Page 3

Chapter 3

RYLAN

I unlock my front door, stepping into the familiar calm of my apartment. The late afternoon sun streams through floor-to-ceiling windows of the impersonal but beautiful high-rise condo with peekaboo views of Elliott Bay. Everything sits exactly where it's supposed to in the open-concept space, throw pillows placed neatly on the charcoal sectional, coffee table magazines aligned at right angles, kitchen counters gleaming and uncluttered.

The familiarity of my space should calm me, but tonight it justfeelsempty. My brother Nick's OHL jersey hangs in its frame on the wall, the only personal touch in the whole place. Everything elsecouldbelong to anyone. The neutral gray and black colors, the clean surfaces and modern furniture chosen more for style than comfort.

Tossing my keys on thetable, I toe off my shoes and set them on the rack by the door before heading down the hall. My housekeeper was here today and the fresh citrusysmellof cleaning products lingers in the air. My bedroom has the same minimalistfeelas the rest of the place, my bed made and my closet perfectly organized.

Everything controlled. Everything in its place. No surprises, no mess, no chaos. This is the one space I can control just about every detail. Even though I've lived here for three years, my condo still looks like a show home. That's how I've always liked it.

A career spent bouncing between teams has taught me how to live knowing that Icouldbe traded at any time, meaning I'll have to pack up and move at the drop of a hat. The minimalism of my home is kind of like armor against that uncertainty. Usually, the rigid order helps my nerves in check, gives me something solid to hold onto. But right now the pristine countertops and careful organization are not doing jack shit to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach. Between that loaded talk with Carson and running into Jamie fucking Pirelli, my carefully maintained equilibrium is shot to hell, and no amount of perfectly arranged throw pillows can fix that.

I change into comfortable grey sweatpants and a soft, well-worn t-shirt from my junior days. I need to find a calmer headspace. With camp starting tomorrow morning, I can't afford any distractions, especially with what I nowknowabout the owners being this close to blowing up the whole team.

Unfortunately, the soothing predictability of my weekly meal prep routine doesn't work to settle me this evening. My mind keeps drifting back to the moment Jamie Pirelli walked into Carson's office. Those blue eyes, the unexpected jolt that shot through my entire body when we shook hands. His presence hit me like a physical force—and that is not something I want to examine right now.

The knife slips as I'm dicing chicken, almost catching my finger."Fuck."I set it down, bracing both hands against the counter. I cannot afford to lose my shit now. Not with the team in such a precarious position. Not with everything I've worked so goddamn hard to keep buried.

My throat tightens. Thirteen years in the NHL, keeping this part of myself locked up so tight that sometimes I can almost pretend it doesn't exist. But five minutes in the same room as Jamie Pirelli and suddenly it's like my walls are made of glass instead of brick.

The opening notes of"The Hockey Song"blast from my phone, and relief floods through me at the familiar tune. Thank fuck . I grab it like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver.

"Hey, Lou."

"Dude! You'll never believe what just happened to me at Whole Foods. So this chick comes over to me, right, and—"

He stops mid-sentence like somehow hecan tellbefore I've even said one damn word, that something's up with me. We've been close for so long, Louknowswhat I'mfeelingbefore I do a lot of the time. With one very large exception.

"What's going on?"he asks.

"Nothing. Just... youknow… getting ready for camp tomorrow."Despite my best efforts, my voice is strained.

"Ry."His tone shifts."You've done, like, a dozen training camps. Try again."

I lean against the counter, pinching the bridge of my nose and squeezing my eyes shut. Resistance is useless, I swear. "Carson told me today that the Evertons aren't happy,"I say, referring to the wealthy family who owns the Sasquatch."They're leaning on Carson to produce significantly better results by the All-Star break or..."I trail off, not wanting to say it out loud.

"Yeah? What else?"

"What else? That's not enough?"

"That's not what's got you so worked up. Iknowyou."His voice is gentle. Lou and I have been best friends since we were little kids playing shinny on frozen ponds. Heknewme before Nick and my mom died. Before my dad started drinking and everything changed. So he's seen me spiral plenty of times. He can handle it.

I sigh."I'm fine. Just tired. Got a lot on my mind with losing Freeman and Coulson, and the new guys coming in."

"Mhmm." He doesn't push, though I can tell he wants to.

"What do you think about the Pirelli thing?"

My stomach clenches."He's talented."

"Yeah, but that's not what I mean. You think the guys will give him shit about being bi?"

I grip the phone tighter."I hope not. We've got good guys in our room. I think most of them are open-minded. And anyone who has a problem with itknowsbetter than to say anything. Or at least they should."My tone is sharp.

"True. What about the shit that went down with Belov?"

"That's..." I sigh. "I don't know. It's hard to know what's true."

"IheardBelov was a real prick to him."Lou's voice darkens."Stupid, old-school mentality about him being bi, or whatever. Making stupid comments about Pirelli checking them out in the showers and having HIV or some fucked up bullshit. It's fuckin' ridiculous in this day and age."

