Three hours of pacing and I still don't have a plan.
Angel sits cross-legged on my bed, watching me move back and forth across the tiny dorm room like I'm a caged animal who's finally lost it. Which, honestly, isn't far from the truth.
"So let me get this straight." She holds up a finger for each point. "The hot new coach who saved you from Nate is actually a bodyguard. Hired by your estranged father. Who you haven't spoken to in years. And he's been watching you this whole time."
"Yes."
"And you found out by catching him on the phone in the men's locker room."
"Yes."
"Talking to your dad."
"Yes, Angel, yes to all of it." I spin on my heel and face her. "I need him gone. I can't live like this, being watched every second of every day by some stranger my father hired to—what? Make sure I don't trip on a curb? Get a bad grade?"
Angel chews her bottom lip. "Okay, so let's figure this out. What are our options?"
We brainstorm late into the night, but every idea crumbles before it fully forms.
Report him to administration for inappropriate behavior? He hasn't done anything inappropriate. He's been annoyingly professional, actually—no lingering touches, no suggestive comments, nothing I could point to as evidence of wrongdoing. The administration would laugh me out of the office.
Confront my father directly and demand he call Ashton off? I'd rather chew glass than give Kian Morris the satisfaction of hearing my voice. The man couldn't be bothered to show up for seventeen years of my life—I'm not about to come crawling to him now.
Threaten to transfer schools? Empty words, and we both know it. Ashton would probably just pack his bags and follow me wherever I went. That's what bodyguards do, right? Stick to you like a shadow you never asked for.
By midnight, my head pounds and my eyes burn. I fall asleep with no answers and the bitter taste of helplessness coating my tongue.
The next morning, we walk toward the main campus building, coffee cups clutched in our hands like lifelines. The sun is too bright. The birds are too loud. Everything feels wrong.
Angel spots him first.
"There he is." She grabs my arm and squeezes. "By the athletics entrance. Two o'clock."
I follow her gaze. Ashton stands near the glass doors, arms crossed over his chest, scanning the crowd with those sharp predator eyes. He's wearing a dark jacket and jeans, looking less like a hockey coach and more like someone who could snap a man's neck without breaking a sweat.
"Okay, I know this is serious." Angel tilts her head, studying him. "But he's actually pretty hot. Maybe this isn't so bad?"
I shoot her a withering look. "The fact that I'm still a virgin hasn't given me any crazy desires to pine after my dad's friends."
"I'm just saying—"
"Well, don't."
She holds up her hands in surrender, but then her expression shifts. Something dawning behind her eyes. "Wait. You said you knew him, right? That he's your dad's friend from way back?"
"Barely. He was just around sometimes when I was a kid."
"So maybe you remember something about him. Something we could use." She lowers her voice, leaning closer. "Was he ever involved in anything criminal? Drugs? Assault? Anything that could get him fired or, I don't know, arrested?"
I shake my head, frustration clawing at my chest. "Unlikely. My father values his reputation more than he values oxygen. His friends are the same way—straight-laced, polished, boring as hell. And besides, I barely remember anything about Ashton specifically. He was just... there. In the background. I never paid attention."
We push through the doors and head toward the cafeteria, my stomach growling despite my mood. I grab a tray and move through the line on autopilot—scrambled eggs, toast, a cup of coffee that smells burnt but will have to do.
"Here's what I don't understand." She stabs a piece of bacon with her fork. "Your dad hasn't spoken to you in years. Doesn't call. Doesn't visit. Doesn't send so much as a birthday card. He basically pretends you don't exist."
"Thanks for the recap."
"So why now?" She gestures with the bacon. "Why suddenly hire a bodyguard for you out of nowhere? What changed?"
I stab at my scrambled eggs, pushing them around the plate. "That's what I keep asking myself."
"I mean, think about it. What could possibly happen to an ordinary college girl that requires professional protection?" She snorts. "The math professor gives you a C and you have a breakdown? You twist your ankle on the quad? It's ridiculous."
I don't have an answer. And that bothers me more than I want to admit.
Practice that afternoon is brutal.
Ashton runs the team until half of them look ready to collapse, and I track every drill with my clipboard, hyperaware of his presence the entire time. Every time he moves into my peripheral vision, my shoulders tense. Every time his voice echoes across the ice, something in my chest tightens.
When practice finally ends, I stay behind to organize the equipment like I always do. Most of the players clear out quickly, eager to escape Ashton's relentless demands.
I'm sorting through a pile of practice jerseys when I realize I left my water bottle near the coaching office. With a sigh, I head down the hallway to retrieve it.
The building is quiet now. Most of the lights are dimmed. My footsteps echo off the concrete as I round the corner toward the office—
And freeze.
The door to the coaches' private shower is open. Steam billows out into the hallway, warm and thick.
And through the haze, I see him.
Ashton stands with his back to the door, water streaming down his body. My brain screams at me to turn around, to leave, to pretend I never saw anything. But my feet refuse to move.
His shoulders are broad, carved with muscle that shifts beneath his skin as he tilts his head back under the spray. Water runs in rivulets down his spine, tracing the contours of his back, disappearing past his narrow waist. There's a scar on his left shoulder blade—jagged, old, the kind that tells a story I'll never know.
Heat floods my cheeks. My pulse hammers in my throat.
He's... God, he's beautiful. In a dangerous, forbidden, completely inappropriate way. The kind of beautiful that makes your mouth go dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.
I watch a droplet of water slide down the curve of his spine and feel something clench low in my stomach. Something I absolutely should not be feeling about my father's best friend. My unwanted bodyguard. A man who's probably twice my age.
What is wrong with me?
He shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his profile—sharp jaw, closed eyes, water clinging to his lashes. He looks almost peaceful. Human. Not the cold, controlled predator who watches me like I might break at any moment.
My heel scuffs against the floor, and even though the sound is barely a whisper, it's enough. Ashton's eyes snap open. His head starts to turn. I don't wait to find out if he sees me—I bolt, my heart in my throat, my face on fire.
I don't stop until I'm outside the building, my heart slamming against my ribs, my face burning so hot I'm surprised I'm not actually on fire. I press my back against the brick wall and force myself to breathe.
You did not just do that. You did not just stand there like a creep, watching him shower. You did not just think he was hot.
But I did. And now I can't unthink it.
The image of water sliding down his back is seared into my brain. The width of his shoulders. The way the steam curled around him like something out of a fever dream.
I press my palms to my burning cheeks and groan.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
By evening, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point. I storm back to my dorm, slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame, and stand in the middle of my tiny room with my fists clenched at my sides.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror on the closet door. Wild eyes. Clenched jaw. Flushed cheeks that have nothing to do with the cold.
The face of a girl who's been backed into a corner and is running out of walls to punch. A girl who just caught herself ogling the enemy and can't seem to scrub the image from her mind.
"Something has to be done," I whisper to myself.
The girl in the mirror doesn't blink.
"And I'm going to figure out what."