere to hide.
Chase reached past me—arm brushing mine deliberately—to grab the salt grinder. His bicep flexed inches from my face. I didn’t flinch.
“You’re in my way,” I said.
“You’re in mine.”
I slid my pre-heated pan toward my side of the island. “Stir-fry. Wait.”
He snatched a second pan from the overhead rack—metallic clang—and set it beside mine. “Chicken. Now.”
I flicked my burner on. He flicked his. Elbows almost touching. Heat from the flames licked up between us like a third presence.
For a minute we worked in furious, competitive silence: me tossing peppers and onions into sizzling oil, him seasoning chicken with aggressive shakes of salt and pepper. Every movement felt like escalation. Every sideways glance a dare.
Then we both reached for the olive oil bottle.
Fingers collided.
Neither pulled back.
The bottle stayed trapped between our hands, cool glass against hot skin.
My pulse hammered against my wrist. I could feel his heartbeat through his fingertips—fast, unsteady, matching mine.
Chase’s voice dropped, rough. “You gonna let go?”
“Are you?”
His thumb brushed the back of my hand—once, barely there. Electricity shot straight down my spine.
I yanked away like I’d been burned.
Chase smirked, victorious, and poured oil into his pan.
I turned back to my vegetables, muttering, “Motherfucker.”
“You’re infuriating.”
I stirred harder. “At least I’m wearing clothes.”
He laughed again—low, gravelly. “You keep bringing that up. Starting to think my lack of shirt bothers you more than you’re admitting.”
“It does.”
“Why?”
He stepped closer. Close enough I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough I could trace the bead of sweat sliding down the center of his chest, disappearing into low-slung gray sweatpants.
“Because the house is cold enough to need layers. Can’t you see I’m in a hoodie?”
His gaze dropped to the oversized fabric, lingered on the way it swallowed me, then dragged slowly back to my face. “You’re cold?”
“Obviously.”
“Turn down the AC.”
“Or you could wear a shirt like a civilized human.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Counter-offer: lose the hoodie.”
“I prefer the hoodie and the arctic blast, thanks.”
Oil hissed. Smoke curled.
I spun away, grabbed the spatula, tossed vegetables with unnecessary violence.
Chase watched me for another beat—chest rising and falling—then finally stepped back to his pan. Chicken hit hot oil with a sharp sizzle.
We cooked in tense silence. Thank God.
When my stir-fry was done, I plated it, killed the burner, and headed for the door.
“Sloane.”
I paused, back to him.
He didn’t turn. Just kept flipping chicken. “Next time I come back from training, I don’t want to see you in the kitchen.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Next time, wear a shirt.”
He met my eyes—dark, unreadable, mouth curved in that half-smile that made my stomach twist.
“No promises.”
I walked out.
---
**Riley (10:15 AM):** Code red: is Shirtless Hockey God home??
I’d texted her last night during the screamer symphony while blasting *The Fate of Ophelia* to cope.
Now I sat at the dining table, fork halfway to my mouth, and replied.
**Me (10:16 AM):** Unfortunately yes.
**Riley (10:16 AM):** Lifting weights?? 🥵
**Me (10:17 AM):** Cooking
**Riley (10:17 AM):** He cooks too?? 10/10 material. Marry him already.
**Me:** Eye roll emoji
**Riley (10:17 AM):** Shirtless??
**Me (10:18 AM):** Yes
**Riley (10:18 AM):** Pic. Now. Torso only. I’m begging.
**Me (10:18 AM):** I’m not sending you nudes of my future stepbrother
**Riley (10:18 AM):** Not nudes. Aesthetic appreciation.
**Me (10:18 AM):** You’re blocked
**Riley (10:19 AM):** You love me
**Me (10:19 AM):** Debatable
**Riley (10:19 AM):** If I had access to that, I’d be riding reverse cowgirl to the Old Town Road by sundown
**Me:** Seriously. Blocked.
I killed data and dropped my phone just as the front door opened.
“Sloane!” Victoria’s voice—bright, musical, grating.
She and Dad appeared in the doorway, arms linked, glowing like they’d mainlined sunshine. Dad’s grin was embarrassingly wide.
“Hey, honey,” he said. “We have news.”
I set my fork down slowly. “If this is about a pregnancy, I’m moving back home.”
Victoria laughed—tinkling, perfect. “No, nothing like that.”
