Page 54 of Shattered

“That I did.” I grin, longing to touch him more. But I need to leave; if I touch him again, we won’t be leaving this locker room.

“OK,” I say, snapping out of the thoughts I haven’t got time to be thinking about right now. “I parked the car about five blocks away. I’ll go grab it, and I’ll pick you up on the corner where Walmart is down the road, OK?” He nods.

“Wait, your hat.” Brayden’s eyes lock onto mine as he lifts my hat from the bench. His smile, a sunbeam breaking through clouds, warms my heart.

“Did you have this made?” he asks, his voice soft, fingers tracing the embroidered13. I nod, my pulse racing. “You’re number 13’s biggest fan,” he chuckles, stepping closer.

The hat settles on my head, his breath warm against my skin. I fight the urge to reach for him. “Wear it every day,” he murmurs,eyes darkening. I pull it low, concealing my face, and promise that when it’s just us, I will wear it every minute if he wants me to.

Brayden bites his lip, trying to conceal that beautiful fucking smile of his, and he turns around and walks back to the showers. I spin on my heels, pacing to the exit. An ache tugs in my chest, my heart begging me to turn around and walk back in there.

Fuck. My body needs to get a grip on itself. I’ll be seeing him again in a little while.

Chapter twenty-nine

Brayden

The rush of victory and Mr. Stiles’s unexpected presence linger as I step into the shower, water cascading over my skin. His lips, soft, insistent—haunt me, igniting a fire within. How can someone be so flawless? I used to believe winning was the peak of my happiness, but now I know better. It’s him—the way he looks at me, the way he makes my heart race. I scrub myself clean, making sure I use plenty of soap and kicking myself for not bringing my aftershave with me. Once I’m out of the shower, I grab my phone and find a message from Kal and Tray in the group chat?

Kal:

Have you finished talking to Bex?

Tray:

I got beers, we’re ordering pizza, do you want your weird BBQ base, chicken and pineapple pizza?

It’s not weird but OK. I don’t know what excuse I can say to them, so I do what I do best and ignore them. Getting changed quickly; I pull on my baseball cap, but not before brushing my hair back.

Kal and Tray took my hockey gear with them when they left, so I grab my phone, placing it in my pockets of my gray sweatpants and leave the locker room. Anticipation seeps through my body with every step I take out of the stadium. Knowing I’m finally going to spend time with Mr. Stiles fills me with excitement. Maybe I can finally get to know him more. Ask him questions, dig deep into his life. I know nothing about him, only what I see on his Instagram.

Once I leave the stadium, I turn left and walk toward Walmart, pulling my cap down tight. My hotel is right next to this stadium, and I can’t risk Kal and Tray seeing me. As I approach Walmart, I see a blacked out chevy parked up which sticks out like a sore thumb. Why do I have this feeling this is Mr. Stiles’ car. I pull my phone out and there is already a text from Mr. Stiles.

Sir:

I’m here. Black Chevy.

I smirk because I just knew it. I walk up to the Chevy, open the door, and I swear every time I see him; he takes my breath away. I get in the car and those damn butterflies start up again when his scent wraps around me.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans over, brushing his lips against mine, his voice low and intimate. His fingers trail along the edge of my jaw, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“Hey,” I reply, my cheeks flushing. Who the fuck is this person that keeps blushing? It’s pissing me off. I’ve faced opponents on the ice, brought them down to their fucking knees, but this man has the power to turn me into a blushing mess.

As we drive, Mr. Stiles talks about my game today. His enthusiasm is contagious. He describes my plays, the precision of my passes, the agility in my footwork, as if he’s analyzing a masterpiece. And I soak it all in, hungry for his praise. It’s different from the locker room banter, the high-fives from teammates. This is validation from someone who matters, someone I want to impress. The cityscape blurs outside the window, and I realize we’re leaving the familiar streets behind.

“Where are we going?”

Mr. Stiles smirks, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Wait and see,” he replies.

His hand rests on the gearshift, fingers tapping a rhythm only he knows. The tension in the car is palpable, a magnetic pull that draws me closer. He’s shed his sweater, revealing a short-sleeve sweatshirt that clings to his arms. One hand casually drapes over the top of the wheel, the other bent, elbow resting on the car door. His profile is a study in contrasts—the strong jawline softened by the curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes tempered by a hint of vulnerability. The urge to leap onto him and devour him while he drives—it’s primal, raw. I fidget in my seat, the ache and want for him twisting inside me. This hunger, it’s not normal. My body rebels when I can’t touch him, making me feel needy—a sensation I’ve always despised. Needy isn’t in my vocabulary; it never has been. But he changes everything. Mr. Stiles—his presence ignites unfamiliar feelings, pushes me beyond my boundaries. I huff, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. His car veers onto a dirt track, and I raise an eyebrow, glancing sideways.

“Should I be worried?” I ask, half-teasing.

His smirk is wicked. “Scared that I’m taking you to have my way with you up in some mountains?”

“I could think of worse things,” I reply, my pulse quickening.

We climb, trees crowding the path until suddenly, it opens up. Mr. Stiles eases the car to a stop, reversing it to the edge of a cliff. I step out, and awe washes over me—it’s breathtaking.

---