Not a single ounce of the Alex Williamsburg I’ve grown to hate is on that ice right now. Not the smug grin or lazy walk. Not the flirtatious banter or the too-expensive loafers.
This isn’t just the guy the girls drool over. He’s something else entirely.
His jersey clings to his back, drenched. The stick cracks, but he barely blinks. This isn’t just practice; it’s more like he’s punishing himself.
Whatever he’s going through, whatever he’s trying to outrun, it isn’t my business. So I step back before he sees me. I have uniforms to wash, towels to fold, bottles to refill, and a name to keep clean.
The locker room is empty when I reenter, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Putting my headphones back on, I shove my phone into my back pocket and proceed to get back to work. There’s no telling how long Alex is going to be on the ice tonight, so I might as well make the most of this time.
As I collect the newly discarded uniforms from the floor in front of each stall, my face scrunches up with each garment I have to touch. I’ll never get used to how badly hockey equipment stinks, and today the stench is worse.
I shake my head, disgusted by the sweat-drenched jerseys.
“Eww,” I mutter to no one.
Or so I thought.
When I turn the corner to enter the laundry area, I run smack-dab into a wall of muscle. The bin tips over, and jerseys spill out.
“Watch where the hell you’re walking,” Ryker snarls, his voice louder than my music.
I straighten fast, snatching the headphones off, and try to step around him. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still in here.”
But Ryker doesn’t let me. Instead, he steps in front of me, his eyes dark and menacing. A lump forms in my throat, and I clench my fist, prepared to defend myself.
“Alex stood up for you tonight, but don’t think this means you’re safe. You’d better watch your back,” he threatens.
I open my mouth to dish out a snarky comment of my own, but nothing comes out. Being alone with him, up close and personal, triggers me. It takes me back to all the times I’ve had to shield myself from Gary’s drunken wrath.
But Ryker doesn’t touch me. He steps around me, his shoulder bumping into mine so hard that my headphones hit the floor. It’s not until I hear the double doors swing closed that I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM
I hate him. Hate this team. Hate Jackson for putting me here. Hate myself for going to that party.
I squeeze my eyes shut, taking in one deep inhale after the other to settle my nerves. With a shaky hand, I pick up the dirty clothes and carry them to the washing machine, leaving a trail of the items that slip from my grasp. Frantically, I shove the uniforms into the machine, my hands still trembling.
I close my eyes once more and just breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Pushing it all to the back of my mind, I pour in the detergent and begin the wash cycle. While the clothes wash, I grab an empty bucket to carry that and bleach over to the sink to make the sanitizer solution.
I turn on the sink, testing the temperature until it’s to my liking before setting the bucket inside to fill with water and bleach.
As the water runs, I quickly snatch my headphones up from the floor, where they landed after Ryker pushed me. I take them to the utility closet they gave me for breaks. There’s barely space for a chair and my duffel. No windows. Just a file cabinet no one uses and floor-to-ceiling metal racks of extra equipment.
After returning to the sink, I reach in to pull out the bucket,grunting at how heavy it is. As I finally get the bucket to the brim of the sink and turn, it gets caught on the edge. Water splashes the front of my clothes and spills all over the floor, the strong scent of bleach singeing my nostrils.
“Shit.”
I drop the bucket, and it clinks against the sink. I peel the fabric away from my chest, muttering curses while trying not to cry from frustration.
I sprint back to the closet, pulling out the shirt I wore here from my duffel. I reach over and tap the door closed, then pull the bleach-drenched shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor at my feet.
My eyes drop to my wet bra, and I groan before unhooking it from the front. My skin is flushed, and my nipples pebble the moment the air hits them.
It’s late, and everyone should be in bed by now. No one is going to notice that I’m braless. The walk back to my dorm isn’t that far.
