Chapter 3 Eli
THREE
ELI
The week leading up to the calendar shoot is just…dangerous. Not in the I might break a bone way, though I do manage to block a shot wrong in practice today. But in the Max Calder keeps touching me and my body has decided to be a traitor about it way.
It happens halfway through drills. Peter winds up and sends a puck just wide of the net, and I reach a little too far to snag it with my glove. My shoulder twinges, sharp and fast, and I know instantly I’ve pulled something.
By the time practice ends, I’m rotating my arm and pretending it’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not.
Max notices before I even hit the tunnel. “Starling,” he calls, voice all no-nonsense trainer mode, “locker room. Now.”
I follow him in, trying to play it cool. After I take off my skates and shed my gear, he points to the bench near his examination room, and I sit, still in my base layer, while he grabs some kind of sports balm and kneels in front of me.
Calder, on his knees in front of me, stars in almost every fantasy I’ve ever had about him, so despite the pain radiating through my shoulder, my brain decides now is a great time to replay every one of them.
He’s close enough that I can smell mint on his breath, and if he looked up right now, I’d be done for.
Don’t look up, Max. Or do. Shit.
“Where?” he asks.
I clear my throat and gesture vaguely. “Just a little sore—it’s fine.”
His hand slides under the edge of my sleeve, finding the knot of muscle with pinpoint precision. I hiss through my teeth.
“Yeah,” he mutters, “that’s tight. Hold still.”
Easier said than done. His thumbs work slow circles into the muscle, firm but careful, and heat blooms low in my stomach. My brain is screaming, Don’t react, don’t react, but my body? My body is reacting, traitorous asshole that it is.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my gaze fixed on the opposite wall, because if I look at him—at those hands on me, that focused frown—I’m done for. There’s something about a focused Max Calder that does something to me.
It wasn’t right away, but as I’ve gotten to know him—that intensity paired with the fact I saw his profile on Prism; the hook-up app for gay guys, and he’s not in the closet, not one bit—he has a face and chest shot in his profile, and I might have stared at it a little too long.
I didn’t match him before I scrolled on, but I still think about what would have happened if I had.
He’s just looking for fun. I can do fun.
I am the definition of fun. Him, on the other hand…
I’m curious if he actually can let loose.
And maybe that’s where some of my obsession has come from.
I want to peel back the layers of Max like the layers of an onion and see what’s underneath all that grump.
He shifts closer to get better leverage, the scent of his soap and coffee wrapping around me, and it’s ridiculous how much I want to lean in.
“Take your shirt off,” he says suddenly.
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
“I can’t see what I’m doing through your clothes,” he says, tone clinical but hands still on my arm. “If you want me to check it properly, it has to come off.”
“Right. Yeah. Sure.” My voice is higher than normal, which is embarrassing with my whole team able to eavesdrop.
I strip off my Under Armour shirt, trying not to think about the fact that Max is watching me do it. The air feels colder on my skin, but then his hands are back, warm, steady, sliding over my shoulder as he tests the range of motion.
“There,” he says, pressing into the sore spot again. “That’s the muscle I was working. Probably just a strain.”
Probably. But with the way my pulse is thundering, it might as well be a full-blown cardiac event.
He starts kneading into the muscle again, thumbs working in deep, slow circles, and I have to clamp my teeth together to stop the sound threatening to slip out of me. Every press of his hands sends a sharp ache through my shoulder…and something else entirely through the rest of me.
I keep staring hard at the opposite wall over his head, praying he can’t tell. He’s still kneeling in front of me, between my legs, focused on his work, and there’s no way he’d notice the way my body’s reacting—thank god for my jock strap.
Still, the air between us feels different.
Warmer. He shifts his weight slightly, his body brushing the inside of my thigh as he stands, and before my brain can stop my mouth, I blurt, “You know what would make a great calendar shot? Me, sitting just like this… and you, standing over me exactly where you are right now. With Christmas lights wrapped around us.”
His hands still for a second, and then one brow ticks up. Slowly, he looks down at me.
And I’m trapped.
I’ve seen Max’s eyes before, of course I have, but up close like this, with that piercing green fixed on me, it’s something else entirely. They’re unfair. They’re dangerous. My mouth goes dry, and whatever witty follow-up I was reaching for vanishes completely.
His dark hair falls onto his forehead, and his full lips almost tilt up into a smile before he snuffs it out. He’s so attractive it should be illegal. And did I mention that I really, really want to run my fingers over his day-old scruff? I suck in a slow breath hoping he doesn’t notice.
