"Shut up," I mutter, shoving Cody's shoulder. "Dumbass."
"That yes?" he teases.
"That get lost," I shoot back.
They keep laughing and chirping. I force a laugh too, even though it dies halfway out of my throat the moment I see Elijah walks in.
Everything just... drops into silence.
He's fully dressed already, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight like it's locked in place. His eyes flick around the room, landing on me for half a second.
I don't give him a chance to hold it. I shoot him a scowl and look away.
I hate this. I hate the cold war between us.
I hate that the one person who used to read me without me speaking a word... and now we're basically strangers.
The team senses it—the tension, the space between us that used to be easy, automatic, a decade of knowing each other on and off the ice.
Now it feels like standing on two separate cliffs.
Elijah clears his throat. "Coach wants us on the ice. Let's go."
Everyone starts moving, grabbing sticks, helmets, gloves. Loud chatter picks up again as guys leave the locker room one by one.
In less than a minute, I'm one of the last ones still sitting there.
I finally pull my practice jersey over my pads, the fabric dragging over my wrists. My phone lights up—just the screen waking, no notifications.
My stomach twists.
I type another message.
ME
Heading to the ice. Call me the second you're done. Please.
It's been a week since Sam went to see Dr. Wilcott and get herself checked to find out if her cancer is back or not.
A whole damn week. And still nothing.
Sam told me the tests would take time — that some results come back in a day or two, but the bigger stuff, the scans, the labs they send out? Those can take five to seven business days, sometimes longer.
I know that.
Didn't stop me from losing my mind anyway.
I did everything I could to distract myself — practiced like I had something to prove, lifted twice a day, and basically drowned myself in Caroline every chance I got.
But let's not fucking sugarcoat it.
I didn't just drown in her; I fucking submerged myself, devoured her, worshipped her like a goddamn altar built for sin. And she wasn't just wet—she was a fucking flood, a tsunami of slick, dripping desire that left me gasping for air and begging for more.
Every moment with her was a fucking blur.
Her body was my religion, her moans my scripture, and the way she arched her back when I buried myself inside her? That was my fucking benediction.
Her breasts bounced like they were begging for attention, her nipples hard as fucking diamonds, and when I dragged my tongue across them, she'd groan like I'd just unlocked the gates of heaven with my teeth.
