But he doesn’t.
He just leans in closer, lips brushing mine, not kissing, not giving—just hovering. His breath is hot enough to burn through the steam, through my skin, through bone.
“You think I’m giving you special treatment?” His voice is low, razor-sharp, scraping right down my spine. “You think it’s favoritism?”
I gasp, my lips parting instinctively, desperate for him, desperate for anything.
“I’ll show you favoritism later,” he whispers, lethal and steady. “When I’ve got you on your knees where you belong. When I make you choke on every word until you remember what you’re for.”
His mouth drags lower, close to my ear, and I feel his teeth scrape against my skin without ever biting. “I’ll keep you there until you forget your own name, pup. Until the only thing you know how to say issir.”
My knees buckle. I almost slide right down the tiles, but his hand on my throat holds me upright like he knew I would.
And then—he steps back.
Just like that.
His hand leaves my throat. The heat of him vanishes. My back slams into cold tile as water crashes down, alone, merciless, brutal. I choke on a sound that’s half gasp, half broken cry, staring wide-eyed as he turns away without a backward glance.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t finish me. Doesn’t even look back.
He just walks out of the steam like he owns it, towel slung over one shoulder, body carved out of violence and calm.
And I’m left there.
Shaking. Trembling. Hard as steel.
Drowning in the promise of everything he just whispered.
My knees give the second his hand leaves me. I slide half an inch down the tile before I catch myself, palms splayed against wet porcelain, water pounding over my shoulders like it wants to drown me right here.
And then—footsteps.
I jolt upright, ribs screaming, throat raw. Steam parts just enough to show Cole stepping in, towel slung lazy over his shoulder.
He doesn’t chirp loud. Doesn’t crack a joke for the whole room. He just leans in as he passes me, sunglasses nowhere in sight now.
“You’re fucked.”
The words land sharp, brutal. Like he knows exactly what Captain whispered, exactly what’s coming.
A whimper slips out before I can stop it, high and wrecked. My lips twist into something like a grin, shaky and desperate. “You’re welcome.”
Because it’s true. They all get a day off tomorrow. The boys are probably halfway to celebrating already, tossing Gatorade and joking like they won the Cup. And it’s all because I opened my stupid mouth, whined at the captain, and got us benched.
Cole’s grin only widens. Wicked. Delighted. He taps my shoulder once, mock-gentle, and strolls out without another word.
Leaving me alone.
Bruised. Shaking. Wrecked.
And already aching for tonight.
Do I give a shit that I benched the entire team tomorrow just to keep my rookie off the ice?
No.
We’ve got a game in two weeks. They’ll survive without one practice. And the day after tomorrow, I’ll drill them so hard they’ll be puking Gatorade onto the blue line before the first whistle blows. That’s how it works. Rest isn’t mercy—it’s preparation for hell.
