Chapter 13 Close Quarters #2
I set my bag down and moved to the desk, pulling out my laptop like I had work to do. I didn't. I just needed something to occupy my hands, some excuse not to look at him.
I heard him shift on the bed, heard the quiet exhale, and every small sound felt amplified in the quiet.
The shower turned on in the bathroom a few minutes later, and I closed my eyes and tried not to picture him under the spray. Tried not to remember what he'd looked like in the showers after the gym, water running down his chest, his hand wrapped around himself while he watched me.
Stop. Fucking stop.
When he came out twenty minutes later, his hair was damp and he smelled like soap.
He moved back to his bed without a word.
The silence stretched out between us, taut and heavy and ready to snap.
“Coach.”
His voice cut through the quiet, and I tensed immediately.
I didn't turn around. “What.”
“What the fuck was that this morning?”
I turned to face him, keeping my expression blank. “That was practice. If you can't handle it, maybe you're not as tough as you think you are.”
His eyes flashed. “Don't do that. Don't turn this into some bullshit about toughness.”
“Then what do you want me to say, Hartley? That practice was hard? Welcome to professional hockey. It gets harder.”
“It wasn't hard. You were being a dick.” He stood, and suddenly the room felt even smaller. “To everyone. And I want to know why.”
Because I can't look at you without wanting to touch you.
Because I spent last night three feet away from you fighting the urge to climb into that bed.
Because this—whatever this is—is going to destroy both of us if I don't kill it now.
Because if I'm cruel enough, maybe you'll hate me enough to make this easier.
“I'm your coach,” I said instead, voice flat and cold. “Not your friend. Not your—”
“Not my what?” He took a step closer, and I saw the challenge in his posture. “Say it, Coach. Not your what?”
I couldn't. I couldn't say the word because saying it would make it real.
“This is inappropriate,” I said instead.
“This?” He laughed bitterly. “We're not doing anything. We're standing in a room talking. What the fuck is inappropriate about that?”
“Everything.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “Everything about this is inappropriate. The gym. The showers. This—” I gestured between us. “—whatever the hell this is. It ends here.”
His eyes darkened. “You think I don't know that? You think I'm not trying to—” He stopped, jaw tight, and looked away. “Fuck.”
The silence that fell was worse than the argument.
He ran both hands through his damp hair, and I watched the movement despite myself. Watched the way his t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. Watched the frustration and want warring across his face.
“Then stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly, and his voice was different now. Softer. More honest than it had been all day.
“Like what.”
“Like you're trying to memorize me.” He met my eyes, and there was no challenge there now. Just exhaustion. Just truth. “Like you want something you can't have.”
I should've denied it. Should've shut it down immediately and rebuilt the walls I'd spent all day constructing.
Instead, I said nothing.
Because he was right. He was absolutely fucking right, and we both knew it.
“You spent all day being a bastard to everyone,” he continued, voice low. “To the team. To me. You think I don't know why? You think I can't see what you're doing?”
“And what am I doing?”
“Pushing everyone away so you don't have to deal with this.” He gestured between us. “So you don't have to admit that you want—”
“Don't. Don't finish that sentence.”
“Why not? Because it's true?” His eyes held mine. “You want me. I want you. And you're so fucking terrified of it that you'd rather be cruel to everyone than just admit it.”
My jaw clenched. “We can't—”
“I know we can't!” His voice rose, frustration breaking through. “You think I don't know that? You think I'm not aware of every single reason this is a bad idea? But being an asshole to me, to the team, to everyone—that doesn't fix it. It just makes you a coward.”
The word hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Careful, Hartley.”
“Or what? You'll bench me again for nothing? You'll make practice even more miserable tomorrow? Go ahead, Coach. Do your worst. It won't change what's between us.”
The silence that fell was charged.
“I'm trying to protect you,” I said finally, and my voice had lost its edge. “Both of us.”
“I know.” His eyes held mine. “But it feels like you're just trying to make me hate you.”
Maybe I am.
Because hate would be easier than this. Hate would be simpler. Hate would create the distance I needed without having to feel this constant pull toward him.
But I couldn't make myself say that.
“Get some rest,” I said instead, turning back to my laptop.
I heard him move behind me—heard the rustle of sheets as he climbed back into bed, heard his breathing even out after a few minutes, though I knew he wasn't sleeping.
Neither was I.
I sat at that desk for another hour, staring at footage I wasn't processing, listening to him breathe, feeling the weight of everything unsaid press down on my chest like a hand.