"Yeah."My voice is rough. I clear my throat."As long as he shows up and plays hard, I'll make sure the team falls in line, but I don't think we have anyone who will be an asshole about it. If Pirelli can do what Travis Shaw thinks he can, he'll be a big help. And we fucking need that. We don't have a lot of time to make ownership happy."

"Yeah. We'll make it happen, though. Just gotta believe, Ry. We got this."Lou's an eternal optimist.

"I fucking hope so."

After hanging up with Lou, I head to my bedroom. My laptop sits waiting, for me like some kind of silent challenge.

My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type his name. What am I even doing? I don't Google-stalk my teammates. I don't obsess. But there's something about him... something different.

The first articles are straightforward:"First Openly Bisexual Player Drafted to NHL."There's a photo of him at eighteen, all golden curls and that infectious grin. Draft day. His parents are beaming beside him—a picture of pure potential.

I scroll down on the page. Charity work. LGBTQ youth support. Interviews where he speaks about representation with an honest intelligence that makes me weirdlyuncomfortable. Not because of what he's saying. But because I recognize something in him. Like heknowswhat itfeelslike to be an outsider.

Sounds familiar.

The media narrative shifts late in his first year."Jaguars' Pirelli Spotted at Club Before Big Game."Thereare photos of him stumbling out of various South Beach nightclubs at dawn, with rosy cheeks and messy hair, his clothes rumpled."Jamie Pirelli Linked to Reality Star." My chest tightens.

I want to stop scrolling, but I can't help myself. Stories and tweets about missed practices and public fights with teammates. The golden boy who went off the rails, acting out all over Miami's club scene.

"Party Boy Pirelli's Wild Night Out"is the headline on one gossip site, and my mouth goes dry as the image fills my screen.

Jamie's sandwiched between a man and a woman as they stumble out of some club in South Beach. The woman's dress is microscopic, her tanned skin and curves spilling out everywhere. The guy is all sharp angles and designer jeans. But Jamie... I swallow hard. His shirt hangs open, revealing perfectly carved abs, shiny with sweat. His golden curls are wild, like someone's been running their fingers through them. His face is flushed, his blue eyes glazed, and that mouth is curved into a lazy, satisfied smile that sends a rush of heat straight to my cock. Jealousy burns acid-hot in my throat.

He looks freshly fucked. It makes me goddamn crazy.

"Fuck,"I growl, slamming the laptop closed.

My room is suddenly too hot. Too small. My shorts are uncomfortably tight, and I'm hard as steel just from a fucking photo.

This is a problem. I've spent thirteen years in the NHL keeping this part of myself locked down tight. No risks. No exposure. Nothing thatcouldcrack the perfect facade of Captain Rylan Collings.

I force myself out of bed and stomp into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The guy in the mirror looks haunted: shadows under his eyes, his jaw clenched.

I strip and step into the shower, cranking the water as cold as it'll go. The icy spray hits my skin like needles, but it does nothing to calm the heat coursing through my veins. My cock is still half-hard, the traitorous fucker.

I tryto think about plays, about defensive coverage, about anything except Jamie Pirelli, but that stupid image won't leave my mind. Those blue eyes. That mouth. He's the picture of a man whoknowsexactly what he wants… and exactly how togetit.

As if I'm unable to stop it, my hand slides down my abs. The images of Pirelli's perfectly carved muscles, his skin shining with sweat are seared into my brain.

"Fuck,"I groan, wrapping my fingers around my cock.

I stroke myself faster, hating myself for it, butpowerless tostop as I imagine him pushing me up against the shower wall,feelingthe heat of his skin against mine.

This isn't a choice anymore. This is pure need.

My heavy breaths echo off the tiles as I picture the way he would look at me if I dropped to my knees in front of him. Ready to worship at the altar of his perfect body. I can almosthearthe sounds he would make when I'd swallow him down. The way he'd thread those fingers through my hair and hold my head in position. Taking everything he wanted from me.

The water pounds against my back as I chase my release, lost in my fantasy. Jamie moaning my name. His hands on my body. His mouth on mine, hot and demanding.

"Fuuuuck"I groan, and then I'm coming hard, pleasure spiking through me as I spill over my fist. For a moment my vision whites out, all that tension releasing in one desperate rush.

Reality crashes back as the evidence disappears down the drain. Shame burns in my gut, my cheeks flaming. What the fuck am I doing? Jesus fucking Christ .

I shut off the water and I dry myself quickly, pulling on fresh boxers and a t-shirt, carefully avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. I set my phone face-down on the nightstand before sliding back into my bed.

Tomorrow I'll be the team captain again, focused only on hockey and leadership. I'll welcome Pirelli professionally, help him settle in, and maintain appropriate boundaries.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll believe it. But as I liethere, I can't help but wonder whatit wouldbe like to allow myself to really want someone. To let myself experience that kind of desire without the constant, overwhelming fear of losing everything I've worked for.

I don't know if I'll ever be brave enough to find out.