Page 50 of The Risk Taker

We’ve shared space before— Hell, we share space every day. But this is different.

A hotel room’s different. It’s small, quiet, and there’s no escape from him.

I can already picture him stretched out on the bed in nothing but boxers, because he’s allergic to shirts, and I’ll be there, doing what I always do. Pretending it doesn’t bother me. Pretending I don’t loathe myself for noticing everything about him.

I’ve been doing a decent job keeping my head straight. Keeping my distance.

Except now we’ll be stuck in a room together.

And I have a bad feeling two nights might be all it takes for him to notice just how much he gets to me.

13

LOGAN

I’m convinced Coach woke up this morning and decided to kill us.

We’ve been sprinting drills for well over an hour. Coach keeps barking directions that nobody can actually hear over the sound of our own gasping. At one point, he made us redo a drill becausesomeone—Austin. It’s always Austin—celebrated a goal mid-practice. Coach just gave him a look and said he could celebrateafterhe stopped missing half his shots.

We’re supposed to be prepping for tonight’s matchup against the Briarview Bears—a.k.a. a bunch of try-hard clowns—but I’ve been pretending to pay attention for… I don’t know. A solid fifteen minutes.

Mostly, I’m watching Nathan.

He’s in the crease, locked in as always, reading every shot before it even happens, and from the outside, he looks completely fine—steady, composed, annoyingly perfect Hayes—but I’ve watched him enough to know when something’s off.

There’s a stiffness when he pushes off his right side, and I pause when I notice the hesitation as he shifts on the ice. Thehalf-second delay that tells me his thigh’s still bothering him and he’s just too stubborn to admit it.

And I know it’s not my problem. He’s stubborn as hell, and he’d sooner chew off his own leg than admit something hurts, so what am I gonna do—skate over there and ask him if he needs a juice box? He’d rather let his thigh fall off.

But the damn hitch keeps catching my eye, and I can’t tell if I’m noticing it because I’m worried about him or because it’s him specifically, which is a separate disaster I’m not touching with a twenty-foot stick. Probably both. Absolutely both. But we’re not unpacking that right now.

“Hey,” Ryan says, gliding up beside me. “You good?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been standing still for too long. “Huh?”

“You’ve been weird all morning,” he says, voice low so Coach doesn’t hear and rip me a new one. “You missed two passes, blew a read, and almost tripped over your own stick.”

“Sorry,” I say, grinning, because it’s easier than explaining that I’ve been busy staring at our goalie. “Distracted by your jawline.”

He gives me the blankest look. “Seriously.”

“Seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes to sell the lie. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he skates off anyway, leaving me standing there trying to pretend I actually meant what I said.

Except I didn’t, because I’m not fine, not even close, and the second he’s gone, last night hits me all over again. I thought we were past the awkwardness after the whole locker room disaster, but apparently not, because Nathan barely looked at me once we got to the room. Didn’t talk. Didn’t even try. Just shut down completely. He didn’t want to come out with us, and by the time I got back he was already asleep—or pretending to be, which honestly felt worse—and I climbed into bed like we were strangers instead of whatever the hell we’ve been lately.

And it just… It fucking sucks.

Austin skates past and taps the end of my stick. “You daydreaming about yourself again?”

I blink, pull my eyes off Nathan, and cock a brow at him. “I was picturing you hitting the net for once.”

Coach’s whistle slices through the air hard enough to rattle my helmet. “Less talking, more skating!”

We reset for a breakout drill. Cole’s at the blue line, already barking at the rookies to move their asses. I chuckle as I line up on the left wing beside Austin, my stick resting across my knees, my lungs still burning from the last rush. I tell myself to focus—really focus—but my head’s still stuck in last night, whether I want it to be or not.

Nathan sinks into his stance, and my eyes lock on how he avoids putting full pressure on his left leg.