Page 5

Chapter Five

Blake

T he steam room is suffocating, thick with heat and the lingering scent of eucalyptus and sweat. My skin burns from the temperature, my muscles tight and aching from the game yesterday, but I don’t move.

I sit on the bench, elbows on my knees, watching the beads of condensation trail down the tiled walls, dripping onto the floor in uneven rhythms.

2 goals to 3. We lost.

The low hum of the steam vents fills the silence, but it doesn’t drown out the storm in my head.

Coach Brody tore into us after the game. When we arrived back here a few hours ago he did the same thing before sending us home to 'take a good hard look at ourselves'.

He ripped us apart, and I took the worst of it.

Rightfully so.

I played like shit. Slow. Sloppy. Unfocused. The kind of performance that makes you sick when you think about it.

Missed passes. Stupid penalties. A fucking turnover that cost us the tying goal that sent us into overtime. We'd already lost out heads by then, but the winner just piled on the misery.

I rub a hand over my face, jaw clenching.

It’s not just the loss sitting heavy in my chest—it’s her .

That goddamn dance. That dress. That scent that lingers, still strong enough to stir my cock everywhere I fucking go.

I grunt, slapping my forehead, trying to rid these thoughts.

The soft press of her killer body against me, the way her fingers hesitated before settling on my shoulder. The heat in her breath when I leaned in close.

I shut my eyes, exhaling sharply through my nose.

Fucking hell! Stop!

She’s inside my head, slinking into places she has no business being.

I shift forward, bracing my forearms on my knees. I should be focused on the team, on our next game, on fixing the shit I messed up last night. Instead, I’m stuck replaying flashes of emerald silk and wicked hazel eyes, and it’s pissing me off.

Enough.

I push off the bench, dragging a fresh white towel from the nearby stack. The steam clings to my skin as I wrap it around my waist, knotting it low on my hips.

I need to sleep off this frustration. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can reset. Drown out the loss. Drown out her .

I step toward the door, pushing it open with one hand-

And freeze.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Standing right there, in my space, where she should not be, is Sophia-fucking-Hart. Steam curls around her like she’s stepped out of a goddamn dream.

Or maybe a nightmare. Depends on the angle.

Furious, I step out of the steam room and let the door slam behind me. The hallway’s cool air slams into me like a slap to the face. My skin tingles, still steaming slightly, moisture clinging to my chest, dripping in slow, lazy rivulets down my abs.

But none of that matters.

Sophia's frozen mid-step, pink lips parting, those sharp hazel eyes dropping instinctively to the towel slung low on my hips.

Her pupils dilate. Not much. Just a fraction.

But I see it.

She flicks her gaze up. Too quickly, too deliberately. Like she’s trying to pretend she wasn’t looking. Like she wasn’t just ogling me, standing half-naked in a hallway dripping wet.

I shift slightly, adjusting my stance and the knot at my waist loosens. Not a lot. Just a fraction.

Enough so the trail of water droplets slide down my abs, hit the hard planes of the V that's teasing Ms. Hart's eyes right now, dragging them lower, lower, lower…

Her long, dark lashes flicker, the faintest hitch in her breath. Her lips part, ever so slightly, before she clamps them shut again.

A slow, lazy smirk tugs at my lips.

Because fuck… does she hate that she's noticed.

"What the hell are you doing here, Hart?" My voice is rough, edged with a mix of amusement and lingering frustration from last night's game. "I hope you're just here for the view."

Her chin jerks up, sharp and fast, her shoulders squaring like she’s gearing up for battle. But there it is… that soft, telltale flush that creeps up her neck.

The one I want to chase with my mouth.

Jesus. Fuck. No.

I take a step forward. Just enough that the heat rolling off me, the leftover steam clinging to my skin, brushes against her.

She inhales, just barely, like she’s trying not to notice. But she does .

I see the way her fingers twitch, like she’s physically restraining herself from adjusting her blouse.

"Trust me, Maddox," she snaps, arms crossing tight over her chest like she can physically block out the last five seconds. "If I wanted a view, I'd pick one with less attitude. "

I huff out a laugh. "And yet, here you are… standing outside the steam room like a goddamn stalker."

"Am not-" She exhales sharply, cutting herself off, rolling her shoulders back like she's shaking me off.

I drag my gaze down, taking in her outfit despite my better judgment.

She's wearing one of those fitted blazers that's probably supposed to look professional, but the deep burgundy color against her skin makes my mouth go dry. The silk blouse underneath is cream-colored, and with her arms crossed like that...

Fuck.

The way she's standing, all defensive and irritated, pushes her breasts together, creating a shadow of cleavage that I absolutely shouldn't be noticing.

But I am. Because I'm an idiot who can't keep his eyes where they belong.

"My eyes are up here, Captain. " She spits my title like it's poison.

"Just trying to figure out if you dressed up special for our little hallway encounter." I force my gaze back to her face, hating that I'm affected by her at all. "The blazer's new."

Her eyes narrow. "Do you always keep inventory of what women wear?"

"Only the ones who show up uninvited in my locker room." I adjust my towel, noting how her gaze drops again before snapping back up. "So what's the real reason you're here, Sophia? Because we both know it's not for my charming personality."

