We fell back onto our pillows, apart but achingly aware of the stretch of sheets between us. I could feel the heat radiating from his shoulder, the faint pressure of his arm just out of reach. The bed was too small, the night too charged, but neither of us made a move to cross the invisible boundary.
I turned onto my side, curling in just slightly, and ended up right next to him. A single, shallow breath separated our skin. His back was to me, flat and firm, and I could trace the rise and fall of his chest without touching him.
“I’m staying this way,” he announced softly, almost stern. “Professional boundaries.”
I chuckled softly, trying to keep the sound light, like a gentle exhale. At least he wasn’t making it awkward.
“You can trust me,” he said, voice low, intimate.
I let out a small, quiet exhale, feeling the tension in my chest melt just enough to settle into the warmth beside him. “I know,” I whispered, letting sleep creep in as my body relaxed against the gentle press of his side.
We drifted into the quiet, a cocoon of warmth and exhaustion. Too close to ignore each other, too aware of the body heat and proximity, too careful to cross the line.
I felt it in every muscle, every breath—the pulse of attraction, thesubtle, magnetic pull that had been building for weeks. It was more than a PR project, more than professional obligation. And yet, neither of us moved. Not tonight.
And somewhere deep in the heat of the shared sheets and the near-contact, I finally let go. Sleep claimed me, my cheek resting just beside the curve of his shoulder, his steady presence grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I’d needed.
22
Hunter
Playoffs. Round one. Game one. Every nerve in my body was electric, rattling with the kind of pressure that made even the routine feel like a live wire.
Grayson paced behind the bench, eyes sharp, voice steady. “Play smart. Support each other. Control the pace. This isn’t just hockey anymore. This is what it all comes down to. You’ve got this. We all do.”
I wanted to believe it. I needed to. But when the puck dropped, all the words fell away, and instinct took over.
Minnesota came out swinging. Their first rush had me scrambling, sliding across the crease to cut off a cross-ice pass. My glove hand snapped up just in time, catching the puck mid-air before it could sneak past my pads. Theo was shouting somewhere behind me, something about covering the left point. I nodded in acknowledgment, even though he couldn’t see it, and adjusted my stance, muscles coiled tight. The first few minutes felt like a storm. It was all blinding speed, sticks clattering, skates scraping, the crowd a distant roar in my ears.
Power play early on for us. Minnesota had drawn a penalty, and Grayson quickly marshaled the forwards into position. Mason darted to the center, elbows tucked, eyes on the puck like a hawk.
Theo’s voice cut through my focus: “Right point! Watch the cross!”
My fingers twitched on the stick. The puck slid across the ice, ricocheted off the boards, Mason intercepted and flicked a quick pass to Grayson. The second it left Grayson’s stick, I was ready for the counter, every muscle in my legs flexing, every reflex screaming.
And then the penalty ended, and Minnesota was back at full strength, swarming our zone like bees. I got flattened against the post by some giant winger, pain shooting through my ribs, but I didn’t let go. The puck was loose in front of me, a split-second decision: smother it, deflect it, or risk a rebound. My glove snatched it, the impact thudding against my forearm. The rebound went spinning away and right toward Mason.
“Here we go,” Theo shouted.
Mason didn’t waste a beat. He grabbed it, weaving past a defender, then snapped a pass to Grayson streaking down the right wing. I tracked them across the ice, heart hammering with the rhythm of the play. Time dilated, slow, then fast. Grayson’s stick rose, and the shot went off. Goal. The arena erupted. I barely had time to register before the next rush hit, but for that moment, the tension eased just enough for a flicker of adrenaline-fueled pride.
Minnesota wasn’t letting up. They came back with a vengeance, slapping the puck with the force of a battering ram. One shot slid low, clipped the post, then bounced toward me. I lunged, pad first, sliding across the crease to make a sprawling save. The puck ricocheted again, somehow finding Theo at the blue line. He didn’t hesitate. I could hear Mason yelling something about an open lane, Grayson shouting for the cross-ice. Theo fired a long pass that cut across the neutral zone, Mason scooped it up, pivoted, and found Grayson charging toward the goal.
It was all happening in fractions of a second. My heart, my breath, every tendon in my body was tuned to the rhythm of the ice, the slap of sticks, the chatter of the crowd. Grayson let the shot fly. The puck glanced off a defender’s stick, spun high, hit the post, and fell right back into Grayson’s path. One more tap, and it zipped past the goalie.Net bulged. Game won? Almost.
I skated back toward the crease, legs aching, sweat stinging under my mask, and Theo clapped my shoulder. “Hell of a save, Callahan. Almost gave me a heart attack watching that rebound.”
Mason laughed, elbowing me lightly. “You’re the man, but seriously, Grayson’s luck rubs off, right?”
The final minutes ticked down. Minnesota tried to claw back, desperation in every slap shot, every stretch pass. I blocked a few more, feeling the burn in my quads and forearms, the pulse in my temples synced to the slap of the puck. Then, the moment of reckoning. The final power play for Minnesota. Every forward jammed into our zone. I spread, balanced, every eye on the puck. A shot came fast, low, ricocheted off my left pad. I lunged to glove it midair. Clean. Clear.
Theo skated over, grinning, breath ragged. “That’s what I’m talking about. Keep this up and we’re going straight to finals.”
“Saved our asses again, Callahan,” Shawn said as he skated by. “Starting to think we’d be lost without you.”
I exhaled, sinking slightly, feeling the tension in my shoulders melt as the final horn blared. We’d won Game 1. Dramatic, exhausting, nerve-wracking, exactly what playoff hockey was supposed to be. And through it all, I realized something that I couldn’t ignore: it wasn’t just the saves, the goals, or the strategy. It was the connection, the communication, the split-second trust we had in each other. That was the game-changer.
The locker room was a hurricane of noise, the kind that could rattle anyone unprepared. Cameras flashed, microphones jutted into our faces, and the smell of sweat and ice still clung to the benches.
