Page 36 of Price of Victory
But my heart, traitorous thing that it was, kept pulling me back to the memory of Aiden’s smile when he’d seen me in the locker room this morning. To the way he’d immediately asked if I was okay after that hard check. To the heat in his voice when he’d whispered those filthy suggestions during practice.
I wanted to see him again. I wanted to touch him again, to taste him, to lose myself in that electric connection that made everything else fade away. I wanted to find out if what had happened between us was just physical release or something deeper, something that might actually be worth the risk.
The realization scared me more than anything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Because wanting Aiden was one thing. But wanting something real with him, something that went beyond just taking the edge off our mutual antagonism, was a complication I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
My phone buzzed with a text, and my heart leaped before I even looked at the screen. But it wasn’t Aiden. It was my mother, asking if I wanted to come home for dinner this weekend, mentioning that my father had been asking about me.
I stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A weekend at home meant family dinners and questions about school and subtle pressure about my future plans. It meant sitting in rooms where the Whitmore name was still spoken like a curse, where my father’s jaw would tighten if the business rivalry came up in conversation.
It meant pretending that nothing had changed, that I was still the same dutiful son who would never dream of getting involved with the enemy.
But everything had changed. I had changed. And I wasn’t sure I could go back to pretending otherwise, even for the sake of family peace.
I set the phone aside without responding and rolled onto my side, burying my face in the pillow that still smelled like Aiden’s cologne. Tomorrow, there would be another practice, another opportunity to see him, to figure out what this thing between us was becoming.
Today, I was just going to lie here and try to reconcile the two halves of my life that seemed increasingly impossible to balance.
And try not to think about how much I was looking forward to seeing him again.
FOURTEEN
AIDEN
I followedRhett into the locker room like a man possessed, my eyes tracking every movement of his body as he made his way to his usual spot. The practice had left us both heated and flushed, sweat dampening our hair and making our gear cling to our skin. I could smell him from here, that intoxicating mix of exertion and the clean scent that was uniquely his, cutting through the familiar odors of the locker room like a drug I couldn’t get enough of.
My frustration was building with every breath I took. This morning’s phone call with my mother was still echoing in my head, her pointed comments about family obligations and patience running thin. She’d mentioned the “debt” I owed to the family, as if my entire existence was some kind of transaction that needed to be repaid with compliance and gratitude.
“Your father is being very patient with this hockey phase,” she’d said, her voice carrying that particular tone that made every word feel like a carefully aimed barb. “But he won’t wait forever for you to take your responsibilities seriously.”
Phase. Like something I’d outgrow, like a childhood obsession with toy cars or comic books. The dismissive wayshe’d said it had made my jaw clench with anger that I was still carrying around hours later.
Part of me wanted to get back at her, wanted to do something that would horrify her perfectly controlled sensibilities. And I knew exactly what would accomplish that goal. She couldn’t stand the Morrisons, had made that clear through years of carefully worded comments about “certain families” and their “questionable practices.” If she knew what I’d been doing with Rhett Morrison, what I was planning to do again, it would probably give her heart palpitations.
The thought should have been more satisfying than it was. Instead, it just made me feel hollow, using my attraction to Rhett as some kind of rebellion against family expectations. He deserved better than that, even if I wasn’t ready to examine why that mattered to me.
But then I caught sight of him pulling off his practice jersey, revealing the lean lines of his torso, and all rational thought fled my brain. I’d been unable to take my eyes off him all day, hyperaware of his every movement during practice, cataloging each expression that crossed his face. The way he’d looked when I’d suggested doing it on ice had been burned into my memory, that combination of shock and want that had made me want to push him against the boards and kiss him senseless.
The locker room was filling with the usual post-practice noise, guys complaining about conditioning, making plans for the evening, the general chaos of twenty college athletes trying to shower and change in a confined space. But I was only aware of Rhett, of the way his hands moved as he organized his gear, the flex of muscle in his shoulders as he reached for his towel.
I made my decision quickly, grabbing my own shower supplies and timing my approach to the stalls. When Rhett headed toward the showers, I was right behind him, choosing the stall directly next to his. The partition between us was solidenough for privacy but not soundproof, and I found myself listening to every sound he made, the rustle of clothing being removed, the squeak of faucet handles, the splash of water hitting tile.
I forced myself to focus on my own shower, soaping up and rinsing off with mechanical efficiency while my mind wandered to what was happening just a few feet away. The knowledge that Rhett was naked and wet and separated from me by nothing more than a thin wall was driving me to distraction.
I timed my exit to coincide with his, both of us emerging from our respective stalls at almost the same moment. Rhett had his towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders, and the sight hit me across the chest. I wanted to trace the path of those water droplets with my tongue, wanted to taste the heat of his skin.
The locker room was emptying out around us, guys heading home or to dinner or whatever plans they had for the evening. Soon, it would be just the two of us, and the anticipation was making my hands shake slightly as I dried off.
When the last teammate called out a goodbye and headed for the exit, leaving us alone in the steamy, humid space, I made my move.
“Rhett.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended, and he turned to look at me with surprise in his brown eyes.
Before he could respond, before I could second-guess myself, I crossed the distance between us and pressed him back against the wall of lockers. The metal was cold against his bare skin, and I watched him shiver at the contact, his pupils dilating as he realized how close I was.
“I’ve missed you,” I said, my hands braced on either side of his head, caging him in.
“You’ve seen me every day,” he replied, but his voice was breathless, and I could see his pulse jumping in his throat.
“You know what I mean.” I leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Come over tonight.”