"I-uh, I…" Her eyes drop to her shoes. "I just wanted to make sure you heard this from me, not someone else."

I don’t like the way that sounds.

The amusement fades just a little, my smirk tightening. " Heard what? "

She holds my gaze now, steady, unflinching.

"The board approved my pitch today." She doesn’t blink. "We’re creating content with the youth program."

Just like that, the heat in my chest shifts. The amusement curdles into something colder. Her grip tightens around the folder she’s holding, like she’s bracing for impact.

She should be.

Because she just fucked with the one thing that isn’t hers to touch.

"You better be fucking kidding, Sophia."

Sophia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. She should , because my pulse is pounding like a fucking war drum.

She lifts her chin defiantly. "I'm not."

All of a sudden, she's all pride and stubbornness wrapped in a fucking blazer.

She's proud of this.

The air crackles between us, thick with something hotter than the steam room I just left. My skin is still damp, heat still rolling off me in waves, but this?

This is the real fire.

“You don’t know a damn thing about those kids,” I bite out.

Sophia crosses her arms, meeting my glare with equal force. “I know they deserve to have their stories told. To be seen.”

I laugh. Cold. Sharp. The kind that cuts. “They don’t need to be your next damn marketing campaign!”

Her lips press into a firm line. “That’s not what this is, and you know it.”

I step closer, enough that I see the quick inhale she tries to disguise. My towel hangs low, my body still burning from the steam, but she holds her ground. Doesn’t budge.

She never does.

She’s breathing hard. Almost as rushed and heavy as I am.

And fuck, my body knows it.

If I dipped my head, I could taste her. If I pressed forward, just half an inch, I could feel her against me, those ridiculously soft curves meeting my hard muscles, heat against heat.

She doesn’t back down.

Neither do I.

“The Icehawks Youth Hockey Program isn’t for show,” I say, voice dropping. “It’s a safe space. They don’t need fucking exposure , Sophia. They need a chance .”

Her throat bobs with a swallow, but her jaw tightens like she’s fighting something.

Maybe the same thing I am.

“And what about kids like you?”

My entire body goes rigid.

Her words slam into me like a cross-check to the ribs.

She doesn’t know . She can’t know.

I swallow, my jaw working overtime like Coach Brody's gum, but I don’t say a damn word.

Because what the hell am I supposed to say? Yeah, I was one of them? One of the broke, angry kids who had nothing but a shitty pair of skates and a dream?

No fucking way.

I don’t owe her that part of me.

So instead, I push past it, past the tight knot in my chest, and lean in even closer. Right until she has to tilt her stupid pretty head back to meet my eyes, sending her fucking silky smooth blonde hair into a tumbling mess.

“You want to change this team so badly, Hart?” I feel my nose scrunch, my top lip snarl. “Go change your spreadsheets. But leave my team the hell alone.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact.

Instead, she lifts a single brow, and fucking smirks .

“You really think this is just about you?” Her voice is soft against my lips, so warm I can practically taste it. “Captain Maddox, you might be the face of this franchise, but newsflash? You don’t own it. ”

The anger rolling through me is white-hot.

Not just at her. But at the fucking truth in what she’s saying.

I don’t own this team. I don’t own the youth program. And now? Now after walking in the door ten days ago, she’s been given the keys to it?

This isn’t about her. It’s about the team. The kids. The goddamn program. If I sound pissed, it’s because I am. Not because she’s standing too fucking close, not because her perfume is crawling under my skin. Not because I can still feel her body against mine from that goddamn dance.

Fuck this.

I go to turn around and grab my bag, determined to get the fuck out of here. But a hand on my shoulder stops me.

“Blake, I get it. You want to protect them. But maybe letting them be seen isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it helps more kids, kids exactly like them right across the country, find their way to hockey.”

Kids like them.

My stomach twists.

Because I was a kid like them.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. Seriously, she never gives up. “If you really want to see what this program’s about, show your face at the Winter Festival this weekend. Then you'll understand why your idea is worthless to these kids.”

She doesn’t say anything right away.

Just watches me. Still too close. Still too fucking tempting.

My fingers flex at my sides, desperate to touch, to grip, to pull.

I want to slam her against the wall, pin her wrists above her head, and see how long that sharp mouth of hers can keep up the fight when my hands are on her. When my teeth are at her throat. My mouth on her pussy.

Fuck.

My aching cock twitches just from the thought of her gasping beneath me. Arching. Writhing. Giving in.

Because that’s the worst part.

I know she would.

No matter how many quick comebacks she throws, no matter how much she wants to pretend she’s immune to this, she’s just as wired as I am.

I should let her go. Should walk the fuck away before I do something I can’t take back.

Better yet, I should bend her over and spank her ass for making me this crazy.

Instead, I glance down, dragging my gaze over her curves like a fucking starved man.

Instead, I take a sharp breath, forcing myself back. My nails dig into my palm, my restraint hanging by a damn thread.

"Be there, Sophia. But you can leave your fucking cameras at home."

Then, before she can open her mouth, before I change my mind, I turn and walk away.