18. Connor

Arriving on campus alone was a relief, a much-needed reprieve from the complex web of emotions that had entangled Brooke and me. I needed the space, a chance to clear my head and focus on something other than the dangerous feelings that were beginning to surface.

Feelings for her.

The realization that I was caring for her in a way that went beyond our arrangement was unnerving. I prided myself on maintaining control, on keeping my emotions in check, but with Brooke, the lines were blurring, and it was disconcerting.

My day was a blur of lectures and office hours, the familiar routine of academia offering a temporary distraction from my personal turmoil. I moved through my classes with a practiced ease, discussing strategies, theories, and game analyses with my students. Despite my efforts to stay focused, my thoughts would occasionally drift back to Brooke, to the previous day"s events, and the unsettling warmth that had settled in my chest whenever I thought of her.

After my last class, on a whim that I couldn"t fully explain, I drove to Target to buy Christmas decorations. My mother had always loved Christmas; she"d filled our home with lights, garlands, and an air of festivity that made the season magical. But she died years ago, and in the wake of her passing, my father"s grief had smothered any semblance of holiday cheer. The traditions we once cherished had fallen by the wayside, a painful reminder of what we had lost.

As I wandered the aisles, selecting lights, ornaments, and a variety of decorations, I couldn"t help but question my actions. What was I doing? The idea that I was doing this for Brooke, that I wanted to bring some of that lost magic into her life—and maybe recapture a bit for myself—was both baffling and disarming.

But despite my reservations, I brought the decorations home, anyway. The weight of the bags in my hands was a tangible reminder of the steps I was taking, however uncertain, towards something that felt dangerously like hope. As I unloaded the car, the sense of anticipation I felt was a foreign sensation, a mixture of apprehension and excitement for what decorating the house with Brooke might bring. It was a concession to the growing connection between us, an acknowledgment that, despite my best efforts to remain detached, I was inexorably drawn to her.

Except…when I got home, Brooke wasn't alone.

Stephen Hanson was there, standing in my living room, looking every bit the part of Prince Charming with his chiseled features and imposing physique. My hands tightened around the bags of Christmas decorations I"d just bought as I dropped them to the floor, my voice cold and hard. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

Stephen seemed unfazed by my tone. "What the hell"s Brooke doing here?" he shot back. "Are you guys sleeping together?" His gaze shifted to Brooke, who was clad in nothing but one of my t-shirts. Despite the casual attire suggesting otherwise, the scent of cleaning supplies clung to her, showing she"d changed into something more practical for the housework I demanded she do.

"It"s not like that," Brooke hurried to explain, her voice laced with frustration.

"Actually, it"s none of your business," I intervened, taking an aggressive step towards Stephen. The tension in the room thickened palpably, a silent battle of wills unfolding between us.

"Your reputation is shit, old man. You just punched a guy at a Christmas tree farm just for asking for a picture. And you"re really going to drag her down with you?" Stephen challenged, his words designed to provoke.

"What are you, her knight in shining armor?" I mocked, my patience wearing thin. "She wants to be here."

"I doubt it," Stephen retorted. "I wouldn"t be surprised if this has to do with her dad and his issues."

"Is that how you found out she was staying here?" I pressed, seeking any leverage I could find.

"She told me," Stephen claimed.

"That"s a lie," she said, her voice sharp with anger, clearly taken aback by Stephen"s audacity.

Stephen looked genuinely surprised by Brooke"s animosity, a crack in his otherwise confident demeanor.

"So what if her dad told me?" Stephen said, recovering quickly. "Clearly, he's worried."

"This is going to go one of two ways," I said slowly, my voice laced with a threat I fully intended to keep. "You"re going to leave peacefully, and you"re going to keep your mouth shut, or you"re going to ruin Brooke in the process. And if you truly care about her, you wouldn"t do that. Or I"m going to break every bone in your hand, and you"re out the rest of the season."

"You really would, wouldn"t you?" Stephen said, a mix of realization and disdain coloring his tone. "Fucking psycho."

