Chapter Ten – Fawn
The door slams closed behind me, trapping all the victory buzz on the other side. A slight breeze rushes in and sweeps my hair forward. My eyes are clamped shut, and I refuse to open them. Not yet.
Oh shit, I can smell them already. Sweat. Aftershave. Testosterone and a hint of . . . blood.
What am I doing? I’m an adult. I’m an author! I actually penned a romance book with a hunky rancher in it!
“Heads up, boys!” someone beside me hollers then whistles, sounding just a little too rowdy.
The first thing I see is a shoulder — a giant, naked patch shining with sweat. I see another shoulder, and then another. Towels are draped around waists, jerseys are thrown over benches, and water bottles are rolling around the floor.
A sudden heat pools in my cheeks. I’m trapped in a sea of muscles and boxer briefs.
Laughter rings around the room, followed immediately by the crisp snap of a towel. Lord, help me.
“She looks like she’s going to pass out,” someone states. I refuse to make eye contact in case they’re fully naked.
“Nah, she’s just probably never seen so many sweaty men,” another voice jumps in.
Quickly, I blink, hoping my face isn’t turning a fiery red. “Hi,” I announce with fake confidence, holding up my notebook like a real press badge. “I’m here to interview and observe you guys. I’m writing a—”
“Should I take off the towel now or later?” a man cuts me off, his hand on his hip theatrically.
Laughter erupts among the players. Jesus, it’s like I’ve walked into a frat house.
“No! No,” I say too hastily, caught up in the moment. “I mean . . . please don’t. Unless — I mean, unless you usually do — Oh my God, never mind.”
A familiar, smiling face emerges from the crazed mass. It’s Cal. I know I’ve only met him once, but he seems decent.
He stands there in a white towel, but I don’t look down at his topless torso.
“Just ignore them, Fawn,” he states with a reassuring smile. “A lot of them just didn’t mature. Never will.”
I release an awkward laugh and shuffle my feet, not knowing where to stand.
“Hey, take a seat over here,” he says, gesturing toward one of the benches against the wall. “I just need to hop in the shower real quick and change. Then, I’ll round up some of the players. Yeah?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” I nod, feeling relieved, but my words are drowned out among the lockers slamming and the raucous laughter. My eyes do a quick sweep at the other end of the bench — Torin Anderson.
He’s propped up against the wall, legs splayed like he owns the rink, shirtless but still wearing padded shorts. There is some dried blood around his eyebrow and on his nose. He’s got a rag in one of his hands, and his dark, brooding eyes stare at me, like he did the first time I saw him.
Taking a seat next to him, I give him a closed-lipped smile, but he just looks away.
How awkward.
“If somebody starts giving you trouble,” yells Cal as he heads toward the showers, “just shout for me. Be good, boys.”
The players bellow back in a mocking voice. “Yeah, yeah!”
Once Cal disappears, I sit, taking everything in. Considering the team just won, Torin doesn’t seem that happy or bothered about getting into chit-chat, but I understand he looks like he got into a fistfight.
I side-eye him. He’s staring directly ahead, nonchalantly wiping at blood on his face. I can feel his thigh brushing up against mine, ever so slightly.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to nudge you,” I apologize, hoping to end the silence.
However, he does not utter a word; he only nods once.
So, he can skate, and by the looks of it, fight, but can he speak?
Fuck. Is he mute?
Stiffening my shoulders, I sit up, opening my notepad as if I’m on a covert mission to make things less awkward.
Suddenly, crimson catches my eye.
It’s blood, slowly leaking from that gash on his forehead, dripping down his rugged neck.
It passes above his collarbone and continues around the contours of his abs.
Every muscle contracts and then releases as he draws breath easily.
It dribbles past his tattoos and then disappears into his waistband.
My stomach flips, my pulse starting to pick up.
I scan his top half quickly — broad shoulders tapering into a torso built entirely of muscle.
Intricate tattoos coil over his chest and arms, shining with sweat and now blood.
His hands are inked too, the markings crawling over his fingers to his knuckles.
Despite the violence written across him, he looks devastatingly strong in a way that seems almost relaxed.
He’s . . . hot.
Fuck!
Gulping, I snap my head away so fast, my neck nearly cracks.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice me gawking at him. He leans his head back against the wall, and his wavy dark brown hair sort of falls over his face. The urge to look again is magnetic, but I refuse to give in to my thirst. It’s okay to look but not react, right?
