Someone knocked on my door.
We froze, lips a breath apart, the sound of knocking impossibly loud in the room.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my heart rate spiking from arousal to panic in a single beat.
Wesley scrambled off the couch, fingers fumbling to fix his shirt while I grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. We both ran hands through our hair, straightened clothing, repositioned our dicks, and tried to make ourselves look like we’d been doing anything except what we’d very obviously been doing.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Lapierre? You home?”
Holloway’s voice. My alternate captain, one of my closest friends on the team, standing outside my door while Wesley and I tried to look innocent.
I debated whether I should answer, but he’d probably heard the TV.
“Just a second!” I called, then turned to Wesley and whispered urgently, “How do I look?”
“Like you were making out on your couch.” Wesley adjusted my hood and pulled at the hem of my sweatshirt. “Better. Go. I’ll stay here.”
I crossed to the door and opened it, projecting calm I absolutely didn’t feel. “Hey, Eric. What’s up?”
Holloway held up a six-pack of light beer. “Brought these over. Thought we could hang out, decompress from Vancouver.” His gaze strayed past me into the apartment, and I saw the moment he registered Wesley’s presence. “Oh. You’ve got company. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No interruption.” The lie came easily, automatically, born from years of hiding. “Wesley and I were just going over some media prep for Thursday. Home opener stuff.”
Holloway’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the scene—Wesley standing awkwardly near the couch, no laptop or tablet visible.
“Media prep… on a Sunday?” Holloway’s tone was carefully neutral, but I caught the curiosity underneath. “Thought you had the day off.”
“Big game Thursday. Wanted to be prepared.” I stepped aside, even though every instinct screamed to keep him in the hallway. “Come on in.”
Wesley grabbed his phone from the coffee table with slightly too much urgency. “Actually, I should get going. Let you guys have your Sunday.” He moved toward the door, meeting my eyes briefly with an expression that saidwe’ll talk later. “Thanks for lunch, Griffin. We’ll finish the media prep tomorrow at my office.”
“Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”
Wesley nodded to Holloway as he passed. “Eric. Good to see you.”
“Yeah. You too, Wesley.”
The door closed behind Wesley, and the apartment suddenly felt too quiet, too charged with the question Holloway wasn’t asking but clearly thinking.
“So.” Holloway set the beer on my kitchen bar, his expression curious rather than accusatory. “Media prep, huh?”
“Home opener’s a big deal. Wanted to make sure I’m ready for the presser.” I leaned against the bar.
“Beer?” Holloway offered a bottle. I took it, grateful to have something to do with my hands.
But he wasn’t done with the topic. “You and Wesley seem to work together a lot.”
My stomach tightened. This was exactly the kind of conversation I couldn’t afford—teammates noticing, asking questions, connecting dots that would lead to conclusions that would destroy everything.
“He’s the PR manager. Part of his job is making sure I’m prepared for media obligations.” I took a long drink of my beer, buying time to construct the right response. “As captain, I have more appearances than anyone else. Makes sense we’d work together frequently.”
“Right.” Holloway was quiet for a moment and sipped his beer.
Then he set his bottle down and looked at me directly. “You know, I wouldn’t care, right? If you were into guys. Wouldn’t matter to me at all.” He said it casually, but there was weight behind the words. “You and Wesley—” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. There’s something there. The way you look at him sometimes.”
My heart stopped. Then started pounding so hard I was sure Holloway could hear it.
