Page 18

Chapter seventeen

Daxton

“ I really don’t want to do the interviews today.” I bury my face into my pillow and muffle a groan. A sudden, light thud lands on my head, and I glance up to see Cope standing over me. He’s in his long basketball shorts, his torso glistening with sweat from his early morning run.

“Come on, get up,” he insists, grabbing another pillow from his bed and launching it at me with a playful grin. “You’re not human. Who the hell goes jogging at five in the morning?” I mutter, reluctantly swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up; my head droops as if it’s too heavy for my neck to support it. I long for the soft cotton of my pillowcase against my cheek again. The temptation to flop back down is overwhelming, but Cope strides over and gently but firmly tugs my hair until I’m sitting upright. I’m too exhausted even to flinch.

I fucking hate Mondays.

Like, who invented Mondays? Sundays and Mondays. They’re the devil’s days. Sunday because you literally have Monday up your ass screaming “I’m coming,” and then Monday because well—it’s Monday.

“I think I hate you right now, more than Mondays, and that’s saying something,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

“Oh, I love you in the mornings,” Cope replies cheerily. “Come on, you’re interviewing the sexiest man on the team first thing.” With reluctance, I force my eyelids open to find Cope striking exaggerated muscle poses. It’s infuriating how large and defined his muscles are.

“I want muscles like that. Maybe in the interview, you can shed some light on how you get them.” I yawn.

“By getting out of bed for a start.” Cope laughs, crossing the room in a few swift strides. He grabs me by the shoulders, steering me toward the bathroom with a playful slap on my butt before shutting the door firmly behind me. “You have ten minutes to get ready,” he calls through the door.

I drag myself to the shower, turn the knob until the water cascades over me, and sink to the tiled floor. The water streams down, warm and soothing, coaxing me into a drowsy trance rather than waking me up. My head lolls back against the wall with a dull thud.

I could totally go back to sleep right here.

“Still can’t believe you fell asleep in the shower,” Cope hisses, eyes wide with disbelief. “I thought you had actually fallen over and were lying there dead or something,” he repeats, shaking his head. The truth is, I did fall asleep in the shower. It’s as if my body finally feels safe and is trying to make up for all those years I barely scraped by with three hours of sleep a night. Now, I’m clocking in a solid eight hours, and the haunting nightmares are gradually fading away. I nearly screamed when I was woken up by what sounded like a bomb going off outside the bathroom door. It was, in fact, Cope nearly knocking the fucking thing off its hinges. I had, in fact, fallen asleep for twenty minutes.

“I was just relaxing my eyes,” I deadpan, trying to downplay the incident.

“You relaxed your eyes for the whole damn night,” Cope says, crossing his arms. “No more locking the bathroom doors. I can’t trust you anymore.” I throw my head back and laugh, the sound echoing as we stride into the locker room.

“You’ve lost it.” I chuckle, shaking my head. At that moment, Jennings ambles over, curiosity etched on his face.

“Share the joke,” Jennings prompts, and Cope launches into the story of my shower nap. Jennings nods in agreement with Cope, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“If my roommate pulled that stunt, I wouldn’t trust them either,” he says, glancing at me sideways. I roll my eyes. “You hockey players are so dramatic,” I mutter, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Just as Cope begins recounting the story to another player—Smithson, I think, though I’m not entirely sure—Trayton, Kal, and Brayden saunter into the locker room. Kal catches my eye, nodding with a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Daxton.” Brayden grins as he heads to his locker. I’m too stunned to immediately respond to Brayden or return Kal’s smile, standing there in disbelief.

Am I in the twilight zone?

“Hi,” I say as Brayden finally arrives at his locker, the metallic clang echoing in the room. Trayton doesn’t even glance my way, too absorbed in his routine as he strides to his own locker and begins peeling off his gear. Good, because after that stunt he pulled on Saturday, I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I’m still annoyed with myself for letting him do that. Everyone begins stripping off their tops. I always feel like an intruder during these moments, awkwardly standing around while the team strips down. It’s like I’m a modern-day Peeping Tom, but Coach insists on my presence here for the project. He believes this is when players are either their most at ease or tightly wound, depending on the timing.

“Who don’t you trust?” Brayden asks Cope over the rustle of clothes and the clatter of locker doors.

“Daxton,” Cope confirms with a nod. “He zonked out in the shower, water running and all, with the door locked. So now, it’s no more locked doors for him.” Brayden lets out a bark of laughter, and I can’t help but join in, the sound bubbling up from my chest. The laughter tugs at something inside me, a familiar ache. As if for a second, I’m laughing with Bex, seeing his face right in front of me. They even have the same infectious laugh.

“I mean, slutting it out does make you tired,” Trayton interjects, slicing through the humor like a knife. The room falls silent instantly. Coming from the guy who mouth-fed me tequila. Possibly the hottest thing a guy has ever done to me. But I’m the slut? Because of him, I left Mike not long after. I couldn’t get over why my brain couldn’t remove Trayton’s lips from my mind and why my dick wouldn’t go down since getting hard, the minute his thumb entered my mouth.

“Trayton,” Cope growls, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t hesitate to drop-kick you.” I raise a hand to calm Cope.

