Chapter 5: The Note in My Locker

The note was waiting inside Eli Parker’s locker when he arrived at the rink that morning.

It was a small piece of black paper folded in half, tucked between his spare gloves and the clean jersey he had left there the previous evening. His name was written across the front in silver ink.

ELI PARKER.

He frowned, tracing the sharp, deliberate stroke of the Y.

“Since when do people write my full name like I’m being summoned to court?”

Across the locker room, Mason Reed, the team’s left winger and Eli’s closest friend, looked up from tying his skates. “Maybe the coach finally discovered you’ve been stealing his protein bars.”

“I don’t steal.”

“You took three yesterday.”

“They were sitting unattended.”

“They were in his office.”

“Exactly. Unattended.”

Mason shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “One day, your mouth is going to get you killed.”

“Hopefully not before I become a professional hockey player.”

Eli picked up the note. The paper felt thick and expensive between his fingers. He turned it over, searching for a signature, but there was nothing. No initials. No name. Just his name on the front, written in handwriting so neat it looked printed.

He unfolded it.

You have no idea what you do to me.

Eli blinked.

Then he read it again, a sudden, heavy warmth pooling low in his stomach.

“What the hell?”

Mason was beside him almost immediately, sliding onto the bench. “What? Did the coach finally confess his undying love for you?”

Eli held the note out of reach, his pulse ticking a little faster against his throat. “Someone left this in my locker.”

Mason’s grin spread slowly, wicked and knowing. “Oh, this is interesting.”

“It’s probably a prank.”

“Of course. Because anonymous love letters are usually delivered to people nobody finds attractive.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m attractive?”

“I’m trying to tell you that if you keep looking at yourself in the mirror after practice, you’re going to miss training.”

Eli shoved him away, but his attention snapped right back to the paper. The message was short, but the words felt dangerously personal charged with a raw, heavy hunger that made his breath catch. It felt like a confession written by someone who had been holding back a tide of things they desperately wanted to do to him.

He glanced around the locker room.

Several players were talking near the showers. Someone was laughing by the equipment shelves. A few others were already heading toward the ice.

And at the far end of the room, Adrian Cross was standing beside his locker.

Watching him.

The moment their eyes met, Adrian looked away, his jaw tightening under his skin.

Eli narrowed his eyes. Very interesting.

“Don't tell me,” Mason whispered beside him. “You already have a suspect.”

“No.”

“You're looking directly at the captain.”

“I’m looking at the wall behind the captain.”

“Does the wall have broad shoulders, a brooding stare, and a criminally attractive face?”

“Shut up, Mason.”

Mason leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Imagine if it's Adrian. The ice king himself.”

Eli let out a laugh, though it felt breathless, a little too sharp. “Adrian Cross? That arrogant bastard would rather swallow his own hockey stick than write me a love letter.”

“Maybe that's why he's been acting so tense around you lately.”

“He doesn't act tense. He acts like he wants to throw me into the boards.”

“Some people have strange ways of flirting.”

“Then some people need therapy.”

Eli folded the note and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, right against his hip. He could still feel the faint imprint of the words burning through the fabric. He would figure out who had written it. And if it turned out to be some idiot trying to mess with his head, he’d make sure they regretted it.

Especially if that idiot was Adrian Cross.

Practice was brutal.

Coach Bennett had apparently decided that the team needed to suffer before breakfast, making them run drills until Eli’s lungs burned and his legs felt heavy, trembling, and entirely spent.

Adrian, naturally, looked as though he had been carved out of ice and arrogance.

The captain moved with effortless, predatory precision directing plays, correcting mistakes, and barking instructions whenever someone fell behind. He was infuriatingly good at everything.

Eli hated that.

He hated it even more when Adrian skated past him during a break, his chest heaving slightly, and murmured, “You're slowing down, Parker.”

Eli tightened his grip on his stick, his teeth clicking together. “I'm saving my energy for when I have to carry your useless ass through the championship.”

Adrian stopped so abruptly that a spray of white ice showered across Eli’s skates.

“My useless ass?”

“Would you prefer incompetent captain?”

A few players nearby muffled their laughter.

Adrian glided closer, closing the distance until Eli could feel the freezing wash of air rolling off him. The captain’s expression was an unreadable mask, dark and intense.

“Keep talking, Parker.”

“Keep listening, Cross.”

For a moment, neither moved. The ambient noise of the rink seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of their heavy breathing echoing off the glass. Eli became painfully, acutely aware of Adrian’s proximity. The clean, intoxicating scent of cedar and cold sweat, the raw power radiating off his frame, and the way Adrian’s dark eyes briefly, hungrily dropped to Eli’s mouth before snapping back to his eyes.

It happened so fast Eli almost convinced himself he had imagined it.

Almost.

Adrian leaned in, his voice lowering to a gravelly register that scraped right down Eli’s spine. “You should be careful who you provoke.”

Eli smiled, though his heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “Why? Afraid I might win?”

“No.” Adrian’s gaze darkened, burning into him. “Afraid you might discover something you can't handle.”

Eli’s breath hitched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Adrian stared at him for another scorching second, then pushed off the ice with a powerful stride, skating toward the opposite end of the rink. Over his shoulder, he tossed back, “Ask yourself why you can't stop looking at me.”

Eli stood frozen on the spot, his blood rushing hot beneath his skin. Then he shouted after him, “Because you're standing in my way, you narcissistic prick!”

Adrian lifted one gloved hand without looking back.

The team groaned and chuckled, but Eli barely heard them. His chest was tight, every nerve ending tingling with a frustrated, electric ache. He was going to win this competition if it killed him.

And then he was going to find out what the hell Adrian Cross was hiding.