Page 18

I stared at him, stunned that he'd noticed such a specific mannerism. "I do a thing with my hands?"

"Yeah, this little circular motion," he demonstrated. "You did it when you were explaining aperture settings to me last week."

The fact that he'd not only noticed but remembered such a detail made something warm unfurl in my chest.

As the night progressed and the drinks flowed, the games became sillier and the laughter louder. I found myself genuinely enjoying these people I'd once dismissed as just "hockey bros"—seeing their loyalty to each other, the way they included significant others and friends without making us feel like outsiders.

Then Tyler suggested Truth or Dare, and the energy in the room shifted to something more charged.

"Classic," Dylan approved, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "But let's set some ground rules. Nothing that would get us kicked out of the resort, nothing Coach would bench someone for, and everyone has one pass if a question or dare gets too personal. Agreed?"

Everyone nodded, arranging themselves in a rough circle on the floor and couches. I found myself wedged between Ethan and Olivia on a love seat, acutely aware of Ethan's thigh pressed against mine.

The game started tamely enough—embarrassing confessions about first kisses, silly dares involving food combinations or dances. But as it progressed, the questions became more personal, the dares more intimate.

When the spin landed on Ethan, Tyler's grin turned wicked. "Truth or dare, Captain?"

"Truth," Ethan chose, clearly the safer option given Tyler's expression.

"Boring," Tyler complained. "Fine. When did you first realize you had feelings for Mia?"

The room went quiet, all eyes turning to Ethan. I felt myself tense, suddenly very interested in his answer.

Ethan took a sip of his drink, his eyes meeting mine briefly before addressing the room. "It wasn't one moment," he said carefully. "It was a series of small things. The way she completely destroyed me verbally that first day on the ice." This earned chuckles from the team. "How seriously she takes her photography. The fact that she calls me on my BS instead of letting me get away with it."

He paused, and the sincerity in his voice made my heart race.

"But if I had to pick one moment," he continued, "it was probably when I saw her at that first game against State. She was so focused on getting the perfect shot, she didn't even notice when everyone else jumped up cheering. She was just doing her thing, completely in her element. It was... compelling."

The room remained silent for a beat too long, everyone seemingly aware that they'd witnessed something more genuine than expected from a party game. I couldn't look at Ethan, afraid of what my expression might reveal.

"Damn, Captain," Reyes broke the silence, "that was deep. I was expecting something like 'when she wore that blue dress to the formal.'"

The tension dissolved into laughter, and the game moved on. But I remained hyper-aware of Ethan beside me, wondering how much of his answer had been performance and how much had been real.

A few rounds later, the bottle landed on him again. This time, perhaps to avoid another personal truth, he chose dare.

Dylan's eyes lit up with mischief. "I dare you to demonstrate your most romantic move."

The team whooped as Ethan groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Dylan confirmed. "Show us what makes the ladies swoon, Captain."

Ethan looked at me, a question in his eyes. I gave a small nod, granting permission for whatever display our fake relationship required.

What I didn't expect was for him to gently pull me onto his lap, one hand settling at my waist while the other brushed my hair behind my ear. His eyes never left mine as he leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to kiss me in front of everyone.

Instead, he brought his lips to my ear, his breath warm against my skin as he whispered, "You look beautiful with snowflakes in your hair. Like something from a dream I didn't know I had."

The words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The spell was broken by wolf whistles and exaggerated swooning from the team. Ethan kept his arm around my waist as I slid back to my seat, the warmth of his touch lingering even after I moved away.

The rest of the game passed in a blur, my mind stuck on Ethan's whispered words and the sincerity in his eyes. By the time we all dispersed to our respective cabins, exhausted from a full day of activities, I was no closer to sorting out my confused feelings.

Which brought me to the moment I'd been both dreading and anticipating all day: bedtime.

As we entered our room, the single queen bed seemed to have grown larger and more intimidating in our absence. Ethan and I moved around each other awkwardly, taking turns in the bathroom, carefully avoiding eye contact and conversation.

I emerged from the bathroom in my pajamas—flannel pants and a long-sleeved thermal top—to find Ethan sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone with unnatural intensity. He'd changed into pajama bottoms and a Wolves t-shirt that had seen better days.

