The Hockey Captain’s Obsession

The locker room of the New York Glaciers smelled like wintergreen, expensive cologne, and male sweat.

To most fans, this was the smell of victory.

To Oliver Hartley, it just smelled like forty thousand dollars of student debt.

Oliver adjusted the strap of his heavy massage kit. He was twenty-three years old, with messy blonde curls that refused to stay flat and bright blue eyes that usually held a spark of mischief.

But today, those eyes were tired.

He had graduated top of his class in nursing, but nursing didn't pay enough to clear his loans fast. Being a massage assistant for a star hockey team did.

Plus, there was another reason he was here.

Dr. Hartley. His father. The man who died on this very ice five years ago.

Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Oliver checked it quickly. It was his sister Scarlett.

Don't do it, Oli, the text read. Stop digging. It's dangerous. Mom wouldn't want this.

Oliver frowned. He tapped the screen to call her back, hiding behind a row of metal lockers.

"Scarlett, I'm already inside," he whispered into the phone. "I found his old logbook. There are pages missing from the week he died. I need to know..."

"Hey! You! The blondie!"

A loud, arrogant voice cut through the air. Oliver jumped and quickly ended the call. He turned around to see James, the team's backup goalie. James was rich, spoiled, and had a face that looked like it was permanently sneering.

"Are you paid to chat with your girlfriend, or are you paid to work?" James snapped, tossing a sweaty towel onto the floor right in front of Oliver's shoes. "Pick it up."

Oliver took a deep breath. Think about the money. Think about the debt.

"I'm the massage therapist assistant, James, not the waiter," Oliver said, his voice calm but sharp. He had a tongue that could cut glass when he wanted to. "But if your back is as weak as your save percentage, I can see why you're cranky."

The locker room went silent. A few players chuckled.

James's face turned red. He stepped forward, looming over Oliver. "What did you say, you little..."

"Enough."

One word. Low, deep, and commanding. It stopped James in his tracks.

The team captain walked in.

Alexander Whitman, as the public knew him was a giant. He was six-foot-four of pure muscle, with jet-black hair and grey eyes that looked like storm clouds.

He was the "Ice King," the man who never lost.

He was also, Oliver noted privately, extremely hot.

Alexander didn't look at Oliver. He looked at James. "Coach is waiting. Get your gear."

James glared at Oliver but backed down. "Fine. But tell the new guy to get the oil ready. My hamstrings are tight."

James sat on the massage table, deliberately knocking over a bottle of water as he did. "Oops. Clean that up first."

Oliver grit his teeth. He grabbed a fresh bottle of massage oil from his cart. He walked toward the table, trying to step over the gym bags and discarded pads littering the floor.

James stretched out his leg, "accidentally" hooking his foot around Oliver's ankle.

It happened in slow motion.

Oliver stumbled. His foot caught. He pitched forward, flailing his arms for balance. The bottle of massage oil in his hand flew open.

"Whoa!"

Oliver didn't hit the floor. He hit a wall. A warm, hard, rock-solid wall of human muscle.

He landed hard against Alexander's chest. The impact knocked the wind out of him. The open bottle of oil went flying, splashing all over James's face and chest, but Oliver was safe.

Safe, but in a very compromising position.

Alexander had caught him. His large hands were gripping Oliver's waist to steady him. Oliver's hands were pressed flat against Alexander's bare abs.

The skin was hot. Incredibly hot. Oliver could feel the ridges of Alexander's eight-pack under his palms. The man smelled like ice and expensive soap.

"Watch it," Alexander rumbled. His voice vibrated through Oliver's chest.

Oliver looked up. Those grey eyes were staring down at him, unreadable and intense. They were so close Oliver could count the eyelashes.

"Sorry," Oliver breathed. He tried to push himself up, but his foot slipped on the wet floor.

He slid down.

His hand scrambled for a hold. He grabbed Alexander's thigh. Then, gravity took over, and his hand slipped higher.

Right between Alexander's legs.

Oliver froze.

His palm was cupping the front of Alexander's sweatpants. The grey fabric was soft, but what was underneath was not soft at all.

It was hard. thick. And as Oliver's hand lingered there for a split second too long, paralyzed by shock, he felt it twitch.

It grew.

Alexander Whitman, the straightest, coldest, most disciplined man in the league, was getting hard. Instantly.

The air in the locker room seemed to vanish. Oliver could hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. He looked up, wide-eyed.

Alexander's face wasn't angry. It was flushed.

His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the grey. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

He wasn't pushing Oliver away. His hands on Oliver's waist tightened, his fingers digging into Oliver's hips, pulling him closer for just a heartbeat before he seemed to realize what he was doing.

"Get off," Alexander choked out. His voice was rough, strained.

James, wiping oil from his eyes, started screaming. "You idiot! You blinded me! Look what he did!"

But Oliver didn't hear James. All he could feel was the heat radiating from Alexander's groin against his hand, and the shocking realization that the "Ice King" burned a lot hotter than anyone knew.

Oliver scrambled back, his face burning. "I... I slipped. I'm sorry."

Alexander turned away quickly, grabbing a towel to cover his front. He didn't look back. But Oliver saw the way his chest was heaving, as if he had just played three periods of overtime.

Oliver bit his lip, his heart racing. He was in trouble. Big trouble.

But for some reason, he wanted to do it again.