Penalty Box Heartthrob

Chapter 7

Cassie

I noticed Ollie slip out of the crowd. It was subtle—just a shadow moving toward the exit while the bass thudded against the walls—but I caught it. I don’t think Sophia noticed; she was way too caught up in our little dance to pay attention to anything else.

The music changed from heavy hip-hop to some remix that sounded like a bad EDM experiment. My head was spinning a little—not from the drinks, just from the heat, the strobe lights, and the dozens of sweaty bodies packed together.

“I need water,” I said, leaning in so Sophia could hear me.

She gave me a quick nod and spun one last time before we pushed through the wall of people. The crowd clapped and whooped as we left the dance floor, as if we’d just performed for them instead of blowing off steam. Typical frat party energy.

“I think the boys loved us,” Sophia laughed, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the dancing or the attention.

I forced a little laugh. “I don’t know… some of the guys didn’t seem entertained.” I told her.

She smirked. “Ollie’s a hypocrite, if that’s who you mean.”

I didn’t answer right away because I was scanning the room. Brett wasn’t at the bar. He wasn’t leaning against the wall with his usual broody face. In fact, Ollie was gone too. Did they leave? My stomach dipped like I’d missed a step.

“What’s wrong? You’ve got that look,” Sophia said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“I think the hockey gods left,” I muttered.

Sophia glanced around. “Okay… so?” she said, drawing the word out like she genuinely didn’t understand.

I shrugged, trying to play it off. “Nothing. Just saying.”

But it wasn’t nothing. The truth was, I came here because Brett said he might come. Sure, I wanted to blow off steam, but mostly? I just wanted to see him. Now that he was gone—or maybe never even showed—I didn’t have a reason to stick around. And the truth burned a little because that meant this entire night was about him.

“Fine,” Sophia sighed,“This party is getting kind of lame anyway. Let’s go back to the house.” She said to me.

The chill of the night air was a slap in the face as we walked home. By the time we got inside the Delta house, the warmth hit like a hug. Sophia headed straight for the kitchen, but I didn’t linger. My mood was too sour for late-night snacks and girl talk.

I went straight to my room and shut the door, craving silence. Tossing my heels into the corner, I peeled off my jacket and stepped into the bathroom. The mirror caught my reflection—a little smudged eyeliner, lips still glossy, hair a tangled mess from dancing. I didn’t look bad, but I didn’t feel good either. The house reeked of beer and sweat from the party earlier, and my skin felt grimy.

I turned on the shower and waited for the steam to rise before stepping under the spray. The hot water hit my skin like a sigh, washing away the noise, the stickiness, the fake smiles. For a moment, it was just me, the hum of the pipes, and the rhythm of water pounding tile.

But then my brain betrayed me—again.

Brett.

God, I hated how easily his name slid into my thoughts. I couldn’t help replaying that interaction earlier. The way he’d looked at me, his jaw tight, his voice low and edged when he commented on my top. Like it was some kind of crime that I wore something snug. Like he had the right to tell me what impression I was giving people.

And yet… that’s Brett. Protective, bossy, impossible to read. He acts like my boyfriend without ever actually being mine. No wonder people whisper about us being a thing. The way he hovers, the way he inserts himself, like he has some unspoken claim.

Maybe I’m just overthinking it. I always do when it comes to him. But God, the way he looked at me tonight—it wasn’t just irritation. There was heat there, too. Something dark simmering beneath that perfect control of his.

I tilted my head back, letting the warm water run down my face, and my thoughts drifted to dangerous places. What if that wasn’t anger in his eyes tonight? What if it was… want? What if that tightness in his jaw wasn’t annoyance, but restraint?

And then my imagination spiraled. What if he went home tonight, his own thoughts just as wrecked as mine? What if he was lying in bed right now, unable to shake the image of me in that top, skin glowing under the party lights? What if I turned him on so much that he was… God. Touching himself, because of me?

The thought slammed into me like a drug. My breath caught, and I bit my lip hard. Heat pooled low in my belly as a quiet whimper escaped my throat. My hand moved almost without permission, gliding down my stomach, fingertips skimming over slick, heated skin. When I reached between my thighs, a soft moan slipped out before I could stop it.

“God…” I whispered, circling my clit with my thumb, chasing the rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest. Every thought of Brett—his rough hands gripping my hips, his mouth on mine, the way his voice would sound saying my name in the dark—drove me higher.

But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I wished for a detachable showerhead, something to really push me over the edge, something to fill the empty ache.

“I need help,” I muttered with a laugh, half breathless, half frustrated. The sound of my own voice broke the spell, reality crashing back in. I dropped my hand and leaned against the cold tile, chest heaving.

As quickly as the heat came, it vanished, leaving me hollow. Empty. I turned off the water, the sudden silence loud in the small space.

Wrapping a towel around myself, I stared at my reflection again. Damp hair clung to my face, mascara smudged like a confession. My eyes looked tired, like they knew something I didn’t want to admit.

I knew what my problem was. It wasn’t the lack of s*x, or the stress, or the party. It was Brett. Always Brett. I could hook up with someone else—God knows I could, being Delta president comes with options—but I didn’t want anyone else. Not really.

And that was the pathetic part.

“I’m hopeless,” I said out loud, letting out a laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “Cassie Morgan, president of Delta, reduced to a lovesick cliché.”

The words hung in the air like a cruel joke. A sorority president, the girl everyone looks at like she has her life together, chasing a guy who’ll never want her back. How poetic. How perfectly tragic.

I slipped into an oversized T-shirt and climbed into bed, tugging the blanket up to my chin. The room was dark except for the glow of my phone on the nightstand. No texts. No calls. Not even a stupid meme from Brett.

Figures.

I grabbed the phone, scrolling aimlessly through socials, anything to distract myself. But every post, every highlight reel, felt shallow compared to the weight sitting on my chest. I tossed the phone aside and pressed my face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla from my fabric softener.

I didn’t cry. I wasn’t that girl. But for a fleeting second, I wished I could turn off whatever part of me was tethered to him. Cut the cord, walk away, and never look back. Instead, I closed my eyes and let the darkness swallow me with the thoughts of Brett’s hands exploring my body.