I mess up a drill and get barked at for it.
Coach’s voice echoes across the rink like a whip. “Shaw! Eyes on the puck! You’re not out here to sightsee! Get your head in it.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, forcing myself back into formation, but my head’s all over the place. And my legs aren’t much better.
The rest of practice is a blur of sweat and sharp commands. Logan skates hard, fast, and way too close during a scrimmage that turns borderline aggressive. I swear he bumps my shoulder on purpose.
Just enough to throw me off.
Again.
By the time Coach blows the whistle and calls us in, everyone’s dragging. Logan coasts to a stop like he’s barely winded while the rest of us are dripping.
“Good hustle,” Coach says—though the words sound more annoyed than impressed. “We’ll see if you keep it up all week so you actually show up on Sunday."
No one answers.
We file toward the tunnel in heavy silence, helmets tucked under our arms, sticks clutched in our gloved hands. I hang back a little, distracted.
My phone buzzes from inside my cubby as soon as I hit the locker room. I yank off my gloves and reach for it automatically.
Prism. One new message from SlowBurn69.
My heart stutters.
I don’t move.
Not at first.
Then I swipe to unlock the screen, the locker room noise blurring around me. I click the message before I can talk myself out of it.
And just as I do…I glance up.
Logan stands across the room, towel around his neck, chest bare, his hair damp with sweat and curling at the ends.
He meets my eyes and winks.
Just a quick flick of a smirk and a wink—barely even a movement.
Then he turns, strutting toward the showers like he didn’t just send my brain into a complete meltdown.
Fucker.
He’s going to ruin me. And the worst part of it all, I think he knows it.
The locker room’s loud around me—half the team is bitching about drills, Peter’s trying to get music going, and someone’s already tossed their sweaty socks too close to my gear—but all of it fades when I look down at my screen.
SlowBurn69: Go grab a shower, Captain. Bet I could make you come just from watching me.
My throat goes dry.
My palms sweat worse than they did during drills.
I swipe the message away before anyone sees, heart hammering, lungs struggling to remember how tobreathe.
Down the hall, I hear the water turn on. And I imagine steam starts curling around his feet as he steps under the stream.
Naked.
