Kayla looked from the "pantry" to the single bed, then back to me. Her face went through three different shades of pink. "Michael, there’s… there’s only one bed. And Gabe can’t exactly share that closet with a professional athlete."
"I can sleep on the floor," I offered, though my lower back, still bruised from the Colorado series, let out a sharp twinge of protest at the mere suggestion.
"No," Kayla said, her practical side winning out over her modesty. She sighed, tossing her keys on the nightstand. "The floor is probably older than the city. We’re adults, Michael. We’ve survived a six-hour car ride and a Rube Goldberg machine. We can share a bed for one night. Platonically. Like… like penguins."
"Penguins," I repeated, a dry chuckle escaping me. "Right. Strictly for survival."
But as the night wore on, the survival aspect became the hardest workout of my career.
After Gabe retreated to his closet-suite to watch highlights on his phone, the room became painfully quiet. I changed in the tiny bathroom, slipping into a pair of loose athletic shorts and a t-shirt, trying to be as fast and unobtrusive as possible. When I came out, Kayla was already under the covers, propped up against the headboard with a book, her hair damp from a quick shower.
She’d swapped her bar clothes for a soft, oversized grey t-shirt that showed just enough of her collarbone to make my throat go dry.
"Left side or right?" she asked, not looking up from her page, though I could see the slight tremor in her hand.
"Left," I said, sliding in.
The mattress was too soft, causing us both to roll slightly toward the center. The scent of her shampoo, something like vanilla and rain, filled the small space between us. It was a sensory overload. For months, I’d been memorizing the curve of her smile from across a crowded bar; now, she was so close I could feel the radiant heat of her skin.
"Goodnight, Michael," she whispered, reaching over to click off the lamp.
"Night, Kayla."
Darkness flooded the room, lit only by the rhythmic flash of the 'M' from the motel sign outside. I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, my arms pinned to my sides like I was in a coffin. I was a professional athlete; I was trained in discipline, in focus, in the ability to ignore pain and distraction to achieve a goal.
But my body wasn't listening to the playbook.
Every time she shifted, the sheets rustled against my leg. Every time she breathed, I could hear the tiny, soft catch in her throat. She was inches away. My mind kept replaying the near-kiss at her apartment door, the way she’d looked under the lights of the rink, the way she’d laughed in the Jeep.
I felt a slow, heavy heat settling in my gut, a physical betrayal that had nothing to do with "platonic penguins." I closed my eyes, trying to visualize a defensive zone trap. I tried to think about penalty kill statistics. I tried to think about Miller’s stale pretzels.
Nothing worked.
Kayla turned over, her back now to me, and in her sleep, she retreated toward the center of the bed. Her foot brushed against my ankle. Soft, warm, and devastating.
I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.Focus, Landry,I told myself, clutching the edge of the comforter until my grip ached.You’re the captain. You’re a mentor. A friend.
The "friend" part felt like a lie in the dark. I wanted to reach out, to pull her back against me, to see if the gooey center I felt earlier was as real as the heat currently radiating between us. But I stayed anchored to my side of the mattress, a silent, suffering sentinel.
The darkness in the room was thick, charged with the kind of static that makes the hair on your arms stand up. Every time Kayla shifted, the cheap mattress dipped, rolling us toward each other until our shoulders were a fraction of an inch apart. I could hear her heart—or maybe it was mine—thudding a desperate rhythm against the quiet.
The discipline that had earned me captaincy was shredding. I’d played through broken ribs and torn ligaments, but this was a different kind of agony. The scent of her shampoo was a direct hit to my nervous system, and the warmth radiating from her was a magnetic pull I was losing the strength to fight.
"Kayla?" my voice came out as a low, rough scrape.
"Yeah?" she whispered. She didn't move, but I knew she wasn't sleeping. Her breathing was too shallow, too deliberate.
I stared at the ceiling, watching the red glow of the motel sign pulse against the peeling paint. "Are we being incredibly stupid right now?"
I felt her go still. "Stupid how?"
"This," I said, gesturing vaguely in the dark between our bodies. "The 'platonic penguins' act. The pretending that I’m not losing my mind with you lying three inches away. Maybe we should just... stop fighting it. Maybe we should just make out and get it out of our systems."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. I turned my head, and in the dim light, I saw her eyes go wide. The invitation was hanging there, heavy and shimmering, a sudden bridge over the chasm we’d been staring across for months. I saw her lips part, saw the way she started to lean toward me.
Then, the adjoining door creaked.
A sliver of light from the bathroom hit the bed as Gabe poked his head out of his closet-sized room. He was squinting, his hair a bird’s nest of sleep-mussed curls.
