My bed looks cold and untouched, the opposite of hers, warm and messy, the sheets knotted around the imprint of my body. I drag a hand through my hair, still smelling her shampoo on my skin, and I collapse onto the mattress. Not lying down because if I do, I’ll probably pass out and miss the bus home.
Everything is different now. And I have no idea how to contain it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Rose: You made it back without being tackled by Brennan? Impressive.
Even her texts make me grin like a moron. I type back without thinking:
Cal: Barely. Might have pulled a hamstring evading detection.
Rose: Athlete of the year tbh.
Cal: Only if the judges count heated make-outs as training.
There’s a long pause before her reply, and I think maybe that was too much, too… everything. But then she replies, and my heart stutters.
Rose: I mean… I’m very pro that kind of training.
I fall back on my mattress and bite down a laugh like a teenager with his first crush. I should sleep. My brain is soup, my body exhausted, but all I can think about is her: soft, warm, magnetic, and she has some gravitational pull I never signed up for but can’t resist.
By the time I finally manage to crawl off the bed, the city is stirring. Sunlight pushes through the blinds in pale lines, and the hotel corridor hums faintly with early traffic below. My head is spinning, but my body knows what it wants before my braindoes. I shower quickly, her taste still in my mouth, then grab my hockey bag, practically forgetting my sneakers on the floor, and move to the lobby.
The team is already gathering, a mix of yawns, stretching, and chatter bouncing off the tiled floor. Brennan and Ryan spot me immediately.
“Up early, Fraser?” Brennan teases, eyes narrowing like he knows something. “Or just practising your spy skills?”
I groan. “Both,” I mutter. Ryan snorts behind him.
“Let me guess,” Ryan offers, elbowing me lightly, “some lady had you up all night?”
I freeze, caught mid-step, heart doing an Olympic triple flip. “Shut up,” I growl, trying to act like I don’t care, but of course, I do. Both of them know something’s up. Brennan’s smirk deepens, he’s filing this under ‘future embarrassing locker-room stories.’
And then there’s Lukas, the rookie from Canada, stretching against the wall. He hasn’t seen anything yet, but he tilts his head, curiosity in his eyes. I can tell he’s going to be trouble, or at least a wild card. “Is she… one of ours?” he asks innocently, voice carrying in the lobby.
“She’s… well, not really,” I say, keeping it vague. Which is a lie. She’s in my head. In my chest. She’s mine to obsess over, though she doesn’t even know it yet.
“Right,” Lukas mutters, but there’s a grin there that tells me he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out how he fits into this dynamic.
We load the bus, the hum of the engine vibrating through the floor, and the chatter rises again. Everyone’s talking hockey, bantering, tossing pucks back and forth like they’re still on the ice. And then there’s Rose. Sitting quietly in a corner seat, camera bag at her feet, notebook in hand, smiling faintly at someinternal thought. And I forget the bus, the team, everything but the curve of her mouth and the way her hair falls over her eyes.
“Oi, Fraser,” Brennan says from across the aisle, snapping me out of it. “Stop staring like a lovesick rookie and sit your arse down.”
I swallow, taking the empty seat next to her before she can respond. She glances at me, and there’s a spark in her eyes, teasing and soft all at once. “Morning,” I mumble.
“Morning,” she replies, voice light, but it hits me like a puck to the chest.
The bus starts moving, tyres humming against the road. The rhythm lulls me into a sort of calm disarray, thinking about last night, this morning, and everything that’s stacked between us. She’s flipping through her camera, checking settings. I want to lean over and touch her hand, see if the warmth lingers, but I can’t. Instead, I steal glances, memorising the way she concentrates, and the subtle bite of her lip.
“Hey,” I finally murmur, voice low, leaning slightly toward her, “you got any more of those heated make-out sessions planned for the weekend?”
Her laugh is soft, musical. She rolls her eyes, but the flush creeping up her cheeks betrays her. “Careful, Fraser,” she says. “You might get a reputation on the team bus before we even get back to Manchester.”
“Reputation?” I scoff. “I’m already infamous.”
She smirks, snapping a picture of me pretending to glare. “Hmm. Infamous and… distracted.”
I shake my head, but the corners of my mouth lift. “You caught me.”
