Chapter 16
WYATT CHASE
Iknow it’s not my fault that the team is struggling, but I’m genuinely starting to wonder if I’ll have a job at the end of this season. Calling whatever the hell is happening a “rebuilding” year is giving it way too much credit.
We had Friday and Saturday games this weekend, eking out a tie tonight, but we lost yesterday. That puts us at one win, two losses, and two ties for those keeping score at home. The Renegades haven’t had a start this bad in at least a decade. Maybe ever.
At least my parents took Lyla away for the weekend so that they could peep some beautiful leaves farther up north. Unfortunately, not having a kindergartner to wrangle means that I have more time than normal to wallow.
The stadium cleared out a while ago, and even though the other coaches were going out for drinks, I decided not to join this time.
Instead, I wrapped up all my post-game treatment notes and then spent a good hour slamming pucks at the goal in the shooting room.
My shoulder aches from the strain, knowing that I pushed myself too hard.
Sweaty and exhausted, I walk through the empty building halls. Technically, the training facility is open twenty-four hours a day. Usually, there are at least a few other people around given the times that I’m here, but right now, it’s blissfully quiet.
A part of me misses this. The pain after a hard practice.
Working off my stress in a healthier way than bottling it up inside and forcing myself to keep pushing forward.
I try to work out in the strength and cardio room a few times a week when I’m on-site–after practices are done, of course–but there’s usually something that crops up related to the team, and I don’t have time after I pick Lyla up from my parents’ house.
This is the first time that I’ve used the shooting room, and even though the player amenities are technically open to us, I also haven’t used those, either.
But right now, a hot soak in the whirlpool is sounding like just what the doctor–or the physical therapist, at least–ordered. I can even hook up my phone to the sound system to play music and turn on one of the flatscreens to catch the game highlights from tonight.
Man, these kids don’t know how good they have it. Most will never make it to the pros, but Radford’s program rivals even some of the NHL teams. Except that if they don’t get their shit together soon, it remains to be seen whether the gravy train will keep flowing.
I stop by the staff locker room to take a quick shower and grab a pair of swim trunks. Usually, I’d wear a pair of compression shorts, but between the sweat and the water, there’s no way that I’m forcing those up my body right now.
I’m already thinking about how good it will feel to dip myself into the perfectly hot 101-degree water when I step into the warm room.
Which… is not empty, like I thought it would be.
In my defense, the lights aren’t on, and the only illumination in the room is coming from under the water in the three pools.
“Asher,” I push out. I stay rooted where I am, in the doorway that leads from the staff locker room to the hydrotherapy room. “I can go. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here.”
“No. Stay,” he says quickly, standing up in the whirlpool so that the water laps at his torso.
I really can’t catch a fucking break.
He’s a gorgeous sight to behold which means that I avert my eyes. “It’s really not standard protocol for me to use amenities when players are utilizing them.” And fuck if I know what’s going on in his head.
He looks down at his waterproof watch and then gives me a mischievous smile. “It’s close to eleven o’clock on a Saturday. I think we can put the rules aside for tonight, don’t you?”
It’s the way he says it, like he’s talking about more than just us sharing the whirlpool together, that makes the hair on my arms stand up. But the truth is, if he was any other player, I wouldn’t think twice about joining him.
It’s not a big deal, I remind myself.
I take a few tentative steps into the room, suddenly aware that I’m not wearing much clothing. And neither is he, now that I’m thinking about it. Which I absolutely shouldn’t be doing.
What is it about him that’s making me so crazy? I want to tell myself that it’s because I haven’t gotten laid in way too long–and I haven’t met anyone exciting in even longer than that–but this is something else.
It’s him, and I’m really struggling with what to do about it. I feel like we’re constantly taking one step forward and two steps back. If our track record is any indication, getting into the whirlpool with Asher could result in him doing something insane like transferring schools.
Whatever. I’m tired and sore and I can sit in a goddamn whirlpool with him and prove just how professional that I can keep things.
