Page 20 of Tempting the Teammate
Andrei sat two spots down from me, methodically working through his post-practice routine. Chest protector first, then shoulder pads, each piece of equipment handled and stored with careful attention. I found myself watching the process more closely than I probably should have, noting the way his muscles shifted as he reached overhead to hang his jersey, the brief glimpse of his stomach when his undershirt rode up as he stretched.
There was something almost hypnotic about watching him undress, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. Maybe it was the contrast between his careful movements and the casual chaos of most locker rooms, or maybe it was just thatAndrei made everything look deliberate and purposeful, even something as mundane as changing clothes.
He pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and I caught sight of the long line of his torso, the definition in his shoulders and arms that came from years of training. My throat went dry for no reason I could name, and I had to force myself to look away, focusing on my own gear with sudden intensity.
“Shaw, you planning to sleep in here?” Phoenix called from across the room, already dressed and ready to leave.
“Just taking my time,” I replied, fumbling with my skate laces. My fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that made no sense.
Phoenix shook his head and headed for the door, calling back, “Don’t let Coach lock you in when he makes his rounds.”
The warning was unnecessary. Coach Neilsen had made his Friday evening circuit twenty minutes ago, but Phoenix’s departure left just the two of us and a couple of guys still in the showers. The sudden quiet made me hyperaware of every sound: the soft thud of Andrei’s equipment hitting the bench, the whisper of fabric against skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
I glanced over again and immediately regretted it. Andrei was down to his base layer now, the fitted undershirt that clung to his chest and showed the lean lines of his build. He was digging through his bag for clean clothes, his movements efficient but somehow graceful, and I felt that weird tightness in my chest that had been happening more and more lately.
What the hell was wrong with me? I’d spent years in locker rooms, surrounded by half-naked teammates, and it had never been a thing. But lately, watching Andrei get changed felt different, charged with something I couldn’t identify and didn’t particularly want to examine too closely. These things were best left alone.
I finally managed to get my gear sorted and pulled on my street clothes, grateful for something to do with my hands. Andrei was scrolling through his phone, his expression growing darker with each passing second.
“Everything okay?” I asked, shouldering my bag.
He looked up from his screen, and I could see genuine frustration in his pale eyes. “Have you checked your social media today?”
“Not really. Why?”
“You should.” His voice carried an edge I’d rarely heard from him, sharp enough to make me pay attention. “The new episodes are getting more attention than we probably want.”
I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram, immediately slammed with a wall of notifications. My follower count had jumped another few thousand since this morning, and my mentions were flooded with clips and comments and reactions to whatever had aired this week. We had stopped watching the episodes after the second one had aired.
“Looks like good news to me,” I said, scrolling through the responses. Most of them were positive, lots of fire emojis and compliments about my performance in practice footage. “People seem to like what they’re seeing.”
Andrei’s laugh was bitter. “Keep scrolling.”
I did, and gradually, the tone of the comments shifted. There were still plenty of thirst trap responses and general appreciation for the team, but mixed in were other things. Edits that focused specifically on Andrei and me, video compilations set to romantic songs, comments that used language I wasn’t expecting. This had happened immediately after the first episode, too, but it had seemed tamer back then.
“Didn’t you see this shit?” Andrei asked, his voice rough with some emotion I couldn’t quite place. “Griffdrei isn’t just a bromance anymore.”
I looked up from my phone, confused by his tone. “What is it?”
He shot me a cold look that made my stomach drop. “Try and guess.”
The pieces clicked together in my head, and I felt my mouth curve into a grin despite Andrei’s obvious distress. “Oh. Fan fiction?”
The expression on his face could have frozen the shower water still running in the background. He shook his head dismissively. “It’s not funny, Griffin.”
“Come on,” I said, still grinning. “It’s kind of flattering, right? People like us enough to write stories about us.”
“Stories.” He said the word like it tasted bad. “Right.”
I was missing something important, I could tell, but I couldn’t figure out what. Andrei was genuinely upset about fan attention that seemed harmless to me, even if it was a little weird. So what if people wanted to speculate about our friendship? It wasn’t like anyone was forcing us to read their theories.
“Look,” I said, trying to use the reasonable tone that usually worked when he got moody, “it’s just people having fun with what they see on-screen. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Andrei stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then he grabbed his bag and headed for the door without another word.
“Where are you going?” I called after him.
“Out,” he said without turning around. “Don’t wait up.”
