A/N: Hello, friends! Quick little Seth interlude to get this plot moving and shaking. After revising the plan, I am expecting Slap Shot to check in somewhere between 17 and 20 chapters - I will let y'all know when the end is more conclusively in sight.

Thank you to you, lovely reader, for reading this chapter, and also to:
Riveriver & Writhing - y'all ALREADY KNOW I love y'all, but I shall say it nonetheless.

Dee - your review made me CACKLE.

Guest - lady/lord of mystery, thanks for the motivation.

Without further ado, here is the chaos the doctor ordered.

SETH

She looks so small standing there, all alone on the shoreline. Even though she's pissed at me – furious, probably – she's still wearing that dress I love, the cherry red sundress that hardly covers her impeccable ass.

Fucking devious.

Each step I take towards her is slow, purposeful, stalking towards her like a predator pursues its prey. We've played this game long enough for her to know the rules inside-out, for her to crave the heat of my touch as readily as I yearn for her legs wrapped around my waist.

I know she can hear my footsteps drawing near, but she doesn't turn around. She stares straight ahead, letting the icy wind whip her hair into an unruly mess that my fingers itch to tangle in.

When I finally speak, it's with my lips brushing against the shell of her ear, my chest only millimetres from her back. I'm close enough to see every goosebump adorning her freckled shoulder blades, disappearing below the thin fabric of her dress. Her tantalising scent, the copper glow of her skin, the erratic thrum of her heart – I need her, maybe even more than she needs me.

"Baby," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Let's talk about this."

Her body stiffens, but she doesn't pull away. "There's nothing to talk about."

"I'm glad we're on the same page." My hands settle on her hips, fingers splayed over her belly, and she takes a sharp breath.

"We aren't. We can't do this."

Her words come out pointed, but I can feel the uncertainty radiating off her trembling frame, the frantic tug in my chest. This thing between us is new and electrifying and completely unpredictable, but I'd be lying if I said the chase didn't make me covet her even more.

"Fast-forward the drama. In a week, everyone will get over it, and you'll still be under me."

She scoffs. "See? The immaturity comes off you in waves."

I press my lips against the pulse point in her neck, intoxicated by the pounding rush of blood under her soft skin. "You're scared. No - you're terrified, because you know that no matter where you go, there will never be anyone better for you than me."

"That's bullshit," she says, her voice hardly above a whisper.

"Is it?" I mutter, squeezing her hip. "There is not a single second of the day that I don't think about you - how good your voice sounds first thing in the morning, the way your nose crinkles when you smile, how you say my name when you're annoyed. I want to be the guy looking after you when you've had one too many, the guy you call when your car makes a weird noise, the guy you call when you can't sleep. Fuck, you can call me whatever the hell you want, so long as you call me yours."

She swallows thickly, shivering when my lips trail along the column of her throat. I can smell her arousal, thick and heady in the ocean air, and the knowledge that I can make her feel that way with barely a touch is exhilarating. I'm all for deep and meaningful conversations, but it's near impossible to think clearly with my dick straining against my jeans. When she presses her hips back against me, finally closing the distance between us, I can't hold back the growl that rumbles deep in my throat.

"What about the rumours?" she breathes.

"They mean nothing to me. You are everything," I stress, nipping at her collarbone. "Let me prove it to you."

I roll my hips against her ass, savouring the way she whimpers for me – the way my name tumbles from her lips like a dirty word – knowing that I have her exactly where I need her.

Hook, line, and sinker.

That was…extremely detailed, I think dazedly, trying to conceal how entirely weirded out I am by this whole experience. Paul promised me advice, but I didn't necessarily expect a step-by-step walkthrough featuring someone that I consider a sister. And then what happened?

Exactly what you'd expect, Paul thinks smugly, offering up a fleeting glimpse of Rachel sighing his name, sans clothing.

forget forget forget forget forget forget

I never saw that, I declare, taking a pointed interest in the shrubbery along the trail. What do you think I should do?

His thoughts are tinged with a thick layer of incredulity. You're smart, kid, but you can be so dumb sometimes. It's the exact same situation – but you're eighteen and way more respectable than I was when I met Rachel.

Do you think I'm too respectable? I wonder, taking a shortcut towards my yard.

If I hurry, I can have a proper shower before the game, maybe even having time to find the lucky pair of socks she gave me -

You had sex before the first date. I don't think respectability is your problem, Paul contributes gleefully, his amusement permeating my brain.

Noted, I think, phasing out before he can catch any extra glimpses of that night.

Thanks to my inopportune freak-out weeks ago, Brady and Collin intercepted more than an eyeful of the storage closet shenanigans, and I know that Collin has – intentionally or not – let flashes of it slip to the rest of the pack. In a last-ditch effort to turn my mind into a steel trap, I've been working on my ability to recite the periodic table and extended multiplication facts, just in case Jess ever forgives me…provided she never finds out that I let that particular souvenir slip through my mental filter.

At the very least, Paul's advice gives me hope for a re-do, and I'm determined to do things right this time around. Jess deserves better than half-truths and rushed escapades, despite how impossibly tempting they are in the moment.

When she is ready, Jess will hear the full truth.

Then, it will be her choice.

Even if it kills me.

Brady and I manage to get through an entire ten minutes of the drive to Forks without arguing – a new record for us, I think. The final straw that sends us into a full-blown squabble, complete with childish name-calling and questions of intelligence, is his assertion that the Home Alone sequels were a legitimate thing, and not a blatant cash grab – he is not only an idiot, but he is also wrong – when my phone vibrates for the first time in days.

