I grabbed my stick and headed toward the hallway, needing a moment away from the noise. The corridor outside the locker room was dimmer, quieter, and I leaned against the wall, breathing through the pain and the nerves and the fucking fear that I'd worked so hard to bury.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. I knew them before I looked up.
Grant.
“You shouldn't be out here,” I said quietly. “June will have a stroke.”
“Fuck June.” He moved closer, and I saw the hint of a smile. “I needed to see you before you go out there and make me look good.”
Despite everything, I felt myself relax slightly. “Pretty sure that's my job every game.”
“Exactly. So don't fuck it up tonight.” His hand found my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse. Not checking if I was okay—just touching me. Grounding both of us. “You ready?”
“As I'll ever be.”
“Good. Because I've watched you work your ass off to get here, and I'll be damned if you don't go out there and remind everyone why you're on the first line.” His voice was steady, certain. “You've earned this, Jace. Every second of ice time tonight.”
My chest went tight. “Grant?—”
“And when you score—not if, when—I'm going to stand behind that bench and try very hard not to smile like an idiot.” He squeezed my wrist. “Which will be difficult because I'm incredibly proud of you.”
I felt my throat close up. “You're not supposed to say shit like that right before a game. You're supposed to give me a pep talk about playing smart and following the system.”
“Fine. Play smart. Follow the system. Don't do anything stupid.” He paused. “But also, you're brilliant and I'm lucky to coach you. How's that for a pep talk?”
“Terrible. Completely unprofessional.”
“Good thing we've already blown past professional.” His smile was small but real. “Now get back in there before someone sees us and June actually does have that stroke.”
I glanced down the hallway, making sure we were still alone, then stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough to smell ice and coffee and the faint scent of his cologne underneath.
Then he pulled me into the equipment room across the hall, door closing behind us with a soft click.
The room was small, crowded with spare gear and sticks, dimly lit. Grant backed me against the wall, hands framing my face, and kissed me like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
I kissed him back desperately, hands fisting in his shirt, needing this more than I'd realized. Needing him to ground me before I walked out onto that ice and faced everything waiting there.
“We shouldn't—” I said against his mouth.
“I know.” But he didn't stop. His hands slid down to my waist, gripping tight, and I gasped when he pressed closer.
“Grant, the game?—”
“We have some time.” His voice was rough, wrecked. “I need this. I need you.”
And god, I needed him too. Needed the weight of him against me, needed his hands on my skin, needed proof that we were real and solid and worth fighting for.
His mouth moved to my neck, teeth scraping, and I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound. My hands found his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, and he groaned low in his throat.
“Jace—”
“Please.” I didn't care that we were in an equipment room. Didn't care that the game started in thirty minutes. Didn't care about anything except the way he was looking at me.
He kissed me again, harder this time, and I felt the last of my control shatter. His hands were everywhere. I arched into him, and pain flared in my shoulder but I didn't care. Couldn't care. Not when he was touching me like this.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my mouth.
“Don't you fucking dare.”
