Not tonight.
Ever since meeting Nash, all I can think about is him. My desire to be with anyone else is gone, and it makes no fucking sense.
Nash hates me.
That beautiful, talented, and skilled man wants nothing to do with me, but I still can’t stop thinking about him.
“Nah, I’m good watching,” I say.
After they finish, I leave and head back to my hotel room. When I enter, the lights are off, and the room is in solid darkness. Nash is asleep.
I saunter into the room and fall onto my bed. Part of me wants to wake him to tell him that I didn’t do anything with those people tonight.
That was the only person I wanted to fuck was him.
But I don’t.
Chapter 6
Nash
I sit at the long press table in the press conference room, fluorescent lights humming above, glaring down upon the wall of sponsor logos stretched behind me. Each pulse of excitement tinges the air with nervous energy, and I force myself to keep my fingers curled loosely around the water bottle at my elbow, willing my heartbeat to steady as Leo slides into the chair beside mine, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a face-off. Sean walks in, drawing the attention to himself for a moment. Sean is known for wearing loud and outrageous suits on game days and at our press conferences. Other than Leo, I’ve never met anyone who loves the spotlight more than Sean does. Today, he’s wearing a multi-colored suit jacket with bold teals, emerald greens, pinks, and golds. He looks like a peacock.
After last night, I haven’t spoken to Leo.
I swear, it seemed like he was flirting with me, then he left, and I caught him walking into a hotel room with three other people.
I’m not dumb. I know he fucked them.
Even if he had been flirting with me, it wouldn’t have mattered.
We couldn’t act on it.
I can’t let anyone know that I’m gay, and I doubt he is. Maybe bi?
He leans forward, jaw clenched, an electric tension simmering just beneath the surface. A reporter from Sportsline clears her throat into a slim microphone, and I can sense the anticipation rippling through the room. He turns to Sean.
“Nice choice of jackets today,” he begins. The room erupts in laughter as Sean stands and does a quick turn, modeling the jacket. He sits down and I roll my eyes.
“Sean, you had a nice hat trick tonight,” the reporter begins, and for the next few minutes, I sit quietly as everyone asks Sean questions.
Soon enough, the questions are directed at me and Leo.
“Nash, Leo, now that you’ve been paired up on the ice—and shared a room on the road—how are you two enjoying working together?” The question slices through my thoughts, and my stomach knots at the surface level of scrutiny. We just won ourgame, but barely. I missed a few shots into the net that made me look like a rookie. My head just wasn’t in the game.
“It’s been productive,” I say, my voice steady but clipped, hoping the tension that knits us together remains buried. I steal a glance at Leo’s profile. He looks unbothered.
Leo nods, tucking a stray lock of brown hair behind his ear before adding, “We’re figuring it out.” The way he says it, like it’s a promise and a challenge, sends a shiver racing through me.
A second reporter presses, “Any lingering tension from that first practice fight?” My heart races at the mention of our brawl, my cheeks flushing as I shift my weight, the table rattling slightly under my forearm. I catch a glimpse of Leo’s expression; it’s unreadable, a mask over whatever thoughts churn behind those dark eyes. I had completely forgotten that the press was at the first game. It was an idea from our PR team to spark interest in our new season. Forgetting that was a rookie move.
“That was then,” I reply, forcing nonchalance into my tone as my insides twist. The words feel like a plea and a dare wrapped in one.
Leo’s lips twitch, an inkling of amusement sparking to life as he turns to the next mic, eyes still sharp. “We’re focused on the season now,” he says, his voice smooth, unyielding. It’s almost disarming, how easily he plays the game, as if this press conference is a mere distraction compared to what’s brewing beneath the surface.
My throat thumps; I swallow hard and offer a polite nod. The Q&A continues, and I lean into the rhythm of the questions.
“Has sharing a room helped with on-ice chemistry?” one reporter asks, and I take a breath, suppressing a wince at the realization that I’m about to answer yet again.
