Tyler's POV
Monaco glitters beneath me like a jewel box someone forgot to close.
The hotel suite is packed with bodies—team personnel, sponsors, hangers-on whose names I've already forgotten.
Music pulses from speakers I can't see, and champagne flows like water, and everyone wants a piece of the rookie who might actually have a shot at the podium tomorrow.
I should be sleeping. Should be resting, visualizing the track, running through the hairpin turns in my mind until muscle memory takes over.
Instead, I'm sprawled on a leather couch with a blonde whose name might be Svitlana or Sabrina or something equally forgettable, her weight warm and insistent on my lap.
"You're going to win tomorrow," she purrs, her fingers tracing the collar of my shirt. "I can feel it. You have that energy."
"That energy." I take another sip of sparkling water—I'm not stupid enough to drink the night before a race—and let my smile sharpen. "And here I thought it was just the lighting."
She laughs, a practiced sound designed to make men feel clever. Her perfume is too sweet, too heavy, cloying in a way that makes my sinuses ache.
But she's beautiful in that manufactured way models always are, and her body presses against mine with clear intent, and the attention feels good.
It always feels good. Being wanted. Being the center of gravity in a room full of people who would kill to be where I am.
I scan the crowd, cataloging faces. My engineer is in the corner, nursing a single beer and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Smart man.
The team principal circulates with the sponsors, his laugh too loud, his handshakes too firm. Everyone is performing their roles in this elaborate theater of success.
My gaze drifts to the entrance.
I'm not waiting for anyone. I'm definitely not waiting for my father, who hasn't called since I left California, who couldn't be bothered to wish me luck before the most important race of my career.
Zack McKinney has better things to do than support his son. He always has.
The door opens, and my heart doesn't skip.
It doesn't.
A woman walks in—tall, slender, auburn hair catching the light like copper wire. She's facing away from me, talking to someone just outside my line of sight, and my pulse kicks into a rhythm that has nothing to do with pre-race adrenaline.
Ellie.
The name drags memories in its wake.
We spent four nights together. Four nights of her body beneath mine, around mine, responding to every touch with sounds that branded themselves into my consciousness.
The first time, when she was so tight I had to stop three times just to keep from hurting her. The way she gasped when I finally seated myself fully, her nails carving crescents into my shoulders.
The second night, when she got braver, when she pushed back against me and demanded more and matched my intensity with a fire I didn't expect.
The third, when I learned exactly what angle made her scream my name.
The fourth, when she rode me with a confidence that made my vision blur, her auburn hair cascading down her back, her head thrown back in pleasure.
I'm hard before I realize it's happening.
The girl on my lap shifts against me with a knowing smile, clearly attributing my reaction to her presence.
She grinds down slightly, subtle enough to pass as accidental, and I let her believe what she wants because correcting her would require explanations I don't have.
The auburn-haired woman is still facing away.
My mind spirals into dangerous territory.
What if Ellie came to Monaco? What if she wanted to support me, to watch me race, to be here when I cross the finish line?
The thought does something complicated to my chest—a tightening that feels dangerously close to hope.
I don't know when the sharp edges of my contempt rounded into curiosity, then concern, then whatever this feeling is that makes my chest ache when I think of her.
Somewhere between pinning her to a bookshelf and watching her cry, she stopped being a target and became something I wanted to protect.
I asked Derek about her, and he told me about the rink. About the panic attack, the scoreboard, the way her parents' death had turned ice into a graveyard she couldn't visit.
So I took her there myself. Requested the engineering reports, confirmed the safety measures, eliminated every variable that could hurt her.
And when she finally skated—really skated, a triple toe loop that took my breath away—I understood why Derek looks at her the way he does.
She's broken, and she keeps moving anyway. That's rarer than people think.
We're not exclusive, I told her.
I said this to protect myself, to maintain control, to keep her from expecting things I wasn't sure I could give.
But I also left her alone in a mansion with Derek, who has been circling her since the moment she arrived.
Derek with his easy charm and his uncomplicated warmth and his complete lack of the sharp edges that make me impossible to love.
Derek wants her.
I've seen the way he looks at her, the way he finds excuses to touch her, the way he lights up when she walks into a room.
And I left them alone together for almost two weeks while I chased glory on the other side of the world.
Stupid. Fucking stupid.
The auburn-haired woman turns, and the hope in my chest collapses like a building with bad foundations.
It's not Ellie.
The face is all wrong—too angular, too polished, too much like every other woman in this room who wants something from me.
She catches me staring and smiles, but I look away before she can approach.
Of course it's not Ellie.
Ellie doesn't have money for a plane ticket to Monaco. Ellie doesn't have connections to get into exclusive pre-race parties.
Ellie is three thousand miles away, probably sleeping in her ocean-view room, probably not thinking about me at all.
Or maybe she's not sleeping alone.
The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
Derek wouldn't waste time. He would see my absence as an opportunity, would turn on the charm, would make her laugh and feel safe and wanted.
And Ellie would have every right to fall into his bed.
I told her we weren't exclusive. What did I expect?
"Is everything okay?" The girl on my lap frowns up at me, clearly sensing the shift in my attention. "You seem distracted."
"Important day tomorrow." I lift her off my lap with more care than I feel and stand, straightening my jacket. "I should get some sleep."
"I could help you relax." Her hand finds my arm, fingers trailing down toward my wrist. "I'm very good at helping people relax."
"I'm sure you are." I extract myself. "But I need to be sharp tomorrow. Rain check."
I don't wait for her response. The crowd parts for me—it always does—and I'm through the suite door before anyone can stop me, my feet carrying me toward the elevator.
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