Page 23 of Cold Comeback
He paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Drake?"
"Yeah?"
"Welcome to the team house."
After he left, I lay in bed staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a hockey stick if you squinted. My phone buzzed with a text message.
Gideon—Do Not Annoy:Door's always unlocked if you need anything.
I renamed the contact "Captain Complicated" and tried to convince myself it had only been a one-time thing. It was a moment of weakness; we were getting it out of our systems.
I knew that was wrong. I was already thinking about the next time.
Maybe Pluto was right about the curse. Perhaps every guy in this room did fall for someone completely inappropriate.
And maybe that wasn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
My phone buzzed again—the Bone Yard group chat lit up with someone's theory about why protein powder expired faster in this house than anywhere else. I sent back a laughing emoji and settled deeper into the mattress.
I let myself imagine what it would be like if Gideon knocked on my door again. The curse might not be such a bad thing after all.
Chapter six
Gideon
Istared at my ceiling for the fourth straight hour, watching the digital clock mock me as I read 5:07 AM in brutal red numbers. My body refused to let me forget. Every nerve ending still hummed, remembering Thatcher's skin under my hands, how he'd arched beneath me, and how perfectly he'd fit when I lost every shred of control.
The taste of his sweat lingered on my tongue. In my head, I heard the sound of my name on his lips when he'd come apart, echoing like a broken record.
Discipline,I told myself.You've built your entire life on discipline.
One night. One spectacular lapse in judgment, and twenty-six years of careful design lay in ruins around me.
I considered the damage. I'd fucked a teammate. Worse, I'd fucked a teammate whose career was already under scrutiny. Worst of all, I'd done it as team captain—the guy who was supposed to set the example and uphold standards.
Even though I'd showered, I could still smell his body on me.
I climbed out of bed before I could do something stupid, like jerking off and coming again as I relived every second.
My morning routine was armor I could strap on piece by piece. Coffee: black, two sugars, same mug in the same spot. Protein shake: vanilla, because chocolate reminded me too much of his eyes. Practice notes: review special teams assignments and work on plans for defensive zone coverage.
Order. System. Control.
I had three years behind me in Richmond, and I spent most of my time managing other people's chaos. Knox's temper, Pluto's scattered focus, and Linc's tendency to get cute in his zone. I constantly redirected twenty different personalities into better choices.
Still, I couldn't manage my own fucking lust.
I checked my phone twice before shoving it in a kitchen drawer. No messages from him, which was smart. We both knew it couldn't happen again.
New plan,I decided, pulling on my jacket. Minimal eye contact. Professional communication only. Delegate his development to the assistant coaches. Keep it simple. Keep it clean.
It was a bulletproof plan until I remembered the way he'd whispered "yes, Sir" right before I'd—
I slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame and pretended it was the wind.
I arrived at our practice facility forty minutes early, hoping to avoid the moment when Thatcher walked through the door and my carefully rebuilt walls crumbled like a house of cards.
At precisely 8:15, he appeared in the locker room doorway. He moved with easy athletic grace that made everything seem effortless. He glanced around the room, and when his eyes found mine, my pulse began to race.