“It’s fine,” I say, locking eyes with Trayton. “You’d know better than anyone.” Trayton’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing, before he sneers, turning away to yank his shirt over his head. Cope claps a supportive hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

As the team trickles out of the changing rooms, I trail behind. Cope heads to his training session first, and the plan is to conduct interviews once everyone has showered and changed after practice. It’s odd doing interviews in the locker room, with the scent of sweat hanging in the air, but that’s the setup.

Once the team hits the ice, the sound of skates slicing into the rink fills the arena. I settle onto the bleachers, pulling out my sketchpad. I’m supposed to record videos, too, but I’m saving that for the interviews. For now, I’ll capture quick snippets, planning to film more during the season. Watching them go head-to-head with their rivals, I hope to capture the real heart of the game.

I open up my brand-new sketch pad. I’m fucking pissed I lost my last one. After what happened and the panic attack, I ran out of here, barely picking anything up. My sketch pad was the one thing I left.

I only had a few sketches in there, but it’s not really something I wanted anyone finding, and then there was that picture.

Mystic Tealglow.

I let out a bitter chuckle as the memory of drawing it—a surreal, almost out-of-body experience—floods back. Even though the image haunted me, it also recalled the better times. Perhaps it’s for the best that it’s gone. I don’t know why I was drawing it again anyway. It is a reminder every time I walk into the tattoo shop.

I lift my pencil, its worn wood familiar in my grip, and direct my gaze to Cope. Today is his big interview, and I’m determined to capture not just his likeness on the ice but the fierce energy and personality that defines him. Cope is more than just a player—he’s the solid wall between his team and danger. In my mind’s eye, I see him intercepting rivals and blocking all threats as if guarding a sacred sanctuary. Every stroke of my pencil seems to mirror his relentless determination, the fierce protector who never lets anyone breach his team’s line.

As I draw, my hand moves almost on autopilot, sketching Cope in fluid motion. A smile slips free and tugs at my lips as I remember how he reassured me when I hesitantly mentioned a date. His kindness, his protective nature: it all shines through the lines I’m forming. My brain churns with ideas, imagining different angles—one image in particular stands out, not of Cope actively playing, but as a symbolic shield, symbolizing everything he means to his team.

Taking a brief pause to shake out my cramped fingers, I glance around at the rest of the team.

The rest of the team is doing difficult drills and conditioning exercises. Kal’s deep, commanding voice booms across the space, his every movement taut with raw determination. His body language radiates a stiffness so intense it seems almost painful, like every muscle is braced for pure anger but also sadness.

I can’t shake the way I can read people; it’s the artist’s curse. My eyes shift to Trayton, who weaves skillfully in and out of a maze of cones, the puck anchored to his stick with absolute precision. Watching him, I see a wild cocktail of controlled hatred, burning intensity, and an explosive burst of speed.

Anger and hate. That’s what I see in Trayton.

I hear Coach Denny shout that training is finished, and I grab all my belongings, making sure this time that I have my sketchbook as I head to the locker room. I see the team in front of me, but I quickly turn at the last minute to go to the restroom so I can wash my hands. They’re covered in black marks, which isn’t unusual, but since I’ve finished sketching for now, I need to scrub it off. Otherwise, everything I touch for the rest of the day will get marks on it.

This is why I never wear color because it just gets dirty.

Just as I push open the restroom door, a sudden force sends me stumbling forward. I feel a hard shove that forces me into a collision with the cool, tiled wall, making one foot catch on the other. I manage to steady myself, heart racing as I whirl around in shock. “What the—” I begin to protest, but before I can finish, a seething Trayton slams me against the wall. His eyes flash with uncontrolled fury, scanning my face as if searching for something to blame. The tight grip of his hand on the front of my sweatshirt is his silent message: He’s not here to exchange pleasantries.

Trayton’s gaze intensifies, darting over my features while his breath grows ragged and heavy. His face contorts, and as he leans in, inches from mine, his seething snarl is almost audible. I can feel the heat of his breath washing over my lips, and my throat tightens as I struggle to swallow, my eyes widening in disbelief. Every nerve in my body screams in protest as I try to understand what is happening.

For a fleeting moment, I hold my breath, but it escapes in uneven, shallow puffs. My heart hammers so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it.

“You’ve designed my tattoo now,” he hisses, low and dangerous. “You don’t need to keep watching me, Quiet Boy.” His arm thrusts into my chest with such force that I wince, and then he releases me, his eyes roaming over my body, before he storms out, leaving the door to slam shut behind him.

Alone and trembling, I lean back against the cool tiles and take deep, desperate breaths.

I had no comeback, no retort, nothing.

In that charged moment, I could feel the warmth of his body searing against mine. I had never experienced Trayton so up close. And strangely, despite everything, in that brief exchange, I didn’t feel anything but a stirring want. I imagined what it might be like to taste his lips, to feel his tongue soft against mine—a craving I’ve buried for years.

This sudden, conflicting desire shakes me. I swore to myself that I would never want Trayton again. And yet, in that intense moment, everything I’d secretly craved returned with a jolt.