The Teammate’s Sister
Being the captain’s sister meant everyone on the team knew who I was.
It did not mean they knew me.
They knew the version of me that appeared in the family lounge after games. The one who hugged my brother, chatted politely with his teammates’ wives and never drank enough to embarrass anyone.
They knew I lived in the city. They knew I attended most home games.
They knew my brother had once threatened a rookie for replying to one of my Instagram stories with a fire emoji.
That story had spread through the locker room before the end of the next day’s practice. Since then, the players treated me like I was either invisible or radioactive.
All of them except the starting goalie.
The first time happened during the home opener.
I stood beside the glass for warmups, talking to one of the other players’ girlfriends while the goalie stretched in the crease. He dropped into a butterfly, pushed across the blue paint and rose in one smooth motion.
Then he looked through the glass.
At me.
His mask hid most of his face, but I knew.
I felt it.
I held his gaze for several seconds before the next shot struck his blocker and forced his attention back to the ice.
After that, it happened regularly.
In arena hallways.
At charity events.
Across crowded rooms after games.
He never approached me.
That would have required either bravery or stupidity, and professional goaltenders survived by knowing when not to take unnecessary risks.
But he watched. And I watched him, too.
He was tall and built differently from the skaters. Broader through the legs and hips, thick from years of carrying equipment that made everyone else look absurd when they tried it on.
He had dark hair, dark eyes and a reputation for being quiet. He gave short interviews, avoided social media and left team events before most of his teammates had finished their first drinks.
My brother liked him.
That was important.
My brother trusted him.
That was worse.
The first time we spoke without anyone else present was after a Saturday night win in November.
The team had won, 4-1. The goalie stopped thirty-six shots and earned first-star honors. My brother scored the empty-net goal.
That was apparently enough reason for half the team to migrate from the arena to a private room above a downtown bar.
I went because my brother asked.
The bar’s private room was already crowded when we arrived. Players had changed out of their suits and into more casual clothes, though casual for professional athletes apparently meant shirts that cost more than my monthly car payment.
Music played too loudly.
Someone had started a card game at a corner table.
My brother disappeared almost immediately into a conversation with two defensemen about a disputed goal from the second period.
I ordered a drink and found a spot near the bar.
That was when I saw the goalie.
He stood across the room beside one of the rookie forwards, wearing black jeans and a charcoal sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was still slightly damp from his postgame shower.
He already had a drink in his hand.
He was not listening to the conversation happening beside him.
He was looking at me.
Then my brother stepped into my line of sight.
“Want food?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“I have a drink.”
“How many have you had?”
“Go captain someone else.”
He grinned.
“Stay where I can find you.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“Great. Stay where I can find you.”
He returned to his teammates before I could answer.
Across the room, the goalie looked back at me.
This time, I smiled first.
He waited thirty minutes before approaching … Not that I counted.
I talked to several people, finished my drink and refused a shot from a rookie who looked terrified when he realized who I was.
My brother drifted between groups, always somewhere in the room but rarely looking directly at me.
The goalie chose his moment carefully.
I stepped into the quieter hallway outside the private room to answer a text. The hallway led toward the restrooms and a narrow balcony used mostly by smokers.
I had barely typed half a response when a voice behind me said, “Does your brother know you’re out here alone?”
I turned.
He stood near the doorway, one hand in his pocket.
He came closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, winter air and the faint bite of whatever he had been drinking.
“Congratulations,” I said.
“For what?”
“The win. I watch the games.”
“You watch me.”
There it was.
I looked at him over the rim of my glass.
“You’re very confident for someone who waited two months to speak to me.”
“Your brother has broken noses for less.”
We stood in the hallway while people passed at either end, neither of us pretending this was casual.
“You’ve been staring at me since October,” I said.
“September.”
“Training camp?”
“Season-ticket event.”
I remembered.
I had worn a fitted blue dress. The team mingled with sponsors and premium-ticket holders on the club level. The goalie had stood near the windows in a suit, watching while I talked to my brother.
“You knew who I was then?”
“Everyone knows who you are.”
