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RIOT
Morning light seepsthrough the blinds and I stir, groaning as memories from last night invade my sleep-fogged brain. Kissing London in that alley, all fierce desperation and white-hot sparks. Even hours later, my lips tingle where his scorched mine. I scrub a hand down my face, equal parts elated and terrified by the intensity of it all. Fuck. What have I gotten myself into?
A tempting, reckless part of me wants to burst into London's room and finish what we started against that wall last night. Another part of me, the cautious, pragmatic side that's gotten me this far, urges me to slam on the brakes before I crash and burn.
Because wanting London Lancaster goes against everything I thought I knew about myself. I've never looked twice at another guy before. Never even considered it could be a possibility for me. And of all the guys in the world to test out this unexpected attraction, it had to be my hotheaded, explosive rival. The one person guaranteed to make my life even more complicated.
With a groan, I force my uncooperative body out of bed. Maybe some distance and a cold shower will help clear my muddled head. Slipping out to the hall, I move as quietly as I can, praying I don't run into London yet. His bedroom door stays closed. The coast seems clear.
Letting out a breath, I round the corner to the kitchen ? and nearly slam right into the man himself.
He’s shirtless… and sweaty.
"Fuck," I mutter, stumbling to an awkward halt.
Fresh from a run, London stands dripping with sweat in the kitchen, his cut body on full display, every ridge of his abs glistening while he guzzles water from a plastic bottle. His black baseball hat is turned backwards on his head and his messy blond hair sticks out from under it. Droplets glisten along his throat as it works, mesmerizing me. His hair looks almost brown, darkened from sweat. That hazel stare bores into mine as he watches me watch him, and when he finishes the bottle, he smirks at me.
He totally caught me checking him out. Fuck.
I shift on my feet, mouth drying out. When did the sight of another guy's sweaty body start making my dick hard?
Stop drooling, Kensington.
Hoping he can't sense the fuckery happening in my head—and my shorts—I edge around him toward the fridge, acutely aware of his half-naked presence. The kitchen feels supercharged; the silence deafening. We maneuver around each other warily.
"Morning," I finally mutter.
"Hey." His voice still has that just-woken-up gravel that buzzes down my spine like lightning.
Not trusting myself to speak again, I busy myself grabbing ingredients for a protein shake—bananas, peanut butter, almond milk. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense London doing the same, grabbing the protein powder and sliding it across the counter to me so I’ll make his, too.
We continue our awkward dance around each other in electric silence. I flick on the blender to drown out my riotous thoughts, fixating on the whirring blades to avoid staring at the bead of sweat trailing down London's throat and between his pecs. And how badly I want to lick it off.
Christ.Get ahold of yourself, man.
I rinse out the blender in the sink near London after I pass him his shake. As I raise my eyes, I catch his reflected in the window. Something hot and conflicted passes between us before we both look away.
Clearing my throat, I grab my packed gear bag off the counter. "I'm heading to the rink early. See you at practice, yeah?" I don't wait for his response before slipping out the door.
The crisp morning air helps clear my chaotic thoughts as I make the familiar walk to campus. But London still consumes my headspace, memories of our heated kiss playing on an endless loop. I lick my lips unconsciously, craving another taste of him, despite my confusion. I need to understand these weird desires inside me that are making me question everything.
By the time I reach the locker room, I've got my game face locked down, determined to power through practice without letting my inner turmoil show. The familiar smells of sweat and stale gear help ground me.
Hitting the ice first, I revel in the smooth glide of my skates, carving patterns on the fresh sheet of ice. Out here alone, I finally feel some semblance of clarity and control returning.
Until London skates out a few minutes later.
My eyes are immediately drawn to him, despite my attempts to focus on my own warm-up drills. His powerful strides eat up the ice as he circles the rink. The smooth flex of his thighs has me mesmerized in a way I've never experienced before. His blond hair whips back from the speed, cheeks already flushed from the cold. He's poetry in motion out here in his element.
I can’t stop staring.
Shaking myself, I force my eyes away and back to my own prep work. Now is sure as hell not the time for distracting fantasies about my rival-turned-teammate.
But said rival seems just as determined to command my attention today.
Whenever we're paired up for drills, London dials his intensity to 100. He checked me unnecessarily hard in one scrimmage, his eyes blazing. In response, I angled him off the puck with equal aggression during the next drill.
We're both off our game, playing sloppy and impatient as that electric undercurrent sizzles between us. Frustration mounts on both sides from our lack of finesse today, fueled by our unresolved attraction.