The standoff was laden with unsaid threats and the palpable tension of potential violence, hanging heavy in the air, a dangerous dance that could unravel with the slightest misstep.

Stephen turned to Brooke, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Brooke, come on. Let"s get out of here," he urged, his gaze imploring her to leave with him.

For a moment, Brooke hesitated, and I felt a surge of worry. Was she considering his offer?

But then, she straightened her posture, her decision clear in her determined expression. "I"m not leaving," she declared firmly. "I already told you that."

"Why?" Stephen pressed, his confusion apparent. "Isn"t there some kind of rule preventing this from happening? You"re his student. This... this is wrong."

I couldn"t contain my frustration. "Get it through your thick head, boy," I interjected sharply. "You know about her father"s issues. He came to me, and I took care of them."

Stephen"s scowl deepened, his disdain for the situation obvious. "Is that the only way you get anyone nowadays?" he sneered, his words cutting. "What, everyone hates you now so you have to manipulate innocent victims?"

"It"s cute you think she"s innocent," I retorted, my voice laced with sarcasm, not willing to let him have the last word. "She came to me because she needed help, and I offered it."

"Bradley," Brooke warned, her voice a clear signal for me to tread carefully.

I plowed on, undeterred. "She sought help from someone who could provide it, not some boy who thinks he"s a man just because he plays in the NHL."

"Bradley," Brooke said again, her tone sharper this time, a clear sign that I was pushing the boundaries too far.

I met Stephen"s gaze squarely, the tension between us palpable. "And I was there for her, in ways you never were," I continued, unable to stop myself.

"Yeah, right."

"It's true," I insisted. "Ask me where I was the night of Detroit's late Thanksgiving party, the one right after her birthday... the one you never showed up to. Just ask me."

Stephen looked from me to Brooke, the certainty in his stance wavering as doubt crept in.

I couldn"t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at his discomfort. "You"re beginning to understand, aren"t you?" I pressed, seizing the moment of his uncertainty.

"That"s a lie," Stephen protested weakly, his confidence faltering.

"It"s not," I replied, my voice calm but firm. "That"s the reality of the situation. And if you need more proof, you"re welcome to ask my ex-wife. God knows, she wants to talk. But I think you know I was buried inside of Westwood all fucking night."

The tension that had been simmering between Stephen and me finally boiled over, manifesting in a sudden, aggressive motion as he took a swing at me. The swing was poorly calculated, telegraphed by his anger and easy for me to sidestep.

As I avoided the blow, I caught Stephen"s hand in my grasp, my grip firm. Without a second thought, driven by a mix of adrenaline and a need to assert control, I snapped his finger back, breaking it. The sound of it was jarring and satisfying at the same time.

Stephen let out a cry of pain.

"Bradley!" Brooke exclaimed, her voice filled with alarm and disbelief. She moved as if to come to Stephen"s aid.

"Don"t you fucking move," I commanded sharply, not taking my eyes off Stephen. The authority in my voice was non-negotiable, a clear directive meant to keep her out of the escalating conflict. I marched over to Stephen, standing over him with a dominance that left no room for rebuttal. "Get out of my house and don"t come back."

As Stephen nursed his injured hand, he looked from me to Brooke, his expression a mixture of pain and resignation. "You have my number," he said to her, his voice strained. "Call me if you need me."

"She won"t," I countered immediately, my statement leaving no room for doubt or discussion.

With that, Stephen left, the weight of his departure heavy in the air. The door closed behind him with a finality that echoed through the silent house.

The aftermath of the confrontation left a palpable tension between Brooke and me. The physical altercation was a stark reminder of the complexities and dangers that our arrangement had unwittingly invited into our lives despite how brief.

Brooke stormed up to me, her fury radiating off her like a palpable force. Without hesitation, she closed the distance between us, her eyes blazing with anger. I reacted instinctively, my hands finding her shoulders, not to hurt, but to hold her there, to remind her just who the fuck was in charge. "Why the hell was he in my house?" I demanded, the confusion and betrayal thick in my voice.

