His body crowded mine, heat and pressure and want, hips moving in a way that left no room for doubt. I met him there, breath coming short, mouth hungry, the clang of the locker a dull echo beneath us. His hands roamed, claiming, and I let myself get lost in it, the edge of adrenaline sharpening every touch.
I pulled back and caught my breath. “I thought you said you can’t be late.”
He groaned, forehead tipping forward for a heartbeat before he stepped away. “I can’t help myself around you.”
He stripped out of his clothes with quick efficiency, muscle memory taking over as he pulled on his gear. I stayed where I was, watching, my pulse still racing.
“You better get a handle on that,” I said, eyes flicking pointedly to his hard-on. “Or training might get awkward.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I have an old trick: Ducks on a pond. Works every time.”
I followed him back out toward the rink, my steps lighter now. The ice spread out before us, bright and loud, the team already in motion. He squeezed my hand once before skating off.
“Sit wherever you want,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Last time everyone kept making fun of me.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Rookie of the Year nominee gets a final say.”
As he approached the bench, I hung back, close enough to see without being in the way. McAvoy stepped into his path, hand up. Landon stopped, helmet tucked under his arm.
“Sorry I’m late,” Landon said. “I’m ready to jump in.”
McAvoy shook his head. “I can’t put you out there.”
Landon blinked. “Coach?”
“Until this assault mess dies down, you’re benched. We can’t afford more bad press. Not now.”
I watched the words hit him. His shoulders sagged, just a fraction, but it was enough. He’d walked out of a cell with more composure than this. Jail hadn’t broken him. This did.
He nodded, once, swallowing hard. “Yes, Coach.”
I stood there, useless, as the one thing he lived for was pulled out from under him. The rink noise faded, replaced by the hollow look on his face, and I knew this was the wound that would take the longest to heal.
22
Landon
The barbell rested across my palms while I lay on the bench, staring up at the ceiling tiles I had memorized back when I’d first signed with the team. I pushed the weight up, arms burning, breath rough in my throat as I counted the reps out loud. Because counting gave my head something clean to do.
The TV on the far wall caught my eye again. Green, gold, and white jerseys clashed with our blue. Even muted, I read everything loud and clear in a single glance. Surge versus Dallas Stars. Game one. We were painfully outmatched.
“Don’t,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure if I was talking to my arms or my eyes.
A few more pushes, and the set ended with my triceps shaking, so I racked the bar and sat up, wiping my face on the hem of my shirt. The screen showed Dallas cycling the puck deep, our defense scrambling to adjust. I stood up before my brain could start narrating plays that I wasn’t part of anymore, and crossed the room to the dumbbell rack.
The weights were lined up with military precision, untouched, waiting. And with everyone away, I had the pick of the litter and all the time in the world.
I grabbed a pair and started curls, elbows tucked, forearms beginning to protest on the third rep. The TV stayed in my peripheral vision, a flicker of movement that refused to be ignored. Grayson missed a pass at the blue line, and Dallas surged the other way.
“Get it back,” I snapped at the screen. The words bounced off the empty walls and came back to me sounding more foolish than when I’d said them.
I set the dumbbells down harder than necessary and moved to the leg press. Something had to work. I didn’t care if I had to move through every piece of equipment in this gym, but I wasn’t leaving here until the sick, twisted tangle in my gut was gone.
Sitting at the press, feet planted against the plate, I drove the weight away from me, thighs working, breath coming short. This was supposed to help. It always had. When my head got loud, my body usually knew what to do with it. Tonight, though, every push just fed the pressure. A loop with no exit.
I glanced up in time to see the camera pan over the crowd. Everyone on their feet, mouths open, fists and flags waving. Then the ice was back, in time for me to catch the puck slide past Hunter and hit the back of the net.