I cross the tiles in a few quick steps, grabbing a towel along the way.
When I ease down into the whirlpool, he watches me. I can feel his eyes tracking my body while it disappears underneath the water. And I love it, but I also know how wrong it is that I do. Which only makes me love it more.
Fuck, I’m a masochist.
“Feels incredible, right?” Asher says indulgently, sitting back down along the bench. The whirlpool is square, and we’re sitting across from one another, as far away as we can be.
“You know, it’s really not a good idea for you to be in here alone after hours,” I say, drawing attention to how responsible I am with players’ safety.
And that above all else, the two of us–a player and a staff member–are in a team facility, regardless of what time it is. “What if something happened?”
“You’re here.” He runs his hands through the water, creating gentle waves that push against me in his wake.
“But you didn’t know that I would be,” I argue, needlessly.
He slides off the bench into the middle of the water. “Then isn’t it my lucky night?”
My whole body’s hot, and it’s not because I’m sitting in the whirlpool.
I feel like I’m dealing with Jekyll and Hyde.
Who is this man only feet away from me, looking at me with a playful smile?
Surely not the same player who practically ran out of the treatment room on Thursday afternoon like he was worried that he’d catch gay cooties.
“Your attitude’s a little different than the last time we talked,” I say, acknowledging the elephant in the room.
It’s hard to tell with the movement of the water, but it almost seems like he’s slowly inching closer to me.
No, he’s definitely moving closer. So close in fact that I can now see the individual pine needs on the trees wrapped around his forearms. I have the strangest sense that I’m being circled like I’m prey in the water.
I press my body harder against the tiled wall.
“Sometimes, when I get new information, I struggle for a while to fit it into my view of things,” he muses, still looking at me with piercing eyes.
Even though the heat feels incredible against my body, I’m not letting it lull me into a false sense of security. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so stressed out in a hot tub before. “Well, I’m happy to hear that you’ve decided to get your head out of your ass and join the 21st century.”
I mean for it to come off as a joke. Something that will lighten the mood.
Only, it doesn’t. Because he’s still looking at me like he wants to consume me. Ruin me. Own me.
And instead of answering me or laughing this whole thing off as a funny mistake where we got our wires crossed, he eases forward another few inches until he’s in my space. His strong arms have me bracketed against the edge of the whirlpool, with nowhere for me to go.
People think that big moments happen quickly. The idea that in an instant, everything can change. And that’s true, sure. But big moments can also happen excruciatingly slowly. So slowly, in fact, that you have enough time to wonder what in the hell is happening.
Which is how I find myself knowing how it feels when Asher’s knees brush against mine but not understanding exactly what he wants from me. I’m trying as hard as I can to keep my breathing even, even though I feel like I’m the one on the verge of a panic attack.
He leans forward and shifts one of his hands away from the edge of the whirlpool. His palm is warm against my chest, and it feels like he’s leaving a trail of fire as he skims his fingers down my sternum.
“Asher,” I warn, trying to make my mind remain in control of my body. Because my body is definitely reacting to how he’s touching me, and I can already feel my shorts growing uncomfortably tight.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” he murmurs–as if there’s any world in which I thought that my night would be going like this, either. All the while, he continues to brush his hands over my exposed skin, which is now prickling with goosebumps.
“Join the club,” I pant out when he grazes one of my insanely sensitive nipples. I didn’t think that the tension and weirdness and frustration coming from him was because he was attracted to me. How the hell long has that been going on for?
No. I won’t let myself think back to all of our interactions and wonder whether a touch here or a look there could have ignited something between us.
I’m pretending like that will somehow make what’s happening right now more okay. And I know it’s not. He’s a player, and I’m a member of the coaching staff. I’ve never come close to crossing a line like this before.
But…
My sense of reason has evaporated–it’s lost somewhere in the steam around us–and I keep trying to think about why this cannot happen.
Only, I’m coming up empty.
“I want to know what your lips taste like.” His voice is deep and rich and lights up my body from the inside out.