He doesn’t respond immediately. Just stares. Calculating. Measuring. But I can see it—his restraint starting to falter. A small twitch of his lips, a faint exhale, the subtle rise and fall of tension in his leg. That crack is mine to prod, and I grin.
I press my hand higher, sliding just enough to feel the heat of his hard cock through his jeans, keeping it subtle, hidden from the rest of the team who are laughing and joking, oblivious. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t push me off.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says breathlessly.
“Maybe,” I whisper, leaning in close, letting my lips brush the edge of his ear. “Or maybe I just like to see how far someone can resist before they crack.”
He inhales sharply, almost imperceptibly, and I know then that I have him. His dick twitches against my hand, aching to be palmed. But I’m not in a rush.
I straighten slightly, letting my hand linger a beat longer before moving it casually to rest just above the table’s edge. Not because I need to, but because I want him to miss the weight of it. To remember the teasing, the boldness, the fact that he can’t ignore it.
“You’re reckless,” he says softly, voice low, a mix of irritation and curiosity.
I smirk, tilting my head. “Maybe,” I whisper, letting the teasing edge linger. “I just like to watch people like you fall apart slowly right in front of me.”
His eyes flick down at my hand again, a momentary heat, before snapping back to mine. That subtle, barely restrained attraction is raw, and I can feel it, savoring it. He wants to resist. He needs to. But the pull, the tension, the dangerous tease… It’s already doing its work.
I let my hand rest lightly for another beat before I raise it for the waitress to bring me another drink.
Around us, the team continues their raucous celebration. No one notices. And that, more than anything, makes it perfect.
Leander slipped away.
I notice the empty space at the edge of the table the second he’s gone. One moment, he’s there—jaw tight, eyes flicking to mine with every chance he gets. The next, poof. Vanished into the throng of drunken teammates, laughter, and spilled beer.
I don’t chase him. Not yet. Watching him leave, the way he moves—quiet, measured, like he’s untouchable even when his control is faltering—is more satisfying than catching him. More tantalizing. I lean back, pretending to sip my drink, but my mouth is dry. My pulse is sharp and uneven, my mind running in tight, greedy circles.
The truth slams into me as I lie in bed later that night: I’m attracted to him. Not in some passing curiosity way, not in a casual “he’s fine” glance kind of way. It’s visceral. I notice the curve of his jaw, the tense line of his throat as he tries to hold himself together, the way his shoulders flex under my touch. Even now, imagining him sitting there, opening his mouth so obediently, makes heat pool low and heavy in my stomach.
Damn it. I’m not supposed to care about teammates like this. Especially not rookies. Especially not quiet ones who pretend indifference. But there it is. I can still feel the warmth under the table where my hand lingered, the solid press of his thigh against mine, and the memory makes me grin—half amused, half dangerously aware of how far I want to push.
He’s a puzzle I want to solve. A wall I want to scale. A man I want to strip bare until I see what he’s hiding. I can feel the tension he’s been holding in check, the subtle flicker of desire burning just beneath that rigid control, and I want to exploit it. Not cruelly. Not yet. But deliberately. I want to see how far I can push him before he breaks—or gives in.
Ideas start crawling into my head, electric and vivid. A brush of fingers too close to his wrist. A low comment only he hears. The kind of teasing remark that could be mistaken for casual banter but won’t be, not by him. I want him squirming, strung tight with restraint, every muscle betraying the effort it takes to deny me. I want him to feel the tension, the danger, the inevitability. I want him to know that resisting is possible, but it will cost him.
I’m restless, my cock aching against the elastic of my boxers. My body is thrumming, alive with that charged energy I usually shake off in a fight or on the ice, but there’s nowhere to put it now. The lights are low, the hum of the city bleeding faintly through the window. I strip off my clothes like they’re burning me, skin prickling with heat, and collapse onto the bed, but my mind won’t stop spinning.
And then it’s only him.
Leander.
The memory of his shoulder under my hand, solid and warm. The subtle twitch of his thigh when I pressed against it, as though he’d felt lightning strike beneath the table. The way his lips had betrayed him, twitching just enough to show he knew exactly what I was doing and that he felt it.
I close my eyes, and I’m there again, replaying it frame by frame. My fingers sketch imaginary paths over his body in my mind—tracing the line of his jaw, pressing into the hard plane of his chest, skimming lower, lower. My palm fits against the curve of his thigh, heat radiating up into me. He’s gorgeous. Notjust good-looking. Not just well-built. Something about him is magnetic—calculated, controlled, but with that thread of chaos stitched tight beneath his skin. That combination is dangerous. Addictive.
And I’m hooked.
The heat in my stomach grows, sharp and insistent. I roll onto my side, breathing hard, my skin prickling as though his hands are on me instead of just my own imagination. I can almost feel his breath against my ear, the faint brush of his knuckles along my thigh, the subtle crack in his composure under my gaze. It makes me ache. It makes me burn.
My hand on his thigh. The way he stiffened. The way he refused to shove me off. That faint tremor in his breath—God, it’s carved into me like a brand.
Fuck it.
I let the memory replay. My hand slides where his thigh had been, fabric rough under my fingertips, pretending it’s him, pretending I’m back there with him pretending not to feel me.
I close my eyes, and he’s there—Leander, jaw clenched, shoulders taut, doing everything he can not to crack. That composure is what gets me. The fight. The restraint. And the way I can worm my way inside it, test it, push until he gives me something raw. I spit into my hand.
My fist closes around my cock, slow at first, building the rhythm like I’m drawing out his patience. I imagine him breathing hard through his nose, still silent, still pretending. That makes me go harder, teeth gritted as I pump faster.
