I should've pushed back harder at the front desk. Should've demanded they find another solution, pull strings, call in favors, do whatever it took to avoid ending up in a room with Hartley for an entire night. But I hadn't, because pushing too hard would've raised questions I couldn't afford to answer.
So instead, I'd spent the night on the floor three feet away from him, hyperaware of every shift of the mattress above me, every small sound he made, the warmth of his body close enough to feel even through the distance.
I sat up slowly, quietly, trying not to wake him. My back protested immediately—sleeping on hotel carpet was apparentlymy limit. I rolled my shoulders, felt the knots there, and stood as silently as possible.
The bathroom light was harsh and unforgiving when I flipped it on, closing the door most of the way so it wouldn't wake him. I looked like shit. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair sticking up in about six different directions. The permanent crease between my eyebrows deeper than usual.
Get it together, Sutherland. One night. You survived one night.
Barely.
I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, tried to wash away the exhaustion and the awareness and the want that had been sitting in my chest since the moment we'd walked into this room last night. The want that had been sitting there since long before that, if I was being honest. Since probably the first time I'd watched him skate and realized he was brilliant and broken in equal measure.
Stop.
I couldn't afford to think like that. Couldn't afford to want him the way I did. This ended badly no matter how I looked at it. The math was simple. The cost was too high.
So I'd do what I always did when something threatened to spiral: lock it down. Create distance. Re-establish boundaries. Burn it all down if I had to, salt the fucking earth, make everyone miserable enough that they wouldn't look too closely at why I was being such a bastard.
I could do that. I was good at being a bastard when I needed to be.
When I came out of the bathroom, Hartley was awake.
He was still in bed, propped up on one elbow, hair an absolute mess and eyes half-lidded with sleep. His t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of his stomach.
I looked at him for exactly one second, then turned away.
“Get up,” I said, voice flat and cold. “Morning skate's at ten. I want everyone on the ice in an hour. That includes you.”
“Jesus, Coach, it's barely six?—”
“Did I ask for commentary?”
I moved to my bag and started pulling out clothes, keeping my back to him. Behind me, I heard him sit up, heard the rustle of sheets as he moved.
“You want coffee?” His voice was careful, testing.
“No.”
“There's pods on the desk?—”
“I said no.” I turned to face him, and I made sure my expression was blank. Cold. “And you need to eat something before the skate. Real food, not whatever garbage Callahan's peddling. Your timing was shit yesterday. Nutrition affects performance.”
His jaw tightened. “My timing was fine.”
“If it was fine, we wouldn't have spent fifteen minutes fixing your positioning in the second period.”
“That wasn't?—”
“I don't care what you think it was. Get your shit together, Hartley. You're supposed to be a professional.”
I saw the flash of hurt cross his face before he locked it down, and something in my chest twisted. But I didn't take it back. Didn't soften it.
Distance. That's what we needed.
I grabbed my gear and headed for the door. “Thirty minutes. Don't be late.”
I left without looking back.