“That usually makes players avoid me.”
“I’ve been avoiding you.”
“You haven’t been subtle.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it.”
His honesty made my stomach tighten.
The private-room door opened behind him. Two players came into the hallway.
The goalie stepped away immediately.
Neither player seemed to notice anything strange.
One nodded to me. The other asked the goalie whether he wanted another drink.
“I’m good,” he said.
They continued toward the restroom.
He waited until they disappeared.
Then he looked at me again.
“You staying at your brother’s place tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
My pulse jumped.
“What are you asking me to do?” I said.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“Come home with me.”
No coy phrasing. The directness sent heat through me.
“You don’t seem worried about my brother now.”
“I’m extremely worried.”
“You hide it well.”
“I’m a goalie.”
His expression remained serious.
“Come with me.”
“You’re assuming I want to.”
“No.”
He took one step closer.
“I’m hoping you do.”
The private-room door opened again.
My brother stepped into the hallway.
The goalie moved before I could react, turning toward the balcony as though he had been headed there all along.
My brother looked between us.
“Everything good?”
“Fine,” I said.
The goalie nodded once.
“Captain.”
My brother’s suspicion faded almost immediately. That was how much he trusted him.
“I’m going to stay another hour,” my brother said.
“I’ll get a ride.”
“With who?”
“A car service.”
He studied me, clearly unconvinced. My brother pointed toward the private room.
“I’m getting another drink.”
He went back inside and the goalie turned back toward me.
“He worries,” I said.
“He should.”
“About you?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Definitely.”
We left separately.
He went first.
I stayed another fifteen minutes, long enough to keep my brother from connecting us. Then I hugged him goodbye, promised to text when I reached home and ordered a car.
The address the goalie sent was twelve minutes away.
My hands shook slightly as I entered it. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I understood exactly what we were doing.
This was not a stranger from a bar.
I would see him again. At games. Team events. The family lounge. My brother would speak to him, trust him and defend him in interviews without knowing what had happened behind closed doors.
The secrecy was part of the attraction.
I knew that.
I went anyway.
The goalie lived in a converted warehouse building near the river. His apartment occupied the top floor, all dark wood, brick walls and windows overlooking the city.
He opened the door before I knocked.
He had removed his sweatshirt.
The black T-shirt beneath it stretched across his shoulders and chest.
“You came,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I wasn’t going to believe it until you walked through the door.”
I stepped inside, and he closed the door and turned the lock.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The apartment was quiet. No music. No television. Only the distant traffic below and my own pulse beating too quickly.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
His gaze held mine.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve spent two months wondering what you would do if I got close enough.”
His hand rose slowly. He touched the side of my neck with the backs of his fingers.
“And?”
“I’m still waiting.”
His hand closed around the back of my neck.
He kissed me.
He backed me against the door, body crowding mine while his free hand gripped my hip. The kiss was rough, his mouth demanding and hot against mine.
I clutched his shirt.
He broke away long enough to look down at me.
“Tell me if I’m too much.”
“You haven’t done enough yet.”
Something flashed in his eyes. His mouth returned to mine. Then he turned me, pressing my front to the door.
My breath caught.
His body settled behind mine.
One hand remained at my waist. The other slid slowly along the outside of my thigh.
“This what you wanted?” he rasped near my ear.
“Maybe.”
His palm landed sharply against my ass.
The sound cracked through the quiet apartment.
I gasped.
He immediately stilled.
“Too hard?”
“No.”
I looked back over my shoulder.
“Do it again.”
His expression changed.
The second strike was harder.
Heat bloomed beneath my clothes, sharp and immediate.
My fingers flattened against the door.
He pressed closer, mouth brushing the side of my neck.
“You like that.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
His hand smoothed over where he had struck, soothing the sting before delivering another.
My hips shifted backward instinctively.
He felt it.
A rough sound left him.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.”
He turned me back toward him.
His fingers tightened beneath my chin, lifting my face.
“You want rough?”
My pulse jumped.
“Yes.”
“You want me to stop, you say red.”
He kissed me again.
Then he lifted me.