It’s becoming a thing now, this awareness. Like my body has developed a separate sense just for him. I pull my undershirt over my head slowly. Not performing it. Just not rushing. If he's going to look he can look. But I'm done making it easy for him to pretend he isn't.
When my face clears the fabric, Jamie is across the room at his locker, one hand frozen on the strap of his shoulder pads.
Staring.
Not accidentally.
Not politely.
Hungry.
His eyes drag once, measured, across my chest, my stomach, my tattoos, like he forgot how to stop himself. We’ve never been like this in the locker room. Not without anger acting as cover. Not without getting dressed as quickly as possible to avoid each other.
Heat hits my skin hard and fast.
It’s everywhere.
Then he realizes what he’s doing and his eyes snap back up.
Caught. For maybe the fourth time.
I should let him off easy.
But I won’t. Not anymore.
He’s been caught looking too many times to let it slide.
I tilt my head, curiously.
His hand flexes nervously.
I’m trying hard to remember that Jamie is maybe not into guys and I hate him, and I’m also not sure which one is true anymore. I turn back to my locker, forcing my hands to work, lacing my shoes like I need to concentrate really hard to do it. Around us, the room empties in pieces—Bennett and Cooper arguing, Kowalski disappearing, voices fading.
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.