I pinch the bridge of my nose as if adjusting my glasses, though I’m not even wearing any. My mind’s just racing.
Trucks! Yes!
I recall the photo of a Ford on his social media. I could spark up a conversation. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? Come on, don’t be ridiculous, Fawn. He’ll know. It’ll be plastered across my blushed face — like a giant neon sign that reads I snooped on your socials.
I keep my mouth shut and silently swear.
Suddenly, I’m saved by the bell — really loud music coming from a speaker, a Tate McRae song.
“What a tune! The singer is hot as fuck! Have you seen the music video?” a player asks, yelling above the thumping bass.
“Dancing in an ice rink with a bra on? Of course!” another exclaims, sounding too proud.
The locker room is transformed into a totally cringeworthy boy band rehearsal.
Towels are flying everywhere. Locker doors are banging.
The players are singing far too loudly while performing moves that should be banned for anyone over the age of twelve.
Torin leans forward, shakes his head, and lets out a loud, exasperated breath, like he’s already trying to calculate how fast he can pack up and leave.
Thank God the players are far more skilled at skating than singing.
Still, I take notes — it’s all pure gold.
Towel dancing? Yeah. Locker room choir being completely tone deaf?
Noted. Will be brilliant in the book. Perhaps now is an opportunity for me to speak with Torin.
Just something informal, you know, like, “Not really your thing?”
Then, I would be able to slip in some questions. But what if he is unable to speak, and I am stuck sitting here, talking to myself like a complete idiot?
“How are your knees?” someone asks before I begin to overthink.
I look up, freeze, and don’t know what to say. It’s Dylan Crawley, the captain I wanted to interview, standing in his black underwear, still wet from the shower. Each water droplet accentuates his perfect six-pack.
I realize I’m staring like an idiot and shake myself out of it. My mouth begins to open as I register I haven’t answered his question, but it closes again just as quickly. My eyebrows crease in confusion. He lets out a smug laugh, like I should know what he’s talking about.
“The fall . . .” he continues, wildly spraying himself with deodorant.
Oh, he witnessed me making a fool of myself. I wish this bench would just swallow me up.
“You saw that?” There’s no hiding that I’m mortified.
“My knees are absolutely fine—” My words trail off, because he already has his hands in a locker, reaching for his phone.
After a couple of presses, he holds the screen in front of me, and there it is, a clip of me going down like a sack of potatoes.
Torin releases a quiet snigger beside me. Oh, so he’s capable of making a noise after all.
“You got that on the security cameras?” I yell, because, naturally, that embarrassing moment is now stored on a phone. The tightness in my chest doesn’t leave, it just changes shape.
“The joys of being the manager.” Dylan grins, like he’s pleased with himself.
Standing up from the bench, I narrow my eyes at him, fighting the urge to let a smile ruin the effect. “Delete it.”
He bites his bottom lip and smiles with perfect teeth. “Or,” he teases, “I could just throw it on one of those fail shows and get some money.”
Oh man, he’s joking, right? Profiting from my humiliation? How sick is that?
“You wouldn’t,” I dare, shaking my head.
He places his phone on the bench; I’m tempted to run off with it.
“Chill, no one else has seen it,” he begins to say as he pulls up his jeans.
I release a massive sigh of relief—
“Apart from Torin,” he adds nonchalantly.
What! Without thinking, my head spins toward Torin, who’s lounging with a pesky little smug grin.
“I’m glad you enjoyed my fall,” I tell him, expecting him to say something now.
He rolls his eyes as if I’m overreacting, stands, and walks away without saying anything.
Rude!
The other players are still singing in the background, but I don’t notice, because now, I’m pissed. “Does he ever speak?” I ask with a clenched jaw as I look over at Dylan, who is now fully dressed.
He smiles and leans on his locker like one of those athletic equipment commercials. “When he wants to, or usually when the person is . . . interesting.”
I give a short, mocking breath, my brow hitching upward. “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”
Dylan takes one step closer to me, his face softening. “You know, it’s kinda cute, you trying to act angry.”
I wasn’t acting but my face burns, the sudden warmth blooming across my cheeks and melting the icy glare I’d been holding.
Dylan bursts out laughing, and I find myself laughing too — despite being lost regarding what’s funny.
He looks at my feet, his eyes move up very slowly, until he’s looking straight at mine, like he’s inspecting me. Can he see I’m blushing?
His eyes are intense. It’s so unfair that men have better eyelashes than women.
I freeze. Do I smile? Wave? Offer him a cookie?