Yeah. It was.
By the timeI got back to the room that afternoon, I was wound so tight I thought I might snap.
The skate had gone exactly how I'd planned—everyone was too angry or exhausted to look too closely at why I'd been such a bastard. Mission accomplished.
I opened the door to find him sprawled across his bed with his phone, still in the t-shirt and sweats he'd changed into after the skate. He didn't look up when I walked in. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
I set my bag down and moved to the desk, pulling out my laptop like I had work to do. I didn't. I just needed something to occupy my hands, some excuse not to look at him.
I heard him shift on the bed, heard the quiet exhale, and every small sound felt amplified in the quiet.
The shower turned on in the bathroom a few minutes later, and I closed my eyes and tried not to picture him under the spray. Tried not to remember what he'd looked like in the showers after the gym, water running down his chest, his hand wrapped around himself while he watched me.
Stop. Fucking stop.
When he came out twenty minutes later, his hair was damp and he smelled like soap.
He moved back to his bed without a word.
The silence stretched out between us, taut and heavy and ready to snap.
“Coach.”
His voice cut through the quiet, and I tensed immediately.
I didn't turn around. “What.”
“What the fuck was that this morning?”
I turned to face him, keeping my expression blank. “That was practice. If you can't handle it, maybe you're not as tough as you think you are.”
His eyes flashed. “Don't do that. Don't turn this into some bullshit about toughness.”
“Then what do you want me to say, Hartley? That practice was hard? Welcome to professional hockey. It gets harder.”
“It wasn't hard. You were being a dick.” He stood, and suddenly the room felt even smaller. “To everyone. And I want to know why.”
Because I can't look at you without wanting to touch you. Because I spent last night three feet away from you fighting the urge to climb into that bed. Because this—whatever this is—is going to destroy both of us if I don't kill it now. Because if I'm cruel enough, maybe you'll hate me enough to make this easier.
“I'm your coach,” I said instead, voice flat and cold. “Not your friend. Not your?—”
“Not my what?” He took a step closer, and I saw the challenge in his posture. “Say it, Coach. Not your what?”
I couldn't. I couldn't say the word because saying it would make it real.
“This is inappropriate,” I said instead.
“This?” He laughed bitterly. “We're not doing anything. We're standing in a room talking. What the fuck is inappropriate about that?”
“Everything.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “Everything about this is inappropriate. The gym. The showers. This—” I gestured between us. “—whatever the hell this is. It ends here.”
His eyes darkened. “You think I don't know that? You think I'm not trying to—” He stopped, jaw tight, and looked away. “Fuck.”
The silence that fell was worse than the argument.
He ran both hands through his damp hair, and I watched the movement despite myself. Watched the way his t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. Watched the frustration and want warring across his face.
“Then stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly, and his voice was different now. Softer. More honest than it had been all day.
