“Yeah, sorry. Just processing.”
“Good. Because we need this win. Seattle’s been struggling lately, and if we can’t beat them at home, we’re in trouble.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will. Your game’s been solid lately. Whatever Christensen’s been working on with you, it’s paying off.”
The mention of Zane makes my stomach flip. Because Enver’s not wrong. My game has been better since that practice session when we almost kissed. Since I started working with Zane one-on-one, stopped fighting him, and started trusting his coaching.
Started trusting him, period.
“He’s a good coach,” I say, because he shoots me an expectant look.
“He is. Knows the position inside and out. And he seems to understand what makes you tick.”
Oh Christ, if he only knew.
I nod and head back to my seat. But this time I catch Zane’s eye as I pass. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make my pulse spike and punch a hole through my throat. He looks tired too, like he didn’t sleep any better than I did.
Like he spent the night thinking about the same things.
The rest of the flight passes in a blur. Guys playing cards, listening to music, talking about the game. I try to join in, but I can’t concentrate. Can’t stop sneaking glances at Zane, can’t stop remembering the way he said my name when I came apart in his mouth.
By the time we land in Seattle, I’m forcing my mind to think about all possible dick deflators because every time I close my eyes and see his face, my cock aches for more.
And I can’t have more. I gave that up last night.
The hotel check-in is the usual chaos. Thirty guys trying to get their keys, equipment staff organizing gear, coaches dealing with logistics. I hang back, waiting for my teammates to clear out. A sidelong glance confirms Zane’s doing the same thing.
We end up at the front desk at the same time, which should be normal. Coach and player getting their room assignments, nothing weird about that.
Except for the way the desk clerk hands us our keys with a smile and says, “Rooms 412 and 414. Right next door to each other.”
Next door. Fucking perfect.
“Thanks,” Zane says. His voice is even and unaffected while my heart thrashes in my chest.
Fucking A.
We head to the elevators in silence, both pretending this isn’t the most awkward situation imaginable. The elevator ride to the fourth floor takes forever, the longest thirty seconds of my damn life.
The doors finally open.
“We should talk.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No, we shouldn’t. We should pretend last night never happened and focus on hockey. That’s what you want, right? To keep things professional?”
“Is that what you want?”
My eyes fly open and I stalk out of the elevator, shoulders squared. I stop in front of room 412 and slowly turn to look at him. He’s standing by his door, his key card in his hand, a questioning look in his eyes.
“What I want doesn’t matter,” I say. “You made it clear that last night was a one-time thing.”
“I never said that.” His brow furrows.
“You didn’t have to. The way you looked at me afterward, the way you let me walk away. It told me everything.”
“Tate, you’re wrong. That’s not how I feel.”
