The bang of a heavy arena door pulled me out of my self-hatred spiral before I could sink too deeply into my own head.
I slowed my speed to a more leisurely pace, as if me ripping up the rink in the off-hours would somehow become less noticeable if my skates weren’t hitting the ice as hard.
Since I was trying to avoid notice, I didn’t dare look in the direction from which the booming sound had come.
Best-case scenario, it was a member of the maintenance staff who was too preoccupied with finishing their shift and couldn’t care less about some nobody hockey player on the ice. I’m sure they saw weirder shit in here than a late-afternoon skate.
Before I could consider the worst-case scenario, the telltale scraping noise of the players’ door being swung open and then the bang of it shutting set me on edge, but I schooled my expression and continued skating with my head down.
“Hey! Rookie!” A deep voice rumbled from behind me.
Ah, fuck.
six
ASHER
Holy fuck. Was this guy insane?
A glance down at my phone screen told me I’d been leaning against the cold concrete walls of the Hammerhead practice arena for more than ten minutes. And still, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything that would interrupt him.
I’d been rendered speechless, initially by shock. This lunatic was doing bag skates. By choice.
Caden Kelly wasfast. It was a rare sight to see a player with so much speed and grace. Shit, he might as well have been born with skates attached to his feet. They appeared to be an extension of his limbs from the way he handled himself.
The level of power he pumped into every movement was mesmerizing.
All I could make out from my vantage point was his sweat-soaked, wavy—or maybe curly—auburn hair. With him being dressed in only a gray T-shirt, now drenched from his efforts, and some worn black sweatpants, I could see he had a hard, lean build.
The wet fabric had his shirt clinging to every curve of muscle, revealing a tight torso and defined arms.
It was hard to tell from so far away but based on where his body stood against the sideboards, he was somewhere around my height—six-foot-one.
I scanned the bench area, looking for his phone. The only reasonable explanation for this level of self-inflicted punishment was some social media stunt.
My brow furrowed when his phone was nowhere in sight.
If this wasn’t for social media clout, then what the hell was he doing?
Trying to give himself pneumonia? Given how drenched his gorgeous body was with sweat, that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
Shit. I couldn’t be looking at him like that.
Despite my internal warnings, I pushed off the wall to get a closer look, swiping the skates from my new office where Zane left them as a welcome-to-the-team gift.
He was moving so quickly, I had to squint through the protective glass to make out his expression.
I was now doubly invested in figuring out just what the hell he was doing to himself and wanting to get a good look at his face.
Not like you’re seeing if the face matches the appeal of his gorgeous hair and body, eh, Landry?
Positioning myself near the players’ door, I made quick work of changing into my skates from the running shoes I’d slipped on as I’d left my apartment.
I slid open the bolt on the heavy door, the noise not drawing his attention, and stepped onto the ice.
I didn’t want to scare the shit out of him by raising my voice, so I let the door swing closed, hard, hoping it would bring him out of whatever zone he was locked in.
No such luck.
