Chapter 7

Amelia

My eyelids flutter open, and it takes me a minute to realize I’m still on the couch and tangled in this throw blanket like a burrito—naked underneath. There's a distinct absence of warmth beside me. Riley’s solid presence is replaced by an empty cushion.

"Dear Lord," I mutter, struggling to sit up. My muscles protest, aching in places that remind me of last night’s... activities. It’s almost as if it was a dream.

I reach for my phone on the coffee table to see there's a text from Riley lighting up the screen.

Riley: Morning, had to leave early. Practice. We’ll talk later.

Typical Riley—short, sweet, and to the point. I can almost hear the no-nonsense tone of his voice, see the crinkle between his brows when he's focused. Captain of the Chicago Blades means early mornings and late nights, ice rinks more familiar than his own bed. And probably puck bunnies who know how to skate circles around a girl like me.

Me: Okay

That’s my straightforward reply before tossing the phone aside. He's got pucks to slap, games to win, and a reputation to uphold. I've got... Well, I've got not much going on this morning.

I shuffle to the kitchen, the cold flooring making me shiver as I go for a glass of water. Gulping it down, I lean against the counter and let my mind wander to Riley. His blue eyes that hold stories of victory and defeat, his hands—capable of both gentleness and fierce competition. And there’s me, Amelia Brooks, with a secret life that's one exposed nipple away from scandal.

Why can't this work? My internal monologue kicks in as I refill my glass. Well, he's a hockey god, for starters. Those guys live in a world where 'puck bunnies' throw themselves at their skates. Although, I'm not just any girl; I'm a girl with an alter ego who gets naked online for strangers.

Ridiculous. Plus, there’s the fact that he's always on the road during the season. Relationships need presence, not absence. Then, there's the sheer intensity of him—how can my quiet, controlled chaos possibly fit into his disciplined life?

Stop it, Amelia. The words are out before I can corral them back in. This is just fear talking, the same fear that whispers I'll never be enough.

One by one, I start to knock down each reason like they're dominoes lined up on the edge of sanity. He might be a demi-god on ice, but off-rink, Riley's shown nothing but raw humanity towards me. He could have anyone, sure, but he chose to spend his time with me. That’s a fact that warms me up in the cold.

Presence, not absence. It’s true he travels, but so do storms, and after they pass, the air is clearer. Isn’t it possible that Riley’s absences could make us actually grow closer?

As for intensity, yes, he has it in spades, but isn't that what I crave? A force to shake me from my contentment, to challenge the barriers I've meticulously built around myself?

I’m a damn fool. I chuckle at my thoughts. The truth is, every argument against this—against us—is just another excuse to shield my heart.

Now, for my... extracurricular activities? Well, I’m not sure.

I stretch up on my tiptoes, muscles protesting, and push myself off the counter I’m leaning against and pad across the room. My toes curl against the cool hardwood floor. It’s then that I see it—the door to my studio room is ajar, just a sliver of darkness peeking out.

"Shit," I whisper under my breath, pulse quickening. I forgot that it may not have been closed all the way last night, and Riley roamed around my place a few times. Did he see inside? Did he have a glimpse of the side of Amelia Brooks I keep hidden from the world?

Focus. I try to shake off the paranoia that begins to claw its way through my thoughts. I’m usually so careful, so meticulous. With Riley, however, everything feels like a whirlwind, scattering my thoughts and leaving me breathless in its wake.

I inch closer to the cracked door, my heart thumping against my ribcage like it's trying to escape. The studio room, my secret, lies there exposed. I flick on the light and glance around the room, ensuring no incriminating evidence of my night job is on display for any wandering eyes.

Tripods... lights... camera... all in place. My inventory tick is automatic, a coping mechanism to keep the paranoia at bay. It's not the equipment I'm worried about. It’s the smaller tools of the trade. With another scan around the room and double checking on the bed, I give myself an ‘all clear’ and breathe a sigh of relief. There are no big purple dildos or colorful vibrators out just laying around.

If he saw in here, what would he think? The question rolls over in my head, nibbling on the end of my ponytail—a nervous habit that’s hard to break. The thought of Riley discovering my OnlyFans side gig twists my stomach into knots. He's not just another guy; he's Riley Watson of the Chicago Blades. Dear Lord, and now possibly the keeper of my biggest secret.