"All yours," I said unnecessarily, gesturing to the bathroom.

"Thanks," he nodded, still not meeting my eyes as he took his turn.

Left alone, I stared at the bed, trying to decide which side to take. This shouldn't be so complicated, I told myself. Adults share beds all the time without it being a big deal. Friends, siblings, platonic road trip companions...

But Ethan and I weren't exactly friends, were we?

Sighing, I grabbed one of the decorative pillows from an armchair and placed it in the center of the bed. As Ethan returned, I added another, and another, until a veritable wall divided the mattress in half.

"The Demilitarized Zone," I announced with forced lightness. "Your territory, my territory, clearly defined borders."

Ethan stared at the pillow barrier, then at me, before a slow smile spread across his face. "Very diplomatic. Though I feel like I should be offended that you think I need a physical barrier to behave myself."

"It's not for you," I clarified, though we both knew that wasn't entirely true. "It's for my peace of mind. I'm a restless sleeper."

"Ah," he nodded solemnly. "Well, in that case..." He added another pillow to the top of the stack, making the barrier comically tall. "Can't be too careful."

The absurdity of the situation finally got to me, and I burst out laughing. Ethan joined in, the tension that had been building all day finally breaking as we laughed at our own ridiculousness.

"This is so stupid," I managed between giggles. "We're adults, not middle schoolers at their first co-ed sleepover."

"Speak for yourself," Ethan grinned, grabbing another pillow from a chair. "I'm taking no chances with your 'restless sleeping.'" He made exaggerated air quotes around the words.

"Oh my god, stop," I laughed, snatching the pillow from him and swatting his arm with it. "The hotel staff is going to think we're insane."

"Bold of you to assume they don't already think that, given the twenty-something hockey players taking over their resort."

Eventually, our laughter subsided, and we settled on our respective sides of the Great Pillow Wall of Awkwardness. Ethan turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the faint glow of embers in the fireplace.

I lay rigid on my back, acutely aware of Ethan's presence just feet away, separated by nothing but a ridiculous pile of decorative pillows. The absurdity of our situation was almost too much to bear.

Just as I was convincing myself to relax and sleep, Ethan's voice came softly through the darkness.

"Mia? Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," I whispered back. "Can't sleep?"

"Not really. Mind's too busy."

I turned onto my side, facing the pillow wall though I couldn't see him. "What are you thinking about?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "The championship game. Scouts. My future."

The weight in his voice made my heart ache. I'd been so caught up in my own confusion about our relationship that I'd almost forgotten the immense pressure he was under. NHL scouts would be at the championship, evaluating not just his playing but his character, his leadership, his worth as an investment.

"Are you nervous?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Terrified," he admitted, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it. "Three teams are sending representatives. Coach says they're all seriously interested. It's everything I've worked for."

"You're going to be amazing," I said with absolute conviction. "I've watched you play. I've seen how hard you work. They'd be idiots not to want you."

He laughed softly, but it held little humor. "If only my father shared your confidence. He's been calling daily with 'suggestions' for improvement."

"Your father is..." I hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of his family.

"A perfectionist? Overly critical? Living vicariously through me?"

"I was going to say 'intensely invested in your success,' but those work too."

His sigh was heavy. "He means well," Ethan said, his voice muffled. "He just... doesn't know how to show support without pointing out every single flaw."

We fell silent for a moment, the weight of that admission settling in the darkness between us.

"Maybe he doesn't see it," I said softly. "But I do. He doesn't realize how incredible you actually are on the ice, Ethan."

His movement stilled. "You really think that?"

"Yes," I insisted gently. "I've been watching you for weeks. I see how much longer you stay practicing after everyone else leaves. I see the intelligence in how you read the game, how you think two steps ahead. And I see how much every single shift means to you."

There was another pause, longer this time. "Thank you," he said, his voice softer now. "For seeing that."

The dam seemed to break after that. We continued talking in the darkness, our voices low and hushed, sharing vulnerabilities shielded by the night. He spoke of the constant, crushing pressure of being Richard Wright’s son, how the joy of hockey had slowly curdled into obligation somewhere in his teens. In turn, I shared my own anxieties—the gnawing fear about the shrinking job market for photographers, the constant hum of worry about money that shadowed my whole college experience.

