His voice is sharp, almost angry, and it makes me freeze.
I look at him, really look at him, and there’s something in his expression that I can’t quite read. Something intense and tightly controlled.
“Then go ahead and laugh at me if you came here to mock me,” I say, trying to sound defiant even though my heart is racing. “Because I need to… get changed.”
The last words stick in my throat. The thought of changing in front of him, of dropping this towel while he watches, makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I could go back to the shower room with my clothes. But that would be admitting defeat and showing him exactly how much power he has over me.
I won’t do it.
“When did I make fun of you, Patton?”
His voice is serious. Too serious. It sends goosebumps racing down my arms.
He’s just playing with you, I tell myself firmly.Don’t fall for it.
I turn away, refusing to answer, and reach for my backpack to pull out my underwear. My fingers close around the strap, and I tug—
It doesn’t move.
I look down.
Raiden has shifted his weight, and now he’s partially sitting on my backpack, pinning it to the bench.
“Are you kidding me?” I snap, turning to glare at him. “Isn’tthatbullying, in your opinion?”
“What exactly?”
“Move over and let me get my backpack.”
He leans back slightly, not enough to free the bag, just enough to look like he’s considering it. His eyes stay locked on mine, deliberately not dropping to my bare chest, which somehow makes this even worse.
“You’re very resilient,” he says, his tone conversational. “You lasted a long time out there on the ice. To stay upright better, you need to bend your knees. Bend them properly and hold them in that position.”
“If I need advice, I’ll ask the coaches.”
“Hmm. They’ll probably say the same thing.” His mouth curves slightly. “Maybe you need some hands-on help learning how to bend your knees… in practice.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach flip.
My patience snaps.
“That’s it. I’m taking my backpack and my things, and you can sit here by yourself.”
I grab the edge of the backpack and pull hard.
He spreads his legs wider, trapping it more firmly beneath him.
Frustration and embarrassment flood through me in a hot wave. I yank harder on the strap, trying to work it free, and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’ve climbed onto his knees to reach the other side of the backpack, trying to pull it out from that angle.
I brace my hands on his shoulders to keep from falling.
He exhales loudly—a sharp, shuddering sound that vibrates through his chest beneath my palms.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, the word tumbling out before I can stop it.
His hands come up to my hips, holding me in place. Not roughly, but firmly enough that I can’t move without making it obvious I’m struggling.
