“Stay,” Wesley murmured, his voice already thick with approaching sleep. “Just for a few minutes.”
I knew I shouldn’t—knew I needed to leave before we both fell asleep. But his warmth was intoxicating, his presence calming in ways I’d never experienced. “Okay.”
Just for a few minutes. Then I’ll go.
I closed my eyes, meaning only to rest them.
Panic jolted me awake with the disorienting terror of not knowing where I was or what time it was. Wesley’s warmweight pressed against my side, his breathing deep and even with sleep.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand—5:17 a.m. Team breakfast was at seven, morning skate at nine. Players would start waking up soon, moving through the hallways, heading to the hotel gym, or grabbing an early cup of coffee.
I had maybe fifteen minutes before the halls got busy. Probably less.
I extracted myself from Wesley’s embrace with agonizing care, not wanting to wake him but needing to move fast. He stirred slightly, made a small sound of protest, then settled back into sleep.
I found my T-shirt on the floor and dressed with fumbling speed, adrenaline and fear making my movements clumsy.
A quick check through the door’s peephole showed an empty hallway. I peeked through a crack in the door, then slipped out quietly, the lock clicking behind me with what sounded like a puck shot in the early-morning silence.
The hallway was deserted but felt exposing—too long, too well-lit, too many potential witnesses. I walked with purposeful calm toward the elevator, projecting the image of someone who had every reason to be on the seventh floor at 5:20 a.m. even though my room was on the fourth.
The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding that made me flinch. Empty, thank God. I stepped inside, pressed four, and watched the numbers descend with agonizing slowness.
Fourth floor. The doors opened onto another empty hallway, and I started toward my room, exhaustion and relief making my steps feel lighter. I was almost there—just a few more feet—when a door opened further down the hall.
Turner stepped out in workout gear, a gym bag over his shoulder.
We made eye contact. His gaze traveled over me—clothes wrinkled, hair probably disheveled, clearly just getting back to my room at five thirty in the morning. I watched his expression shift from curious to understanding to something dark and hostile. His eyes narrowed, and he scowled.
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral, projecting innocence. “Good morning,” I said, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest.
Turner didn’t respond. Just stared at me with that scowl, his jaw tight, before heading toward the elevator without a word.
I let myself into my room, the lock disengaging with a beep that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway. The door closed behind me, and I leaned against it, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My knees went weak, and I slid down to sit on the floor, trying to catch my breath.
Fuck.
Turner had seen me. Had seen me doing the walk of shame at five thirty in the morning, clearly coming from someone else’s room. And from the look on his face, he’d drawn conclusions.
I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking, and started to text Wesley. Then stopped.
What would I even say? “Turner saw me in the hallway and looked suspicious?” That would just worry him, and it might be nothing. Turner scowling at me wasn’t exactly unusual—the guy had barely hidden his dislike since training camp. Maybe he hadn’t connected any dots. Maybe he just thought I’d hooked up with a woman and was judging me for it.
Or maybe he knew exactly whose room I’d been in.
I deleted the unsent message and pocketed my phone. There was no point worrying Wesley over something that might be nothing. I’d keep an eye on Turner, watch for any signs he was spreading rumors or asking questions.
For both of us.
We have to be more careful. This can’t happen again. Not like this.
Except I knew it would happen again. Because despite the terror and the risk and the very real possibility of a career-ending disaster, I wanted more stolen hours with Wesley. More moments of being Griffin instead of Captain Lapierre. More nights where I could fall asleep next to someone who saw past my projected image to the person underneath.
Road trips were dangerous. But apparently, I was willing to navigate that danger anyway.
The day passed in the familiar routine of game day on the road—team breakfast where I sat with Holloway and Laasko, discussing Vancouver’s defensive strategies. Light morning skate at the arena where the ice felt different, the boards echoed differently, the ghosts of my father’s games seemed to inhabit every corner.
