Page 35 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

Returning home. The words made my teeth grind against each other so hard I was surprised they didn't crack.

Of course he was spinning it like some heartwarming homecoming story instead of whatever corporate bullshit had really brought him here.

Probably some family business crisis that required the ruthless boy to come back and play his part.

"Let's see what you've all got," Coach continued, oblivious to the way my hands were clenching into fists inside my gloves. "We'll start with basic drills, work on conditioning, then run some plays. I want to see how our chemistry looks with the new additions."

As we spread out for warm-up laps, my mind was flooded with memories I'd spent three years trying to forget. They came in flashes, unwanted and vivid, like someone was flipping through a photo album in my head.

Aiden at some charity gala when we were nineteen, sliding up next to me at the bar while I was trying to avoid making small talk with my parents' friends.

He'd been wearing a perfectly tailored tux that probably cost more than my car, and when he'd asked if I wanted to get some air, there had been something in his voice that made it clear he wasn't talking about fresh air.

Aiden at a company Christmas party the winter after that, finding excuses to touch my arm while he talked, standing just a little too close when we were trapped in conversations with boring adults. Every interaction had felt like a test, like he was pushing to see how I'd react.

Aiden at a charity function two years ago, the last time I'd seen him before today.

He'd cornered me in a hallway between the dining room and the kitchen, close enough that I could smell his cologne and see the way his eyes tracked my mouth when he talked.

He'd said something about always wondering what I was like when I wasn't playing the perfect son, and the implication had been crystal clear.

He'd been testing me, pushing to see if I'd crack, if I'd admit to what we both knew but neither of us had ever said out loud. It had felt like a game to him, seeing how far he could push before I either kissed him or punched him. Maybe both.

I'd done neither, but it hadn't been easy. Instead, I'd made some excuse about needing to get back to the party and left him standing there with that knowing smile on his face.

Now, watching him glide effortlessly around the ice like he'd been born on skates, all that old frustration came rushing back.

He moved with the natural grace that made hockey look easy, the fluid motion that coaches dreamed about and spent years trying to teach players who would never quite get it.

Every turn was precise, every stride efficient and powerful.

He was fast, too. Not just quick, but genuinely fast in a way that meant he could probably beat most of our team in a straight sprint.

His stick handling was smooth and confident, and when he took a shot during the basic drills, the puck flew off his blade with the kind of snap that came from perfect technique and years of practice.

I hated that he was good. I hated that he made it look effortless. I hated the way I could feel his eyes on me every time I had the puck, like he was studying me, figuring out my weaknesses and cataloging them for future use.

But mostly, I hated the way my body was reacting to watching him play.

The way my pulse quickened when he moved, the way I found myself tracking his position on the ice even when the drill had nothing to do with him.

It was like some part of my brain that I couldn't control had decided he was important, worth paying attention to, and no amount of rational thought was going to change that.

During a water break, I was leaning against the boards and trying to get my head on straight when he skated over. Of course he did. Aiden Whitmore had never met a situation he couldn't make more complicated.

"You're looking good out there, Morrison," he said, close enough that I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, could catch the familiar scent of whatever expensive soap he used. "Still playing like you've got something to prove."

The observation was accurate enough to sting. I did have something to prove, and we both knew it. Senior year was make-or-break time for anyone with NHL dreams, and I'd been carrying that pressure around like a weight on my shoulders for months.

"Maybe because I do," I said, not bothering to deny it.

"Or maybe because you're afraid someone might actually be better than you."

The words were delivered with just enough casual malice to get under my skin, which was probably exactly what he'd intended. Aiden had always been good at finding pressure points and pressing them just hard enough to get a reaction.

I turned to face him fully, close enough now that anyone watching would think we were having a friendly chat between old acquaintances. "Is that what you think you are? Better than me?"

His smile was sharp as a blade, all edges and challenge. "I guess we'll find out, won't we? Should be fun."

The word 'fun' coming from his mouth sounded like a threat and a promise rolled into one, and I had to resist the urge to grab him by the jersey and slam him into the boards just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

By the time we made it back to the locker room, I was wound so tight I felt like I might snap if someone looked at me wrong.

The practice had been good. Better than good, actually.

The team looked strong, our new players were holding their own better than expected, and our chemistry was already clicking in a way that suggested this could be a special season.

But all I could think about was Aiden's presence like a storm cloud hanging over everything, threatening to ruin what should have been the best year of my hockey career.

I stripped down quickly, peeling off my gear with more force than necessary and shoving it into my bag. My jersey was soaked with sweat, my hair was a disaster, and all I wanted was five minutes of hot water and silence to get my head on straight.

But of course, Aiden followed me toward the showers.

He started undressing without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, like being naked in front of a room full of guys was the most natural thing in the world. Which, for him, it probably was. He moved with the same confident grace he showed on the ice, every motion deliberate and unashamed.

I tried not to look, focused on organizing my shower supplies and folding my practice gear with unnecessary precision, but my treacherous eyes kept drifting in his direction despite my best efforts.

He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, elegant lines and confident movement that spoke of someone who'd never questioned whether his body was worth looking at.

His shoulders were broader than I'd expected, his waist narrow, and there was a small scar on his left hip that looked like it might be from surgery. Hockey injury, probably.

The pride he carried himself with wasn't just arrogance. It was completely justified. He looked like he'd been carved from marble by someone who understood exactly what perfection should look like, and he knew it.

I clutched my towel tighter around my waist and practically fled to the shower stalls, choosing the one farthest from where he was standing and slamming the door harder than necessary.

I turned the water as hot as I could stand and stood under the spray, hoping it would wash away the image that was now burned into my memory.

But even with my eyes closed and steam filling the small space, I couldn't get it out of my head. Aiden Whitmore, naked and beautiful and completely aware of the effect he had on everyone around him.

This was going to be the longest season of my life.