The house was loud when I stepped inside, but not as packed as a party night. A few guys were in the living room with controllers in their hands, swearing at the TV while someone in the kitchen yelled about protein powder being a food group. Nobody paid much attention to me beyond a couple of quick greetings, which I returned with a smile that probably looked normal enough if nobody examined it too closely.
I checked the gym first.
Empty.
The weights were still scattered from earlier, one towel folded over the bench, the treadmill screen dark. For a second, the whole room seemed to hold the ghost of what had happened there. Cade behind me. His voice at my ear. His hands leaving my body the second I told him we should stop.
My stomach dipped all over again.
He was probably in the shower. That was fine. Perfect, actually. I would run the bottle up to his room, leave it on hisnightstand, and leave before I had to survive looking at him again. Easy. Normal. A completely reasonable errand performed by a woman who absolutely had not almost melted into a puddle because a hockey player told her that was him holding back.
I took the stairs before I could talk myself out of it.
Cade’s room was at the highest point of Hockey House, tucked into the converted attic space reserved for captains and future captains, quieter than the rest of the chaos below. His door sat cracked open just enough to show a thin slice of darkness inside. I paused with my hand around the bottle, listening. No shower running. No music. Nothing except the muffled noise downstairs and my own pulse suddenly beating too hard.
I should have knocked. I knew that.
I really, really knew that.
But the door was already open, and I could see the edge of his bed, the nightstand, the soft glow from the lamp near his desk. I pushed the door a little wider with my fingertips, intending to step in, set the bottle down, and disappear.
At first, I didn’t see him. Then, as I turned to leave, his closet door cracked open, moved just enough.
And my entire body went still.
Cade stood inside the open closet with one hand braced high on a shelf, head bowed, shoulders tense, his body half-shadowed by the warm spill of lamplight from the room. For one suspended second, my brain refused to understand what I was seeing. The hard line of his back. The way his breathing sounded too rough in the quiet. The hand low on his body, moving in a rhythm that made heat flash so fast through me I almost dropped the bottle.
Oh, fuck.
I gasped before I could stop myself.
Cade froze.
So, did I.
The silence cracked wide open between us.
He turned his head first, slowly, his profile cutting through the dim light. Then he turned fully, and whatever apology had started climbing up my throat died there because he did not look embarrassed.
He looked wrecked. His eyes found mine, and every inch of me went hot and cold at once.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, voice thin and horrified. “I’m so sorry. I grabbed your water bottle, and I thought you were in the shower, and I was just going to leave it. I wasn’t—”
I reached blindly for the door, already backing up.
“Don’t move.”
The command hit me hard enough to stop my body before my brain understood it.
I stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still around the bottle, the other hovering near the doorframe. My breath came in too shallow. Cade’s gaze locked on mine with terrifying focus as he stayed where he was, braced against the shelf, every line of him pulled tight with restraint.
“Cade,” I whispered.
His throat moved once. His voice came lower. Rougher. “Look at me, Pip.”
My eyes snapped up from his cock in his hand as he languidly continued to stroke it.
Something dark and knowing moved through his expression, but he didn’t smile. “Should I stop?”
