Page 7 of Price of Victory
The words were delivered with just enough casual malice to get under my skin, which was probably exactly what he’d intended. Aiden had always been good at finding pressure points and pressing them just hard enough to get a reaction.
I turned to face him fully, close enough now that anyone watching would think we were having a friendly chat between old acquaintances. “Is that what you think you are? Better than me?”
His smile was sharp as a blade, all edges and challenge. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? Should be fun.”
The word “fun” coming from his mouth sounded like a threat and a promise rolled into one, and I had to resist the urge to grab him by the jersey and slam him into the boards just to wipe that smug expression off his face.
By the time we made it back to the locker room, I was wound so tight I felt like I might snap if someone looked at me wrong. The practice had been good. Better than good, actually. The team looked strong, our new players were holding their own better than expected, and our chemistry was already clicking in a way that suggested this could be a special season.
But all I could think about was Aiden’s presence like a storm cloud hanging over everything, threatening to ruin what should have been the best year of my hockey career.
I stripped down quickly, peeling off my gear with more force than necessary and shoving it into my bag. My jersey was soaked with sweat, my hair was a disaster, and all I wanted was five minutes of hot water and silence to get my head on straight.
But of course, Aiden followed me toward the showers.
He started undressing without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, like being naked in front of a room full of guys was the most natural thing in the world. Which, for him, it probably was. He moved with the same confident grace he showed on the ice, every motion deliberate and unashamed.
I tried not to look, focused on organizing my shower supplies and folding my practice gear with unnecessary precision, but my treacherous eyes kept drifting in his direction despite my best efforts.
He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, elegant lines and confident movement that spoke of someone who’d never questioned whether his body was worth looking at. His shoulders were broader than I’d expected, his waist narrow, and there was a small scar on his left hip that looked like it might be from surgery. Hockey injury, probably.
The pride he carried himself with wasn’t just arrogance. It was completely justified. He looked like he’d been carved from marble by someone who understood exactly what perfection should look like, and he knew it.
I clutched my towel tighter around my waist and practically fled to the shower stalls, choosing the one farthest from where he was standing and slamming the door harder than necessary. I turned the water as hot as I could stand and stood under the spray, hoping it would wash away the image that was now burned into my memory.
But even with my eyes closed and steam filling the small space, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Aiden Whitmore, naked and beautiful and completely aware of the effect he had on everyone around him.
This was going to be the longest season of my life.
FOUR
AIDEN
Practice had been good.Better than good, actually. I’d held my own against players who’d been working together for years, and Coach had even nodded approvingly when I’d assisted on two goals during scrimmage. The team was warming up to me, slowly but surely.
Well, most of the team.
“You guys hitting up Lumière?” Patrick asked as we finished changing, his voice carrying that easy camaraderie that came after a solid practice. “I could use a beer and some terrible bar food.”
“Count me in,” Elio said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Lennox? Rhett?”
I watched Rhett’s face carefully as the invitation spread around the locker room. There was the slightest tightening around his eyes when he realized I was within earshot, the kind of micro-expression most people wouldn’t catch. But I’d spent years studying faces at business events, learning to read the tells that revealed what people really thought.
“Yeah, sure,” Rhett said finally, like the words were being dragged out of him.
“What about you, Whitmore?” Easton asked, because he was team captain, and it was his job to make everyone feel included. “Want to join us?”
The apprehensive look that flashed across Rhett’s face was so quick I almost missed it. Almost. But I caught it, and the satisfaction that bloomed in my chest was probably visible on my face.
“Sounds great,” I said, making sure my smile was just charming enough to seem genuine. “I’d love to get to know everyone better.”
Rhett’s jaw tightened by a fraction, and I had to bite back a grin. This was exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for.
The thing about Rhett Morrison was that he was the only person I’d ever tried to flirt with who’d put up an impenetrable shield between us. Most guys fell over themselves for a chance to get close to me. I was good-looking, rich, confident, and open about what I wanted. It was a winning combination that had served me well for years.
But Rhett? Rhett acted like I was some kind of plague carrier, like getting too close might contaminate him with whatever moral bankruptcy he thought ran in my family. It was annoying. Worse than that, it was boring.
Didn’t he know that hate-fucking was the best way to deal with unchecked anger? We could solve both our problems in about twenty minutes if he’d just stop being such a self-righteous prick about it.