He tilts his head the smallest degree, like he’s waiting for me to crack first. I try not to. But my pulse is so loud in my ears it’s a wonder he can’t hear it.
“Is that so?” His voice is low, even, but there’s something in it, something I can’t read, that makes my stomach dip. “And what exactly would this pose… be selling?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Uh…Christmas?”
One corner of his mouth pulls up, not quite a smile, more like he’s caught me in a trap I didn’t realize I’d walked into. “Right. Christmas.”
My mouth opens to say something clever, but the words get lost in the sea green of his eyes.
It’s like they’ve locked onto mine and aren’t letting go, and for a second, I’m not thinking about my sore shoulder or the fact that we’re in the middle of a locker room with my team all around us. I’m just…stuck there.
He breaks the stare first, going back to kneading my shoulder as if nothing happened. “Hold still. We’re not done yet.”
So I do. Or at least, I try to. But the longer his hands stay on me, the more aware I am of how close he’s standing—how the heat of him seeps in everywhere his body hovers near mine.
I drop my gaze to avoid another eye-lock and…oh.
For a second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Then it hits me: either I’m imagining things, or there’s the faintest shift in his jeans.
The barest outline of a semi-hard dick. My mouth goes dry, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of exactly where my knees are, how close they are to him, and how ridiculously easy it would be to just…
hook my fingers in the waistband, snap open his button, and tug them down.
Cross a line I’ve thought about way too many times in the last week.
Right, the last week…try the last few months.
The thought circles inside my head, and now I can’t stop picturing it—how little effort it would take, how quickly this could go from clinical to something it absolutely shouldn’t be. Heat coils low in my stomach, and I shift on the bench, trying to hide it, praying my body isn’t giving me away.
“Better?” he asks, voice steady. Too steady for what I’m positive is a hard-on in his pants.
“Yeah,” I manage.
He steps back, finally, giving me room to breathe. “Go shower. And ice that shoulder when you get back to the dorm.”
I grab my towel and head for the showers, my heart pounding like I just finished a sprint.
I tell myself he didn’t notice. That I imagined the whole thing.
But the ghost of that eyebrow quirk from earlier says otherwise.
And the image of his long length pressing against his jeans makes me want to do unspeakable things.
By the time I make it to the showers, I’m still carrying the heat of Max’s hands on my shoulder… and yeah, other places. It’s not my fault; my body hasn’t gotten the memo that this is strictly off-limits territory.
Shedding the rest of my clothing, I duck into the stream, water pounding against my skin, hoping it’ll take the edge off. No such luck. The harder I try not to think about the shift I swear I saw in his pants, the more my brain replays it in high definition.
“Uh-huh.”
The voice snaps me out of it. I glance over and there’s Daniel two showers down, smirking as if he’s just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. Or around my dick, jacking myself off like I want to do.
“What?” I ask, probably too defensively.
He tilts his head toward my hips. “Bit early in the day for that kind of…motivation, isn’t it?”
Heat rushes to my face, and I turn slightly, like that’ll help. “Stop looking at my dick, you weirdo.”
“Not my fault you’re broadcasting it.” His grin widens. “Lemme guess—the grumpy trainer finally smiled at you?”
I glare at him, but it’s useless. Daniel’s been my teammate and friend long enough to read me better than anyone should. And I am broadcasting it, as he put it.
“Drop it,” I mutter, turning back into the spray.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” he calls over, voice full of fake innocence, “maybe just spank it out and get it over with. I promise I won’t watch.”
I choke on a laugh, scrubbing my hands over my face. “You’re disgusting, we’re not that kind of friends.”
“Disgustingly right,” he shoots back.
I flip him off without looking, because it’s easier than admitting he’s not entirely wrong. Jacking off would definitely get rid of the issue standing at attention between my legs. But doing it here, in the middle of the locker room showers, with half the team coming and going? Yeah… not happening.
I shut off the water, grab my towel, and wrap it around my waist, willing my body to behave. The steam’s barely cleared from my head, but at least the cold air out here is doing something for me.
As I pass Daniel on the way out of the showers, he leans in just enough to murmur, “Better hurry home before that thing files a complaint for neglect.”
I can’t help it—a laugh slips out. I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and roll my eyes at him. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, still your favorite,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn around, but my grin lingers all the way to my locker.