Chapter 13 #2
Then it’s just a few guys.
Then fewer.
Then the shower water shuts off somewhere down the row.
Then it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
I look over.
Jamie is still there.
Just us now.
Shirts off.
Yeah, that’s not helping.
He’s standing ten feet away in nothing but compression shorts and hockey pants shoved low on his hips, blond hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling like he ran harder than anyone else because he always does.
There’s a dark mottled bruise near his shoulder from that hit he still pretends doesn’t bother him.
His body is tight in a way that has nothing to do with practice.
Our eyes catch and the whole room falls away.
The space between us shifts.
It’s not like dinner. Not like the gym. Not like the ice where we had drills and teammates and plausible reasons to be aware of each other. There’s no reason now.
No excuses left.
Just the quiet and the space and both of us in it not moving, just staring at each other like we can’t look away anymore.
Jamie swallows and my eyes follow the movement of his throat.
Then lower.
When I look back down, I see it.
I should look away.
I'm a decent enough person to know I should look away.
But Jamie’s body is not pretending, so I’m not going to either. He’s hard. Not in a way that would be very obvious to anyone not already looking for every single sign of him losing control.
But I am looking.
And he knows I see it.
His face goes still.
Not blank.
Panicked. Deer in headlights, hand caught in the cookie jar, secret ripped clean into daylight. For a second, I don’t move. Because this isn’t fun. Not entirely. Because I know that look. Different place. Different reason. Same feeling.
The power of it hits me harder than I expect. Jamie Nash, who controls everything, who lives like discipline can save him, standing there exposed in the smallest way and looking at me like I could destroy him with it.
So I don’t smile. I don’t make a joke. I don’t say anything loud enough for even the room to remember.
I just step closer. Slowly.
His hand tightens around the locker edge. Knuckles going white. But he doesn't move back even though I know he’s one second away from bolting.
“Rhys,” he says. My name sounds different in his mouth like this. Not a warning. More like a plea. I stop in front of him, close enough that this is already too much.
“You can tell me to stop,” I whisper.
His breathing changes.
Just that. One small hitch. His chest expanding and not quite coming back down. Holding his breath. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and furious and terrified and wanting. All of it at all at once.
He says nothing. Doesn’t tell me to stop either. I lift my hand slowly, giving him every chance to move, and touch two fingers under his chin.
His whole body goes rigid.
Not pulling away.
Just still.
Like if he moves even an inch, he’ll fall apart.
I tilt his face up toward mine.
“Jamie.”
His eyes close for half a second and he moves forward maybe a centimeter. That's it. That's the thing that does it. That one unguarded moment where he stops fighting it.
I kiss him.
Soft.
Barely there.
Just my mouth against his, one breath, one second, the smallest possible version of the thing that has been stalking us since the moment we got too close and haven’t stepped back since.
For one second, he doesn’t move.
Then his hand fists in my waistband and he kisses me back.
No longer confused.
Desperate for it.
Like the second he lets himself have it, there’s no slow way to want me.
He pulls me in so hard my shoulder hits his chest, and I make a sound against his mouth like finally.
His other hand comes up to the side of my neck, rough and shaking, holding me there like he’s afraid I’ll disappear or worse, as if he’s afraid he won’t be able to make himself let go.
Holy fuck.
I press him back against the lockers and he goes, helpless, a quiet sound breaking low in his throat.
His mouth opens and the whole thing catches fire fast, too fast, like smoke with nowhere to go, it’s suffocating.
I slip my tongue inside his mouth, tentatively, and he opens up more for me, chasing me back.
His fingers dig into my skin. Mine slide to his waist.
We're in the locker room where anyone could walk in, but I can't stop, not when he's making sounds like that, not when his tongue is meeting mine, furious and hungry and exactly what I've been wanting to taste. He’s hot everywhere, shaking with it, and I know, I know, this is too much, too soon, too dangerous.
We’re both gone, lost in this moment, clinging onto each other.
Then something crashes in the hallway.
A door. A voice. Someone laughing too close.
Jamie tears away from me like he’s been burned.
He stumbles back, eyes wild, mouth swollen, chest heaving.
Like his brain caught up to what he was doing.
I reach for him without thinking. “Jamie—”
“No.”
One word. The Jamie who just kissed me completely gone. Already backing up from me. He grabs his shirt off the bench with shaking hands. Yanks it on. Inside out. Doesn't notice or doesn't care. Doesn't look at me either.
“Jamie,” I say again, softer.
He flinches. Actually flinches.
That stops me cold, but his face twists like he hates himself more than he could ever hate me.
“I’m not fucking gay,” he seethes.
Then he grabs his bag and leaves.
Not walks.
Runs.
The door swings shut behind him and the sound of it echoes through the empty locker room. And I can’t believe I did this to myself once again.