The coffee machine clicked behind me as it finished its cycle, a clean, final sound that cut through the quiet without disturbing it. I reached for my iPad without looking, pulling it from the counter where I’d left it the night before, the screen lighting up under my thumb as easily as everything else in this part of my life did.
I pulled the day’s schedule first because I needed to settle into it, to let it take shape in a way that left no room for anything else to interrupt.
No skate giving the morning space—more than usual. Optional skate later the coaches will refuse on days like this, mid-season with too many legs already carrying mileage.
Video at twelve-thirty. Denver. The Mountaineers. Expansion done right on paper—money, branding, narrative. Hungry. Messy. Unpredictable.
Media at one-thirty. Still managing the narrative. Containing the fallout. Turning whatever this was—whatever we were—into something that didn’t bleed into the team or the room or the ice.
Downtime after. Mandatory. Coaches’ orders—rest, reset, conserve.
Pre-game window. Meal.
Arrival at six.
Same timing. Same structure. Same sequence I could run through without thinking about it.
Locker room.
Warm-up at seven.
Puck drop at seven-thirty.
Everything exactly where it should be.
Post-game media.
Then done.
I set the iPad down and reached for the kettle, filling it without looking, setting it on the burner with the same precision as everything else.
Behind me, the apartment held the cold morning as it pressed faintly through the glass, the only sound the low hum of the heat and the faint shift of movement I had been waiting for without admitting it.
Footsteps—bare and unhurried—crossed the small distance without hesitation, every nerve in my body igniting before I could stop it.
Her hand found my shoulder, warm and certain, her touch light but intentional, her breath following a second later as it brushed across my skin, close enough to register, close enough to disrupt everything I had just forced back into place.
Her mouth hovered just at the edge of my shoulder as she spoke, her voice low, still rough with sleep and something softer beneath it. “Bonjour, menace.”
CHAPTER 22
BEA
Bonjour, menace.The words left me—half breath, half smile—still caught somewhere between sleep and the lingering warmth of the night before.
The kettle clicked as it settled onto the burner, metal meeting heat with a quiet, familiar sound that seemed louder in the hush of the apartment. Steam hadn’t started yet, but I could already smell the faint mineral edge of warming water, the clean sharpness of it threading through the softer scents that still clung to everything else—linen, skin, the ghost of something citrus and warm that had soaked into the air overnight.
Alois stood at the counter. Barefoot. Unbothered. One hand braced against the edge as he reached for the tea tin with the other, movements precise without being careful, like he’d done this a hundred times in a place that belonged to him.
My fingers tightened slightly where they rested on his shoulder, the heat of his skin steady beneath my palm, solid in a way that grounded me faster than anything else in the room.
“Careful,” he breathed. “You keep saying that, people might start to believe it.”
I huffed a small laugh, my forehead tipping lightly against his back before I could stop myself. The contact was instinctive. Easy. My breath slid along his spine, and I felt the subtle shift in him.
“You are a menace,” I murmured, softer now, more certain. “I’ve seen the evidence.”
He turned then. Just enough that I had to lift my head, my hand sliding from his shoulder to his chest without thinking, my palm flattening.