Page 71 of Cold Comeback
In the shower, under the hot water, I let my eyes drift closed and tried to wash away the day's artificial moments.
"Gideon."
I opened my eyes to find Thatcher standing closer than necessary, water streaming down his muscular chest.
"What if they only like the version of me on film?" he whispered.
There it was, the fear underneath his careful structuring of his image and persona. What if the real him wasn't enough?
Instead of answering with words, I reached out and touched his face. My thumb traced his cheekbone and the scar on his chin I'd wondered about since day one.
He leaned into the touch, eyes closing.
I kissed him, soft and certain. It said I see you. The real you. And that's who I choose.
His arms wrapped around me, gently touching the surgical scars he'd discovered in our hotel room.
"This," I said against his lips. "This is real."
"Yeah?"
"Everything else is noise."
Steam curled thick around us, turning the locker room into a blurred cocoon. The hiss of water filled the silence until Thatcher leaned against the tile a little too close, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with intent.
"You ever notice," he said, his breath hot against my collarbone, "that the cameras never catch us like this?"
I chuckled, trying to ignore how his proximity caused goosebumps. "Pretty sure the network doesn't want shower footage."
"Shame," he murmured, as his gaze traveled down my body, lingering where water trailed over my hips. Then, he tipped his head back, exposing the strong column of his throat, and started humming—low, rough, almost a growl that vibrated through the small space between us.
Not a song I knew. It wasn't polished. Instead, it was intentionally filthy, a melody that felt like fingers trailing down my spine. He improvised a line under his breath, crooning off-key:
"Hot water and hockey boys, steam rising higher, bodies slick with hunger..."
I laughed, startled and unmistakably aroused, my cock twitching visibly between us. Before I could get a word out, he leaned in, lips brushing my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe as his voice dropped into a husky mock-ballad:
"Captain looks better when he's dripping, not wired... when he's coming undone for me."
It was ridiculous. It was funny. And it set every nerve of mine on fire, blood rushing south so fast it made me dizzy.
"Fuck, Thatcher," I managed.
"What? I'm giving you authenticity," he teased, eyes glinting as he grabbed my hip. "Unfiltered, raw content. Blake would kill for this."
I shoved at his shoulder, but he didn't move. The water ran down the defined ridges of his chest and abs, while he hummed another nonsense line, sliding closer until our thighs touched, his erection brushing mine.
It wasn't about being smooth. It was about being us, making intimacy playful, shameless, and impossible to package.
When I kissed him, he was still half-singing against my mouth, breath vibrating into me, turning laughter into lust as his tongue slid against mine. He gripped my ass, pulling me flush against him, both of us groaning.
And for once, there was no audience. No cameras. Only the sound of him—rough, messy, absolutely real—drowning out everything else as we moved together under the spray.
There was nothing gentle about Thatcher's hands. He gripped my hip, water-slicked, and mashed me back against the wall, cock pressed flush against mine.
He jerked us both off with one hand, rough and perfect. He didn't care about technique, just about wringing every last drop of pleasure out of me.
My legs were shaky, braced between the wall and his thigh. I wanted to say his name and make a joke, call him "Thatch" like his buddies in high school probably did, but all that came out was a strangled sound, helpless and raw.
