Page 21 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)
FOURTEEN
AIDEN
I followed Rhett into the locker room like a man possessed, my eyes tracking every movement of his body as he made his way to his usual spot.
The practice had left us both heated and flushed, sweat dampening our hair and making our gear cling to our skin.
I could smell him from here, that intoxicating mix of exertion and the clean scent that was uniquely his, cutting through the familiar odors of the locker room like a drug I couldn’t get enough of.
My frustration was building with every breath I took.
This morning’s phone call with my mother was still echoing in my head, her pointed comments about family obligations and patience running thin.
She’d mentioned the “debt” I owed to the family, as if my entire existence was some kind of transaction that needed to be repaid with compliance and gratitude.
“Your father is being very patient with this hockey phase,” she’d said, her voice carrying that particular tone that made every word feel like a carefully aimed barb. “But he won’t wait forever for you to take your responsibilities seriously.”
Phase. Like something I’d outgrow, like a childhood obsession with toy cars or comic books. The dismissive way she’d said it had made my jaw clench with anger that I was still carrying around hours later.
Part of me wanted to get back at her, wanted to do something that would horrify her perfectly controlled sensibilities.
And I knew exactly what would accomplish that goal.
She couldn’t stand the Morrisons, had made that clear through years of carefully worded comments about “certain families” and their “questionable practices.” If she knew what I’d been doing with Rhett Morrison, what I was planning to do again, it would probably give her heart palpitations.
The thought should have been more satisfying than it was. Instead, it just made me feel hollow, using my attraction to Rhett as some kind of rebellion against family expectations. He deserved better than that, even if I wasn’t ready to examine why that mattered to me.
But then I caught sight of him pulling off his practice jersey, revealing the lean lines of his torso, and all rational thought fled my brain.
I’d been unable to take my eyes off him all day, hyperaware of his every movement during practice, cataloging each expression that crossed his face.
The way he’d looked when I’d suggested doing it on ice had been burned into my memory, that combination of shock and want that had made me want to push him against the boards and kiss him senseless.
The locker room was filling with the usual post-practice noise, guys complaining about conditioning, making plans for the evening, the general chaos of twenty college athletes trying to shower and change in a confined space.
But I was only aware of Rhett, of the way his hands moved as he organized his gear, the flex of muscle in his shoulders as he reached for his towel.
I made my decision quickly, grabbing my own shower supplies and timing my approach to the stalls.
When Rhett headed toward the showers, I was right behind him, choosing the stall directly next to his.
The partition between us was solid enough for privacy but not soundproof, and I found myself listening to every sound he made, the rustle of clothing being removed, the squeak of faucet handles, the splash of water hitting tile.
I forced myself to focus on my own shower, soaping up and rinsing off with mechanical efficiency while my mind wandered to what was happening just a few feet away. The knowledge that Rhett was naked and wet and separated from me by nothing more than a thin wall was driving me to distraction.
I timed my exit to coincide with his, both of us emerging from our respective stalls at almost the same moment.
Rhett had his towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders, and the sight hit me across the chest. I wanted to trace the path of those water droplets with my tongue, wanted to taste the heat of his skin.
The locker room was emptying out around us, guys heading home or to dinner or whatever plans they had for the evening. Soon, it would be just the two of us, and the anticipation was making my hands shake slightly as I dried off.
When the last teammate called out a goodbye and headed for the exit, leaving us alone in the steamy, humid space, I made my move.
“Rhett.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended, and he turned to look at me with surprise in his brown eyes.
Before he could respond, before I could second-guess myself, I crossed the distance between us and pressed him back against the wall of lockers. The metal was cold against his bare skin, and I watched him shiver at the contact, his pupils dilating as he realized how close I was.
“I’ve missed you,” I said, my hands braced on either side of his head, caging him in.
“You’ve seen me every day,” he replied, but his voice was breathless, and I could see his pulse jumping in his throat.
“You know what I mean.” I leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Come over tonight.”
His eyes widened slightly, and I watched him process the invitation, the implications of what I was suggesting. “Aiden…”
“What? You going to tell me you wouldn’t want to?”
“Of course I’ve been thinking about it. But…”
“But nothing.” I shifted closer, our bodies almost touching now. “I want you. Right now, tonight, tomorrow. Stop overthinking it.”
“This is crazy,” he said, but he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he was leaning into me, his hands coming up to rest against my chest.
“Maybe. But it’s good crazy. Isn’t it?”
For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us crackling with tension and possibility. Then Rhett’s resolve seemed to crumble, and he pulled me down to meet his mouth with his own.
The kiss was desperate, hungry, full of all the want we’d been building up during practice. I pressed him harder against the lockers, drinking in the small sound he made when our bodies aligned. He tasted like mint toothpaste and something darker, more complex, and I couldn’t get enough.
When we broke apart, both of us breathing hard, his lips were swollen, and his cheeks were flushed. “We can’t do this here,” he said, but his hands were still gripping my shoulders like he couldn’t bear to let me go.
“Why not? There’s no one left.”
“Because…” He cut himself off, looking around the empty locker room as if to confirm we were truly alone. “Because what if someone comes back?”
“Then we’ll hear them coming and stop.” I traced my thumb along his jawline, feeling the slight roughness of stubble. “Live a little, Morrison.”
I could see the exact moment when his last bit of resistance crumbled. His eyes went dark with want, and he pulled me back down for another kiss, this one even more desperate than the last.
Despite the countless days of pent-up tension crackling between us, we didn’t rush it.
I backed him toward the shower stalls with deliberate slowness, my mouth moving against his in a rhythm that made my pulse thunder in my ears.
My hands found the lean planes of his chest, fingers spreading wide to feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath warm skin still damp from our earlier shower.
Each step backward was measured, calculated to build the anticipation that was already making my breath come short.
When my palm flattened against his ribs, I felt him shiver despite the lingering heat from the locker room, and the small reaction sent tingles shooting straight through my nervous system.
The shower stall was impossibly cramped, barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, but the confined space only heightened every sensation.
The white tiles reflected our movements back at us, multiplying the intimacy until it felt like we were surrounded by ourselves, by this moment that seemed to exist outside of time and consequence.
I reached behind him to turn the water back on, my arm brushing against his shoulder as I adjusted the temperature.
The first drops were cold, making him gasp and arch into me, and I felt that small sound reverberate through my entire body.
I fine-tuned the heat until steam began to rise around us, creating a cocoon of humidity that made the air thick and almost tangible.
When the hot spray finally hit us both, I watched with fascination as it ran down Rhett’s body in rivulets that caught the fluorescent light.
The water traced the definition of his shoulders, pooled briefly in the hollow of his throat before continuing its journey down his chest. I found myself following one particular droplet with my eyes as it navigated the lean muscle of his torso, disappeared for a moment behind the towel still wrapped around his waist, then reappeared to trace the length of his thigh.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice rough with something between amusement and desire. There was no complaint in the words, just wonder at being looked at like he was something precious and rare.
“Can’t help it,” I replied, my own voice barely recognizable. “You’re beautiful.”
The words seemed to break something open in him.
His hands, which had been resting hesitantly against my chest, suddenly gripped my shoulders with desperate need.
He pulled me closer until there was no space left between us, until I could feel every line of his body against mine through the thin barrier of terrycloth that was rapidly becoming soaked through.
The sensation of our bodies aligning under the cascading water was overwhelming in the most perfect way.
Every nerve ending in my body seemed to fire at once, sending waves of heat that had nothing to do with the shower and everything to do with the way he was looking at me.
His brown eyes had gone dark with want, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of color remained.