I put it back in the box and kept digging.
More photos. Me with Cal at his fire academy graduation. Me with my parents at their anniversary dinner two years ago. A newspaper clipping from my last game, a small article, barely a hundred words, but someone had saved it.
Probably my mom.
I set the photos aside and found what I'd been avoiding: a folder of documents from three years ago. Performance reviews. Termination paperwork. The official statement from my last organization explaining why they'd decided to “pursue a different coaching direction.”
Corporate speak for:You fucked up and we're cutting our losses.
I opened the folder and read through the termination letter again, even though I'd memorized every word.
While we appreciate Mr. Sutherland's contributions to the organization, recent concerns regarding professional judgment and boundary management have led us to conclude that a separation is in the best interest of both parties.
Boundary management.
They'd made it sound like I'd violated some code of conduct instead of just being human at the wrong moment with the wrong person. I hadn't crossed the line. Not technically. But I'd gotten close enough that it looked bad, and in this business, perception was reality. The whispers started. The GM stopped making eye contact. Other teams stopped returning my calls when I applied for jobs.
I was radioactive.
It didn't matter that I'd done nothing wrong. It mattered that I'd created the appearance of impropriety, and in professional sports, appearance was everything.
I closed the folder and shoved it back in the box.
The shower tooka minute to heat up—another thing I needed to fix but hadn't—and I stood there shivering, waiting for the water to turn from arctic to tolerable.
When it finally warmed, I stepped under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders. The heat felt good. Necessary. I closed my eyes and focused on the physical sensation—water, warmth, pressure against tired muscles.
Don't think about work. Don't think about Hendricks. Don't think about?—
Hartley's breath catching when I touched his shoulders.
I grabbed the soap and started scrubbing, methodical and efficient, trying to keep my brain focused on the task at hand. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. A mechanical routine that required no thought.
But my mind kept drifting back anyway, the way it always did when you were trying hardest not to let it.
The way he'd looked at me when I'd agreed to help during the shooting drill. The way his hands had trembled when I corrected his grip. The heat radiating through his gear when I'd adjusted his stance. And then this morning.
I rinsed off and reached for the shampoo, working it through my hair with more force than necessary. This was professional. A coach managing his awareness of a player. Nothing more. Nothing that warranted the direction my brain kept insisting on taking it.
I rinsed my hair and stood under the spray, water cascading down my back, and felt my body responding despite everything my brain was trying to argue.
I was getting hard.
Of course I was. Because apparently my self-control was as functional as my ability to unpack boxes.
I braced one hand against the tile wall and closed my eyes, telling myself to ignore it. This would pass. I just needed to finish showering and get out and focus on literally anything else.
But my body had already made its decision, and it wasn't interested in my objections.
I wrapped my hand around my cock—just to adjust it, to make it less uncomfortable—and the contact sent a spike of heat through me that made breathing difficult.
Fuck it.
I started stroking, slow and deliberate, telling myself this was just physical release. Stress relief. The same thing I'd done a thousand times before with nothing attached to it.
I tried to keep my mind blank. Generic. Anonymous faces from past hookups that I barely remembered. The bartender from two years ago who'd invited me home after last call. The guy at the gym who'd given me his number that I'd never called.
Safe territory. Uncomplicated.
