And, God help me, I think part of me still does.
Steam curls around me as I step beneath the spray; the water beats a steady rhythm against my shoulders—heat slides downmy skin, loosening every muscle, melting away everything except the thought of him.
I close my eyes and let my hands wander, tracing the places he once touched.
My breath catches when my fingers skim over my sensitive nipples, when memory blurs into sensation.
It’s not just my body that aches—it’s something more profound, needier, impossible to silence.
And just like that, I feel Liam.
His hands.
His voice.
The way he looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Every drop of water that hits my skin feels like a spark. I can almost feel his touch instead, tracing, claiming, remembering.
The water pulses against my clit, chasing away every thought until all that remains is the ache, the want, the quiet, desperate hunger that’s entirely his fault.
It builds deep inside, and I brace a hand against the tile, head tipped back, letting the heat take over until every muscle trembles and my breath shatters.
When I come, it’s with a short noise of satisfaction. It’s not just pleasure, it’s longing. His name escapes me like a prayer I can’t swallow.
When I finally breathe again, I stay there, forehead against the cool tile, water washing over me as if it could rinse away what I feel.
It can’t.
Whatever this is with Liam—it’s already too late to stop.
7
LIAM
It fucking sucks.
There’s nothing worse than being healthy enough to move but not cleared to play.
I’m stuck in joggers and a warm-up jersey, pretending I don’t care while my team gears up without me.
Every slap of tape, every clang of a skate blade sounds like mockery.
I should be out there. Not sitting here like a damn mascot.
“Quit moping, Callaghan,” Connor Murphy calls from two stalls down, smacking his stick on the bench for emphasis. “You’re the one who let yourself get your ass kicked. If you’d been less of a puss, maybe you’d have won that fight and been able to play today.”
I don’t bother responding. Connor’s like a gremlin — feed him attention, and he multiplies.
Mickey, our rookie forward, snickers. “Damn, Murph, you ever think about maybe being supportive?”
Connor grins. “I’msupportiveas hell. I’m supporting him by reminding him not to suck next time.”
“Yeah, real uplifting,” Max chimes in from across the room, rolling a strip of tape around his stick handle. “You should get that printed on a Hallmark card.”
Connor flips him off. “Jealous you didn’t think of it first, Frenchie?”
“I’m not French, you illiterate fuck,” Max fires back, his British accent thick enough to make the insult sound classy.