My hand unconsciously twitches towards the pockets of my hockey bag before I can even finish my sentence, fumbling for my precious lifeline to Jessica. Aside from telling me in an incredibly brief text that she didn't care if I came to the rink – potentially devastating, if true - I've heard absolutely nothing since the disastrous dinner party, and it is killing me.

Simply thinking of her gutted expression when I told her that Lauren's accusations were true makes me nauseous, and that's without taking into consideration the added drama of the entire freaking pack hearing her lay into me.

Justified, of course.

Either way, when I click onto the text thread with a trembling finger, it's with a heavy sense of anticipation, praying that she's finally willing to hear an apology.

[TEXT] Jessica Stanley, 6.13 p.m.

Come see me after the game? We should talk.

My heart hammers in my chest as I read and re-read her words, picturing her agonising over the perfect message to break the silence. If only she knew I've been counting down the minutes until I heard from her –

Actually, scratch that. Paul, who now holds the title of my number one advice source, would definitely counsel against communicating that little fact.

"She texted me," I announce, pumping my fist in the air victoriously.

"I figured, based on the way your brain turned to instant mush," Brady comments wryly, easing off on the accelerator. "If you weren't my best friend, I would drive us straight into a tree."

"I promise you, once she forgives me, I'll ask her about a double date," I vow, holding up my hand in the salute we learned as cub scouts.

He grunts appreciatively. "You'll live to see another day, Clearwater."

"Awesome. I was ready to plead for my life and everything."

Brady looks over at me, a small smile playing on his lips. "Y'know, someday soon she's going to wake up and realise how good you are for her. It's going to work out."

This time, optimism doesn't feel like a blatant lie. "I think you could be right."

"Dumbass. I am always right," Brady declares, expertly dodging my half-hearted slap. "You ready to go show off for your girl?"

I snort. "Always."

"Seth!" she calls, the very moment I step foot out of the locker room, her voice somehow even sweeter than I remember.

I spin around instantly, fighting the wild urge to run straight into her arms – unlikely that she'd catch me, and that would be an entirely different awkward situation.

Brady sighs. "I'll wait in the car," he mutters, slinging my duffel bag over his shoulder.

An angel. An actual living, breathing angel.

Jess makes a beeline for me, quickly closing the distance between us. She stops just short of hugging me, her feet stilling only a step away, but she's here and she's smiling and I don't think I could possibly be happier (unless she actually hugged me, in which case I would probably combust).

"Seth," she says again, tilting her head almost ninety degrees to look at me. "I'm so happy to see you."

I'm sure I look like a massive idiot with the goofy grin on my face, but I can hardly help it, not with the way she's looking at me like I hung the moon and the stars.

"You don't know how much I needed to hear that," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I thought you were angry with me."

Jess winces. "Look, that whole conversation didn't go how I wanted it to. I'm not mad. The whole situation just…sucks."

I nod slowly. "Yeah. It does. Should we talk about it?"

Her blue eyes dart around, taking stock of the myriad of people streaming through the lobby. "Here's not a good place."

I hum. "D'you need a ride?"

I watch her pretty lips fall open into a perfect, lip-glossed 'o', and all my traitorous brain can think is how beautiful that mouth would look wrapped around me, continuing right where we left off. She's on my brain twenty-four-seven, and trying to keep my thoughts from straying to less respectable places is a mission.

And then I realise why she looks so stunned, and my blood flow is promptly redirected to my face.

"I meant – we could drop you off at home. Just a lift. No funny business," I rush, stumbling over my words.

Her cheeks darken into a delicious shade of pink that I want permanently burned into my retinas. She jerks her head to the side, clearly embarrassed, and for a terrible moment all I can think is that she's going to leave, again.

My hand moves before I can catch myself, my thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone. Her eyelids flutter shut for the briefest of moments as I relish the smoothness of her skin, her delicate features. The simple act of touching her sets my wolf at ease after days of consternation, but it is also dangerous – it makes me realise how badly I need her; I may be touching her skin, but she is well and truly under mine.

"You're adorable," I murmur, cupping her jaw. "How about you come and see me tomorrow? I promise you, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

I study her expression, searching for any hint of doubt or disagreement, but all I see in her wide eyes is a hopeful glint.

"No secrets?" she asks, her tongue darting out to wet her full lower lip.

Fuck me.

"No secrets," I vow, tapping her gently on the nose. "I need to show you something, and then you can ask any questions you like."

She stretches up on her tip-toes to press a chaste kiss to my cheek, her lips darting away from my skin almost instantly. "Tomorrow," she confirms, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

"I'll hold you to that, Stanley," I tease, biting back a grin as she backs away, scampering off to count tickets or whatever it is that she does here.

The moment I'm outside – and definitely out of her eyeline – I let out a whoop of delight, bounding over to Brady's truck.

He glares at me when I open the door, a sour look on his face. "I thought I was going to die of old age."

"Your patience will be rewarded, Brades," I soothe, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes. "She's coming to the Rez tomorrow."

"F-i-i-ne," he groans, jamming the key in the ignition. "I'll get over it if you buy me dinner."

"You say that like I don't buy you dinner every week," I point out, smirking when his expression softens. "You're the best wingman."

"I am the only wingman," Brady declares, pointing at me with a warning finger. "If I see you hanging with Collin – "

"Instant jail."

"Instant death," he corrects, immediately rejuvenated by his extensively prolonged rivalry with Collin.

And, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime – or, conservatively, a week - the world is right again.

A/N: Call me a fake hoe because I have been forgetting incorrect quotes as if they are not one of my primary sources of inspiration

Jess: I'm kind of crushing on someone, but I'm worried about telling you who it is, because you're not going to like it

Seth: Just rip the bandage off.

Jess: It's Brady.

Seth: Put the bandage back on.