“Working through it hard,” Rhys adds helpfully. I am going to actually kill him. I am going to end his life in this office and deal with the consequences later and it will be worth it.
Fitch laughs. Actually laughs, delighted, oblivious to the fact that I am currently dissolving from the inside out in the chair across from him. “That’s what I like to hear. Keep it up out on the ice and we’ll be in great shape.” He waves a hand. “Alright, get out of here.”
We stand. I don’t look at Rhys. I don't trust myself to look at Rhys.
I walk out of that office with every bit of composure I have left — which isn’t much — and keep walking until I hit the corridor. He thinks this is funny. My career. The team. Fitch’s trust. All of it — just material for him. Just another joke. I round the corner toward the locker room.
The worst part wasn’t even the meeting. The worst part is that when he said working it out hard—
I almost laughed.
I grab him the second we’re alone. “What the fuck was that?” I snap, shoving him back a step. “You think you’re so fucking funny, huh? Because it’s not a joke to me. And you wonder why I punched you.”
His eyes flash—but he doesn’t snap back. Just watches me like I’m the one losing it. I turn away first, ripping my shirt off like that ends it. Like I can just walk away from it.
It doesn’t.
“No one knows anything,” he says casually behind me. “Lighten up, dick. And yeah—” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “It was fucking hilarious.”
I ignore him.
Or I try to.
We change in silence, tension thick enough to choke on. I grab a towel and head for the showers, not even looking back at him. I pick the farthest stall.
Of course, he follows.
I catch it in my peripheral—the way he grabs his stuff, how he moves without hesitation, like he already decided where this is going. The stall right next to mine. I scoff under my breath. “Are you insane?”
He leans enough to look over, water already running, unbothered. “Yes.”
And then he just… starts showering.
Like this is normal.
“Relax,” he adds. “No one else is here.”
That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse. I’m seething. Trying to hold onto it. Trying to stay pissed, because anger is easy. Anger is safe. But it’s getting harder.
Harder not to look at him.
Harder not to think about the fact that he’s right there—naked, close enough that I can hear the water hitting his skin. That I can hear every single part of his body he’s lathering up, slick with soap. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t engage.
I don’t—
“Wanna help me shower?” he calls, voice softer now, still teasing—but there’s something else under it. Something heavier.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Hilarious. Keep going.”
I glance over—just to glare.
That’s all it’s supposed to be.
But then—
