LOCKER ROOM GLARE

Dinner at the hockey house felt like walking onto thin ice. The long wooden table vibrated with loud voices, clattering forks, and the kind of easy chaos that came from twenty-three guys who had known one another for years. Riot and Tank traded stories that grew more ridiculous with every retelling. Liam flashed me occasional lopsided grins that lingered a beat too long. Ethan, the rookie, kept stealing wide-eyed glances like he still couldn’t believe I was real.

At the head of the table, Caleb ruled in silence.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t join the banter. He simply watched. Every few minutes his grey eyes found me across the dishes and half-empty plates, heavy and unreadable. Each look pressed against my skin like a weight I couldn’t shake. The food tasted like ash. My muscles still ached from the afternoon’s brutal drills, and every shift in my chair brought back the memory of his body pinning mine against the boards—the controlled strength, the heat, the way the world had narrowed to just the two of us for those suspended seconds.

I ate quickly and excused myself as soon as I could.

Upstairs, my room offered no real escape. The walls were painfully thin. I could hear Caleb next door—the low thud of weights hitting the floor, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional muffled grunt of effort. Each sound traveled straight through the drywall and into my bones. I changed into soft sleep shorts and a thin tank top, the cool air raising goosebumps along my arms, but my skin still felt fever-warm.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

At midnight, thirst drove me downstairs. The house had finally gone quiet, lit only by the faint glow of the refrigerator and a single light left on in the kitchen. I padded across the linoleum on bare feet—and stopped.

Caleb stood at the counter, back to me, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants. His skin still carried a faint sheen from his late workout, muscles shifting under the warm light as he reached for a bottle of water. The sight of his bare shoulders and the long line of his spine stole the breath from my lungs.

He turned the moment I stepped into the room.

His gaze moved slowly—down the length of my bare legs, over the thin fabric of my tank top, back up to my face. Not crude. Not rushed. Just thorough. Heavy. Like he was memorizing every detail against his will. The air between us thickened instantly, charged with everything we refused to say.

“Couldn’t sleep, Jones?” His voice came low, rough around the edges.

“Just thirsty,” I answered, forcing my feet to move. The kitchen suddenly felt far too small. I reached for a glass in the upper cabinet, and my hip accidentally brushed his.

Neither of us pulled away.

Caleb shifted closer. Not touching, but close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from his chest against my back. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of my neck. The counter pressed cold against my hips while his presence burned behind me. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word vibrating through the narrow space. “You walk around this house like that… you make it hard to remember the rules.”

I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles whitened. “It’s my house now too, Captain. If my pajamas bother you, maybe you’re the one who needs to adjust.”

A low, strained sound—almost a laugh, almost something darker—rumbled from his chest. He leaned in a fraction more. His fingers hovered near the hem of my shorts, tracing the air just above my skin without making contact. The almost-touch sent sparks racing up my thigh. I held perfectly still, every nerve straining toward him and away at the same time.

“You think you can live three inches away from me?” he whispered, voice dropping. “Hearing me through the wall every night. Knowing I’m right there… fighting the same war you are.”

My breath trembled. The memory of every board check, every correction, every weighted stare flooded back. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to close the last inch between us. The contradiction hurt more than any hit I’d ever taken.

“I’ve been fighting men like you since I was twelve,” I said quietly, the old pain rising unbidden. “They laughed when I stepped on their ice. Told me to go play with dolls. I scored anyway. Checked their captain so hard he needed stitches. Coaches said I was too rough for the girls’ game and too distracting for the boys’. I’ve spent every single day proving I belong.”

Caleb’s hand stilled in the air near my thigh. His voice softened, just slightly. “And now the Wolves are coming. Kane Harlow is already painting a target on your back. Saying you make us weak.”

The words should have angered me. Instead they tightened the knot in my chest. Caleb’s presence behind me felt heavier, more conflicted. For one long, aching moment, the only sound was our breathing—mine unsteady, his carefully controlled.

Then footsteps thudded on the stairs.

Caleb stepped back instantly, the loss of his heat leaving me cold. Riot wandered into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Late night raid?” he asked through a yawn, oblivious.

“Something like that,” Caleb answered, voice rough. His eyes met mine across the small space—one last scorching look filled with frustration, warning, and something painfully close to longing—before he turned and left.

I grabbed my water and fled upstairs, legs unsteady. Inside my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, chest heaving.

Minutes later, the faint creak of Caleb’s bed carried through the wall. Then came a low, frustrated exhale—raw, quiet, and unmistakably laced with tension. My name, barely whispered.

I closed my eyes, heart breaking in slow, silent pieces. We were both trapped in this storm—two people who should hate each other, yet couldn’t seem to stay apart. The house felt smaller with every passing hour. Tomorrow we would return to the ice, pull the masks back on, and pretend none of this existed.

How much longer could we keep lying to ourselves before the tension between us finally shattered everything we’d built?