In that dark room, with the pillow wall between us, we were more honest than we'd ever been in daylight.

At some point, our hands found each other in the narrow gap between pillows. His fingers intertwined with mine, warm, strong and reassuring.

He then moved closer and leaned in for a kiss, initiated hesitantly in the darkness. It wasn’t the frantic energy of the maintenance alcove or the deliberate statement of the formal night. This felt like acceptance, a quiet acknowledgment of the feelings we’d both tried so hard to deny.

His lips moved against mine, slow and searching, tasting me as if for the first time. My hands found their way beneath his t-shirt, palms flattening against the smooth, warm skin of his back. The crisp, cold air outside made the heat radiating from him seem even more intense. I moved a hand onto his chest, feeling the muscles shift beneath my touch.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. "Mia," he murmured, his voice low and intimate in the darkness. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I breathed, the word catching slightly. There was no pretense left.

We moved slowly, unhurriedly. Undressing each other beneath the heavy duvet became a sensual exploration in itself. His fingers fumbled slightly with the buttons on my thermal top, the friction against my skin sending little sparks through me. I helped him, easing the fabric off my shoulders. When his knuckles brushed against the side of my boob, I shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation. I worked his shirt up over his head, my fingers lingering on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

Skin met skin in the warm cocoon of the blankets. He pulled me closer, my bare breasts pressing against his chest, my leg tangling with his. We just lay there for a moment, wrapped in the quiet intimacy, listening to the soft sounds of each other’s breathing, the faint scent of his soap mingling with the smell of pine from the cabin logs.

His hand began a slow journey down my body, stroking my side, dipping into the curve of my waist, learning my shape by touch in the near-darkness. His hand brushed across my ass, sending a wave of heat pooling low in my belly. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear, nuzzling, tasting. Soft sighs escaped my lips as his lips trailed lower, charting a course across my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts.

"You're so soft," he whispered against my skin.

I arched into his touch, my own hands exploring him, bolder now, rediscovering the hard lines and smooth skin. My fingers traced the waistband of his pajama bottoms, hesitating slightly before slipping beneath the elastic, seeking him out. He sucked in a sharp breath when my fingers closed around his cock, already thick and hard against my palm. He felt impossibly smooth and hot.

"Mia," he groaned, his hips giving an involuntary buck.

Encouraged, I stroked him slowly, learning his length, the way his dick pulsed under my touch. Meanwhile, his mouth continued its devastating exploration, kissing a path down my stomach, dipping his tongue into my navel. My breath hitched when his fingers found my wet pussy, parting me gently. He stroked me there, fingers slipping inside my folds, finding me slick and ready.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, his thumb finding my clit and circling it slowly, deliberately.

I moaned, pressing myself against his hand, needing more friction, more pressure. He seemed to understand, his fingers moving faster, his thumb becoming more insistent. Just as I felt the familiar tension begin to coil tightly within me, he shifted, withdrawing his hand. I let out a frustrated whimper.

"Easy," he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my skin. He positioned his cock against my pussy. I lifted my hips, guiding him.

He entered me slowly, stretching me, filling me. I gasped, clutching his shoulders as our bodies adjusted. He paused, deep inside me, letting me savor the feeling of fullness. Looking up, I could just make out the intense expression on his face.

"Okay?" he whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak, just tightening my pussy muscles around his dick in answer.

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that felt profoundly intimate. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t demanding. It was a shared exploration. My hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles clench and release with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The pace gradually quickened, his thrusts becoming stronger, reaching deeper. I met him, matching his rhythm, our bodies moving together as one. The sounds in the room changed – soft sighs turning into moans, the steady rhythm of the bed frame joining the chorus of our breathing. He rolled us gently, shifting our position so I was lying on my side facing him, his body curled around mine, his cock still buried deep inside me. He reached around, cupping my breast, his thumb teasing the nipple as he continued his steady rhythm from behind.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. I turned my head, meeting his intense gaze. Seeing the emotion there, the tenderness mixed with raw desire, sent a fresh wave of heat through me. He leaned in, kissing me as he moved within me. The combination was intoxicating.

