Page 69 of Shattered On Ice

I purposefully pick a booth in the back, sitting across from him so he has a clear view of the door—a little trick Knight taught me about spatial awareness for hyper-vigilance.

“Look, Jameson,” I say, once he’s eaten his fill and has to be more compliant now. I wrap my palm around the sweating plastic cup of crispy cold Coke and wait for his gaze to shift. “I know being traded mid-season is a bitch, and I know there might be some bad blood between us because of what I did to your Montreal captain.”

Wilder slowly lowers his fork after swallowing his last mouthful of the crumbly peach cobbler. His dark brows pull together, and then he lets out a harsh, exhausted bark of a laugh.

“Man, fuck that guy,” Wilder says, the words rough and laden with complete disgust. “Benoit was a piece of shit who deserved exactly what he got. I’m glad you laid him out. I’m not sorry to be away from him, or that toxic fucking locker room.”

I blink, completely stunned. The phantom weight of Jérémy Benoit, the monster who haunted my nightmares for a decade, shrinks a little more under the harsh, dismissive glare of the enormous defenseman sitting across from me.

“He was a bully,” I say quietly, testing the ice.

“He was a fucking monster,” Wilder corrects, his jaw clenching. He sets down his fork, running his finger over the metal on the table. “He had this…radar. He could walk into the room, find the one crack in your armor, and just dig his fingers into it until you bled. If you cared about something, he made sure you knew he could ruin it.”

I sit, stunned into silence, hearing my truth blasted back at me by someone who completely understands what my tormentor did so well.

Wilder’s eyes darken, staring down at the table. “I have people who depend on me, Dumont. People that bastard thought were disposable because they didn't fit into his perfect, privileged worldview. I spent three years fighting him just to keep them safe. So no. We don't have any bad blood over Benoit.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, heavy and raw. He doesn't name who he’s protecting, and I don't ask. He’s already given me more trust in five minutes than I gave anyone in my first five years in the league.

I tap my phone, pull up a contact, and slide it across the table. “This is my realtor. Tell him I sent you. He’ll find you a place that’s quiet and secure.”

Wilder stares at the phone, genuinely surprised. “You don't have to do this, man.”

“I know,” I say, offering him a small smile. “But you're a Hydra now. We don't let our guys drown. In fact, you’re coming over to my place for dinner tonight.”

Wilder’s eyes go wide, panic flashing in the warm espresso depths. “Dinner? I don't want to intrude—”

“You won't. It’s just me and my partner, Knight.” I pause, remembering what Knight is up to. “And probably his best friend, who is currently trying to force us to remodel our entire house.” I slide out of the booth, dropping my napkin on the table. “Seven o’clock, Chaos. Don't make me send Rook to come get you.”

Thirty

Knight

My phone dings from the counter as I set the oven timer for the chicken I just put in. I grab it and check my messages.

Westin: Hey, beautiful. We’ll have one more for dinner. New guy joined the team. Wilder Jameson. He played for Montreal and seems to have as much beef with Benoit as I do. That ok?

I smile. Westin has such a big heart, always taking in strays and making sure people feel welcomed and a part of the Hydras family.

Knight: Of course. I made plenty. It’ll be ready in about half an hour. You coming home soon?

I stare at the dancing dots as he types.

Westin: As fast as I-85 allows. We drove around to show him the city for a bit, then I took him back to the arena to get his car. Should be home just in time to eat. I love you.

I set my phone down and finish prepping the asparagus as Callum clomps around the living room in his heeled loafers, fussing over fabric samples for the curtains and specialty-order sofa he says we need.

“You need color in here,” he hollers. “A deep green would be so lovely with the southern exposure. The light bouncing in through some new Roman shades would be perfect with my peaches and cream complexion.”

“You don't live here,” I remind him, voice bland as I slice a loaf of French bread. I’m still smiling despite the casual delivery. He’s hilarious to sit back and watch work, even when he’s insistent on turning my home upside down in the process.

“I must express myself,” he shouts, his voice high and taking on a Catherine O’Hara cadence as he begins his favorite lines from Beetlejuice. “If you don't let me gut out this house and make it my own, I will go insane, and I will take you with me.”

“Good thing I’m licensed for that kind of crisis,” I reply mildly, not playing into his theatrics. I bring the basket of bread to the table, where I’ve put out a fourth place setting that Callum hasn't noticed. He continues on his tirade in the guestroom, insisting on wallpaper and built-ins as I mash the potatoes with garlic I measured by heart and a healthy dose of heavy cream.

The front door opens, the heavy deadbolt clicking with a satisfying thud that echoes into the kitchen, telling me Westin is finally home. I’m pulling a steaming pan of chicken Cordon Bleu out of the oven when the familiar, steady footsteps of my partner sound from the entryway, followed by an unfamiliar, hesitant set from the newcomer. Westin rounds the corner, filling the doorframe, looking impossibly handsome and completely at ease in the house we are officially making ours.

But it’s the man trailing behind him who catches my attention.