“Though we wouldn’t be opposed—” Dad started.
“Dad. No.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. We’re taking a family trip this weekend.”
My stomach plummeted. “Family trip.”
“Yes!” Victoria clapped. “Beach house in Spring Lake. Two hours away. Private beach, gorgeous views, perfect for bonding.”
Bonding. That cursed word again.
“This weekend?” I asked.
“Friday through Sunday,” Dad confirmed. “We leave tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow.
“I have plans.”
“What plans?” Dad’s brows lifted.
“With Riley. We were going to—”
“You can see Riley anytime,” he said.
“So it’s already booked?” I pressed.
“Yes,” Victoria answered cheerfully.
“Booked what?” Chase’s voice cut in.
He appeared in the doorway—still shirtless, plate in hand.
“Beach house,” Victoria said. “This weekend.”
“Our place in Cape May?” Chase asked.
“No, Spring Lake,” she corrected. “It’ll be fun! Beach walks, bonfires, board games. Time to really get to know each other.”
“Bonding,” Chase echoed, scoffing. He dropped his plate across from me and sat. “Guess I’ll live in the gym all day.”
“Baby,” Victoria said softly, “don’t you want to get to know your stepsister?”
He stabbed a piece of chicken. “Not particularly.”
Victoria’s smile flickered. “Chase—”
“What? You want me to lie?” He chewed aggressively. “We barely tolerate each other. A beach weekend won’t fix that.”
Dad cleared his throat. “That’s exactly why we’re doing it. You two need common ground.”
“Common ground,” Chase repeated, finally looking at me. Eyes flat. Challenging. “Sure. We’ll bond over hating forced family bullshit.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
Victoria sat at the head of the table, Dad beside her. “I know this is an adjustment. But Richard and I—” She squeezed Dad’s hand. “We’re building a family. That means effort from everyone.”
“I’m making effort,” Chase said. “I’m still breathing the same air.”
“Physical presence isn’t emotional presence,” Victoria countered gently.
Chase’s jaw ticked. “Emotional presence. Right. Because nothing screams emotional availability like trapping two people who can’t stand each other in a beach house for forty-eight hours.”
“You don’t know you can’t stand each other,” Dad said. “You haven’t tried.”
“I tried last night,” Chase said. “She threw hangers at my face.”
I choked on a pepper.
Victoria’s eyes widened. “She *what*?”
“Multiple,” Chase continued, pointing his fork at me. “Like a deranged ninja. I’ve got a bruise.”
“You deserved it,” I said calmly.
“For playing music?”
“For playing it loud enough to wake the dead at ten p.m.”
“It was ten.”
“It was obnoxious.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“Chase!” Victoria snapped.
Dad turned to me. “Sloane. Did you actually throw hangers?”
“Yes. Aggressive communication.”
“That’s violence,” Dad said.
“It’s targeted problem-solving,” I corrected.
Chase snorted. “Aggressive communication. That’s cute.”
“At least I communicate,” I shot back. “Instead of strutting around half-naked like an exhibitionist.”
“Exhibitionist?” His brows shot up. “I’m in my house. If you don’t like the view, don’t look.”
“Hard not to when you’re everywhere.”
“Maybe you’re looking too hard.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Victoria clapped once—sharp, referee-style. “Enough. Both of you.”
Silence dropped like a curtain.
She exhaled. “This is *exactly* why we need the trip. You two are…” She waved a hand between us. “Combustible. You need neutral ground to figure out whatever this energy is.”
“It’s called mutual loathing,” Chase said.
“Or unresolved tension,” Dad added mildly.
Chase’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just observing,” Dad said. “Sometimes friction means something underneath neither person wants to name.”
“The friction,” Chase ground out, “is that she’s uptight and I’m trying to exist.”
“I’m not uptight,” I said.
“You threw hangers at my head.”
“Because you were being insufferable!”
Victoria and Dad exchanged a look.
I could practically hear the whispered *they’re going to kill each other* subtext.
Family bonding trip.
What a joke.
The only thing likely to bond us was shared resentment.
And maybe—buried so deep I refused to acknowledge it—the tiniest spark of something that felt dangerously like curiosity.
I stabbed my fork into the last piece of stir-fry.
Across the table, Chase’s eyes stayed on me.
Dark.
Unreadable.
And far too interested.
This weekend was going to be a disaster.
And we were already on a collision course.
- Writer
