Page 17 of Captain's Claim

The steam room is suffocating, thick with heat and the lingering scent of eucalyptus and sweat. My skin burns from the temperature, my muscles tight and aching from the game yesterday, but I don’t move.

I sit on the bench, elbows on my knees, watching the beads of condensation trail down the tiled walls, dripping onto the floor in uneven rhythms.

2 goals to 3. We lost.

The low hum of the steam vents fills the silence, but it doesn’t drown out the storm in my head.

Coach Brody tore into us after the game. When we arrived back here a few hours ago he did the same thing before sending us home to 'take a good hard look at ourselves'.

He ripped us apart, and I took the worst of it.

Rightfully so.

I played like shit. Slow. Sloppy. Unfocused. The kind of performance that makes you sick when you think about it.

Missed passes. Stupid penalties. A fucking turnover that cost us the tying goal that sent us into overtime. We'd already lost out heads by then, but the winner just piled on the misery.

I rub a hand over my face, jaw clenching.

It’s not just the loss sitting heavy in my chest—it’sher.

That goddamn dance. That dress. That scent that lingers, still strong enough to stir my cock everywhere I fucking go.

I grunt, slapping my forehead, trying to rid these thoughts.

The soft press of her killer body against me, the way her fingers hesitated before settling on my shoulder. The heat in her breath when I leaned in close.

I shut my eyes, exhaling sharply through my nose.

Fucking hell! Stop!

She’s inside my head, slinking into places she has no business being.

I shift forward, bracing my forearms on my knees. I should be focused on the team, on our next game, on fixing the shit I messed up last night. Instead, I’m stuck replaying flashes of emerald silk and wicked hazel eyes, and it’s pissing me off.

Enough.

I push off the bench, dragging a fresh white towel from the nearby stack. The steam clings to my skin as I wrap it around my waist, knotting it low on my hips.

I need to sleep off this frustration. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can reset. Drown out the loss. Drown outher.

I step toward the door, pushing it open with one hand-

And freeze.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Standing right there, inmyspace, where she should not be, is Sophia-fucking-Hart. Steam curls around her like she’s stepped out of a goddamn dream.

Or maybe a nightmare. Depends on the angle.

Furious, I step out of the steam room and let the door slam behind me. The hallway’s cool air slams into me like a slap to the face. My skin tingles, still steaming slightly, moisture clinging to my chest, dripping in slow, lazy rivulets down my abs.

But none of that matters.

Sophia's frozen mid-step, pink lips parting, those sharp hazel eyes droppinginstinctivelyto the towel slung low on my hips.

Her pupils dilate. Not much. Just a fraction.

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