He pulled back slightly, whispering my name, telling me how good I felt, how much this meant. His words, combined with the physical sensations, pushed me closer to the edge. The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter until I couldn't hold back.

"Ethan!" I cried out, arching against him as my orgasm crashed over me, wave after wave.

My release seemed to trigger his own. With a final, deep thrust and a guttural groan, he stiffened, spilling his cum deep inside me. His forehead rested against my back, his breathing harsh and ragged. We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, hearts pounding, the echoes of our climax slowly fading in the quiet room.

He eventually withdrew, rolling onto his back and pulling me against his side. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. He stroked my pussy idly, his touch comforting, possessive. Outside, snow continued to fall silently, blanketing the world in white. Inside, wrapped in the warmth of Ethan’s arms, feeling the undeniable reality of our connection, I had never felt safer, or more exposed.

I woke the next morning to the soft sound of snow falling outside our window. The room was bathed in the pearly gray light of early dawn, casting everything in gentle shadow. The fire had died completely, leaving a slight chill in the air that made me burrow deeper under the comforter.

Our hands were no longer linked, but somehow during the night, Ethan's arm had found its way across the diminished wall, his hand resting near my shoulder.

I lay still, watching him sleep. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, his mouth slightly open, utterly defenseless in a way I never saw when he was awake.

Without thinking, I reached for my camera on the nightstand, framing a shot of his profile against the window, where snowflakes drifted lazily past the glass. The quiet click of the shutter stirred him, and his eyes blinked open, finding mine immediately.

"Morning," he murmured, voice husky with sleep. "Were you taking pictures of me?"

"Professional habit," I deflected, setting the camera aside. "The lighting was good."

He smiled, making no move to retract his arm. "I didn't drool, did I? That would ruin my captain image."

"Your reputation is safe," I assured him. "Very dignified sleeping."

He stretched, his t-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a strip of tanned skin above his waistband. I averted my eyes, suddenly very interested in a loose thread on the comforter.

"Coffee?" he offered, sitting up and running a hand through his thoroughly disheveled hair.

"God, yes. I'm barely human without it."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching again before padding to the small coffee maker on the dresser. I watched him move around the room with easy domesticity, measuring coffee, filling the water reservoir, finding mugs in a small cabinet.

He returned to the bed, sitting on the edge of my side and offering a steaming mug. "No milk, sorry. But I remembered you take it with sugar."

"Thanks," I said, taking the cup and cupping my hands around its warmth. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and my gaze lifted to meet his.

Something shifted in his expression as he looked at me. He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from my face with gentle fingers.

Time seemed suspended as we looked at each other, the air between us charged with possibility. He leaned closer, and I found myself tilting toward him, coffee forgotten in my hands.

His lips were inches from mine when a pounding on our door shattered the moment.

"Breakfast in twenty minutes!" Dylan's voice called through the wood. "Coach says if you're not there, you're doing wind sprints in the snow!"

Ethan pulled back, the spell broken. He ran a hand through his hair again—definitely a nervous habit—and stood.

"We should probably..."

"Yeah," I nodded quickly. "Get ready. Breakfast. Right."

He retreated to the bathroom, leaving me sitting in bed, clutching my cooling coffee and wondering what would have happened if Dylan hadn't interrupted.

The remainder of the ski weekend passed in a blur of activity that left little time for private moments. We skied, ate meals with the team, played more games, and took group photos. Ethan and I were careful to maintain appropriate couple behavior in public—holding hands, sitting together, exchanging casual touches—while creating careful distance in private.

Neither of us mentioned the sex, though I sometimes caught him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. By unspoken agreement, we dismantled the pillow barrier on the second night, though we still kept carefully to our respective sides of the bed.

On the drive back to campus, exhausted from a full weekend of winter activities, I dozed against the window while Olivia and Dylan bickered good-naturedly about music selection. Just before I drifted off completely, I felt something warm cover me—Ethan's team jacket, draped carefully over me like a blanket.

I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but my heart raced as I caught the faint scent of his cologne on the fabric.