Page 12 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

SEVEN

LENNOX

The puck dropped, and everything else fell away.

And for something I couldn’t quite name but felt clawing in my chest every damn day since we got back from break.

I caught the pass from Easton clean, flicked it wide to Rhett to bait the defense, then carved a hard curve to take the return and shoot. But the opposing goalie read it like a book, dropping low and catching it square in the pads.

Whistle.

Reset.

I skated away, jaw clenched, heart pounding. My lungs burned, but it wasn’t from the sprint.

It had been like this for weeks. Since returning to Westmont, I’d been a little…

off. Not bad, exactly—my stats were solid, and Coach hadn’t said anything—but I felt it.

The restlessness, the tension in my shoulders that didn’t go away after gym, and the edge in my voice that made Rhett raise his eyebrows more than once back at the dorm.

Everything since the holidays had felt too loud, too bright, and not quite enough.

I lined up again, crouched at the face-off, sweat dripping down my neck. The arena lights blurred in the corner of my vision. The opposing center smirked at me like he knew something. I resisted the urge to cross-check him in the throat.

The puck dropped, and we fought like hell.

Easton called the play before we reached center ice, his voice a sharp command that sliced through the chaos.

“Cycle left!”

We moved like a machine—a well-oiled, desperate, pissed-off machine. Rhett drove hard into the corner and slammed his shoulder into a defenseman. The boards shuddered. I cut toward the net, ready for a pass, but the puck didn’t come.

Blocked again.

“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath, pivoting to cover the retreat. Easton was already there, skating backward like the seasoned predator he was, waiting for a slip, a crack, a single second of opportunity.

But the other team didn’t give us one.

They played like a goddamn wall. Every shot, every setup, every rebound got swallowed by their defense or smothered by their goalie. It was suffocating. Maddening. The kind of game that made you want to snap your stick in half and throw it into the stands.

With a minute left, Coach called time-out.

We huddled at the bench, helmets off, breaths ragged, steam rising from our shoulders like smoke off a battlefield. Coach barked out directions, but I barely heard him. My ears rang. My blood was a drumbeat.

I glanced at Easton. His eyes were sharp and focused, but I could see the fury building under the surface. He wanted this just as badly and more. This was his team, his comeback season, and his name on the line.

I looked at Rhett. He gave me a short nod, as if to say, “Let’s end this.”

I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

Back on the ice, the clock ticked down. We poured everything we had into the final push. Rhett cleared a path. Easton forced the turnover. I streaked up the left side, took the puck, and shot with everything I had left in my body.

It hit the crossbar.

The sound echoed like a death cry.

Their defense flipped it fast, a brutal counterattack, and in ten seconds, we were scrambling back. Easton tried to intercept but missed by inches. Rhett slid to block the pass. The puck ricocheted.

Their winger took the shot.

Our goalie lunged, but it was too clean, too fast.

It hit the net.

3–2.

Game over.

The buzzer didn’t just scream. It stabbed.

I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come. My vision tunneled slightly as the other team hollered, gloves and sticks flying as they swarmed their bench.

We didn’t move.

We skated off the ice in silence, and it was heavier than any shouting match.

The weeks-long streak was over.

My mood had been a roller coaster for weeks, but this was the plunge. The snap of gravity at the bottom.

And as the cold air of the hallway met my face, all I could think was that I didn’t know what was worse: the loss itself or how badly I needed something—someone—to take the edge off it.

Inevitably, he crossed my mind.

Oliver, stretched out beside me in that cabin bed. The weight of his palm on my chest. The way he kissed me like he didn’t want to stop, even though we both knew he would.

I yanked my hoodie on and tugged the laces tight, like I could squeeze the thoughts out of my head.

The guys were already making plans. Lumière, of course.

Cheap beer, sticky floors, and just enough bad lighting to make everyone feel invincible.

Rhett was hyping it up like a man who hadn’t just watched our three-week winning streak snap in two.

I didn’t blame him. He needed the noise and distraction.

Me? I needed air.

“You coming?” Rhett asked, balancing his duffel on one shoulder.

I shook my head. “Not tonight.”

He gave me a quick scan but didn’t push. “Catch you later, then.”

I nodded and stalked off in the opposite direction. The wind outside slapped my face as I stepped onto the path that led back to the dorms. My lungs seized for a second, stung by the cold, but I welcomed it. Anything to ground me.

The loss sat in my chest like a bruise, but it wasn’t just the game.

I walked faster, earbuds in but no music playing, letting the campus blur around me. I didn’t want to talk. And I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to be seen right now. I just wanted…

I didn’t even know. That was the problem.

By the time I reached my dorm, my fingers were stiff and red. I climbed the stairs two at a time and let myself into the quiet dorm room I shared with Rhett. It was still warm from his earlier presence, faintly smelling of aftershave and whatever protein bar he’d demolished before the game.

I dropped my gear, peeled off my hoodie, and collapsed onto my bed.

The silence rushed in immediately.

And there he was again.

Oliver Hayworth. Clean lines and strong strokes and ridiculous discipline. He haunted me in ways he probably didn’t even mean to. He hadn’t texted. I hadn’t either. We’d kept the unspoken agreement. That night had been exactly what he said it was. A moment.

But moments lingered, dammit.

And I hated myself a little for letting it get to me and for waking up next to someone who wanted nothing from me and still feeling more seen than I had in months.

I rubbed my hands over my face, willing the image away.

He wasn’t mine. He’d been clear. Focused.

Busy. All the old bullshit. Too busy for distractions, too busy for boys who liked to skate backward and make dumb jokes.

Oliver wasn’t cold, not exactly, but he had rules.

“Walls” was another word for it. I’d gotten past them once, and I knew better than to try again.

It was supposed to be a onetime thing.

And it had been.

So why did it still feel like he was holding a part of me hostage?

I turned over and buried my face in the pillow.

What I needed—really needed—was to focus. If he could do it, so could I. On the season. On the team. On the fact that we’d blown a chance to cement our dominance, and I was one of the guys who’d failed to deliver.

I couldn’t afford to spiral over one night in the snow.

I’d get over it.

Eventually.

If only I didn’t still feel him inside me every damn time I closed my eyes. If only I didn’t feel the pulling of his cock when he finished, a wild ripple of pleasure thundering through my very core. If only I didn’t pull this memory out of the abyss every time I drew a breath.