Over the next few days, the pattern continued and escalated. Logan left coffee and notes every morning. The notesgot progressively more elaborate, quoting actual poetry mixed with technical observations about my work that revealed he'd been paying far more attention than his sarcastic demeanor suggested.
Your assessment of opposing forwards' weak-side coverage was brilliant and I'm low-key offended you noticed their deficiencies before I did. Coffee is a bribe. I accept payment in continued technical insights and also maybe smiles because yours are rare and therefore valuable.
I should have shut this down. I should have had a professional conversation about appropriate boundaries. Instead, I found myself looking forward to the notes, smiling at Logan's self-deprecating humor and surprisingly insightful observations.
Nolan took a different approach. He adjusted his workout schedule to coincide perfectly with mine—and I mean perfectly. I couldn't use the home gym without him appearing within five minutes, offering to spot me during strength training with the kind of timing that could not possibly be coincidental.
"Need a spot?" he'd ask, materialized beside the bench press like a helpful ghost.
"I've got it," I'd say, even though I definitely could use a spot.
"Your form's off," he'd observe, which was technically true but also somewhat irrelevant. "You're not engaging your core properly. Here—"
His hands would steady me during difficult lifts, his presence solid and reassuring. He'd provide unsolicited but remarkably accurate advice about athletic conditioning, demonstrating with his own body, adjusting my positions withthe careful professionalism that was undercut by the way his eyes lingered just a fraction too long.
"You're tensing your shoulders," he'd say, his hands firm on said shoulders. "Relax into the movement. Like this—"
He'd demonstrate, and I'd watch the way his muscles moved under his skin, the precise control he maintained even during heavy lifts, the focus in his eyes that made me feel like the only person in the room.
This was totally fine. It was professional athletic training between colleagues. Except it wasn't, and we both knew it.
Blake's approach was the most dangerous because it felt the most domestic. He continued cooking elaborate meals, but now he set the table with actual care—cloth napkins that he'd somehow acquired, coordinated plates that didn't look like they came from a college athletic house, candles on nights when Logan and Nolan had away commitments.
"It's just dinner," he'd say when I raised an eyebrow at the increasingly fancy table settings.
"There are flowers," I'd point out.
"The grocery store had a sale."
"Blake. There are three different forks."
"You need different forks for different courses," he'd say, his ears turning pink. "That's just basic dining etiquette."
He insisted on teaching me cooking techniques that required close physical proximity. Knife skills where he'd stand behind me, his large hands guiding mine through the proper cutting motion. Pasta-making where our bodies pressed together at the counter, his chest against my back as he showed me how to work the dough. Sauce-tasting where he'd hold thespoon to my lips with an intensity that had nothing to do with culinary education.
"Tell me what you taste," he'd say softly, his eyes on my mouth.
"Tomato?"
"More specific. What kind of tomato? Can you taste the basil? The garlic?"
I could taste approximately nothing beyond my own rising panic at having Blake this close, this focused, this obviously trying to seduce me through Italian cuisine.
It was working. God help me, it was absolutely working.
During practice, I maintained strict professionalism despite the increasingly obvious attention from my housemates. I'd introduced a new training program that I was privately calling "Ballet Meets Hockey: A Study in Humiliation."
"Today," I announced to the assembled team, "we're working on flexibility and core strength using ballet positions."
The collective groan could probably be heard in the next county.
"Ballet," one of the juniors repeated. "You want us to do ballet."
"I want you to improve your flexibility, range of motion, and core stability using techniques that ballet dancers have perfected over centuries. Unless you think centuries of athletic refinement is beneath you?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought. Everyone find space on the ice."