Her response came through clenched teeth, her fury matching my own. "I had to let him in," she said, her voice strained with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. "I don"t know how he found me, but he was banging away at the door and calling my name. I didn"t want anyone to hear so... I let him in."

"You expect me to believe you were protecting me?" The skepticism in my voice was unmistakable, laced with a sneer I couldn"t suppress. The idea seemed ludicrous in the moment, driven by the chaos of emotions swirling between us.

"What, and have you take your money back and leave me to Leo Wolfe?" she shot back, her words sharp as knives, cutting through the tension.

"Well, at least we can both agree I"m better than Leo Wolfe," I replied bitterly, the admission tasting like ash in my mouth.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice softening, but the underlying tension remained palpable.

"Why do you care?" I countered, unable to keep the defensiveness from seeping into my tone.

"You broke his finger," she stated plainly, a fact that seemed to hold more weight in her eyes than I had anticipated.

"And he touched you," I returned sharply, the protective instinct flaring within me with an intensity I hadn"t expected. "You"re mine, Westwood. Or have you forgotten? You belong to me. No one is going to save you from me."

"I never said I wanted to be saved," she said.

The defiance in her voice, the challenge, left me reeling. "Then why was he here?" I demanded, needing to understand, to find some ground to stand on in the shifting sands of our arrangement and the unexpected depths of emotion that accompanied it.

"I called Stephen before I knew my father had arranged something with you," Brooke explained, her voice steadier now, a sign she was regaining her composure. "But Stephen never answered. When he did call back, the deal between you and me was already done. He wanted to catch up, but I told him no. That was the last I heard until he showed up today. He said my father wanted to check on me, that he was concerned. I let him in to tell him to leave."

As her explanation hung in the air between us, her gaze drifted to the Christmas decorations I"d spilled upon my arrival. "Did you buy Christmas decorations?" she asked, her tone shifting, hinting at curiosity amidst the tension.

"It doesn"t matter," I dismissed quickly, my mind still swirling with the intrusion of Stephen and the implications of his presence in my home. "I don"t like that he was here, Westwood. I don"t like that he saw you this way?—"

"We dated on and off for a couple of years, Bradley," she interrupted, a fact she delivered matter-of-factly. "He"s seen me in less."

Her words sparked something primal within me, a surge of jealousy that I couldn"t control. The idea of Stephen having any claim to her, any part of her past or her memories, ignited a possessiveness I had yet to fully acknowledge.

"Maybe I need to make you forget about him, hmm?" I suggested, the words laced with challenge and desire.

The complexity of my feelings for Brooke, the jealousy, the protectiveness, and the undeniable attraction, coalesced into a moment of raw honesty. That she had been with Stephen, that he had been a part of her life in a way I had not, was irrelevant. What mattered was the here and now, the undeniable connection between us that seemed to grow stronger with every challenge we faced together.

"What are you talking about?" Brooke asked, confusion lacing her voice, a hint of vulnerability flickering in her eyes as she tried to decipher my intentions.

"I"m going to fuck you while you"re wearing my shirt."

Without waiting for her response, I pulled her in, closing the distance between us with a determination that brooked no argument.

The kiss was bruising, a heady mix of urgency and longing that surged through me with an intensity I never expected. My hands found her waist, pulling her closer, as if I could somehow merge her into me, erase the space that separated us. The feel of her, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, was like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface.

Brooke kissed me back, her response just as heated, her arms wrapping around my neck to pull me even closer. It was a moment of surrender, of acknowledging the tangled web of emotions and desires that had ensnared us both. The kiss deepened, each movement, each breath, a testament to the complex dance of push and pull that defined our relationship.

As we finally broke apart, gasping for air, the world seemed to tilt back into focus, the edges of our reality sharpened by the intensity of the connection we"d just shared. The kiss had been a declaration, an unspoken agreement that, despite the chaos that surrounded us, there was something real, something undeniable, between us.

And we were only getting started.