Summary:

The team celebrates Shane Hollander’s mysterious new girlfriend. Hayden Pike, unfortunately, thinks Shane is cheating on her with Ilya Rozanov. Hayden Pike prided himself on reading people sharper than anyone else in the Montreal Metros’ locker room. He could clock a lie, a hangover, or a guy’s panic before the laces were even knotted. That skill had been earned the hard way, through seasons of listening to teammates bullshit their way around bad hookups, brutal benders, or shifts they’d rather forget. Yet none of that groundwork prepared him for the afternoon the entire room turned into a pack of howling teenagers because Shane Hollander was apparently, at long last, getting steady pussy. The mayhem ignited from nothing more than the usual post-practice sloppiness. Phones and gear lay scattered across benches as guys rushed for showers or the parking lot. Shane, still soaked in sweat, had dropped his phone face-up and walked off to the showers without a second thought. The screen glowed brightly when a notification slid in from a contact saved simply as “Lily.” The message hit like a slapshot: “come tonight 🍆” The rookie who spotted it first let out a whoop that ricocheted off the tiled walls. “Holy shit, Captain’s got a girl!” Hayden had learned years ago that a hockey locker room operated like one giant, not-very- bright organism. Individually, the players varied widely, from intelligent types to complete meatheads who sometimes seemed unsure which direction the rink faced. As soon as the group latched onto a scandalous bit of gossip, however, the collective grip tightened more securely than new tape wrapped around a stick blade. Facts became irrelevant. From that moment forward, Shane Hollander was indisputably enjoying sex with a woman named Lily, and the verdict stood final. The news brought an involuntary grin to Hayden’s face. He could easily imagine Shane navigating those awkward, sincere dates, arriving with flowers in hand, holding doors open, and working hard to impress a woman already bold enough to send an eggplant emoji without hesitation. The whole picture carried an oddly endearing quality, absurd as it was, and Hayden experienced a ridiculous rush of pride, as though he had somehow orchestrated the end of Shane’s famously prolonged drought. The moment Shane returned from the showers, towel tied low around his hips and hair still dripping, the onslaught of ribbing crashed into him like a blindside hit. The guys didn’t hold back. “Lily got you smiling like that, huh, Hollander?” “She got a friend who’s into defensemen?” “Tell her the whole room owes her a fruit basket for finally popping your cherry right.” Shane’s face went scarlet, the flush starting at his ears and spreading quickly. It was the same one he got when coaches yelled at him or when he missed an easy shot. He muttered something half-hearted about them minding their own fucking business, but the words came out weak and only made everyone laugh harder. As the crowd thinned and they stepped into the quieter hallway, Hayden pulled Shane aside with a light grip on his arm. Shane looked at him with cautious eyes. “Hayden,” he started, his voice low. Hayden lifted both hands in a peaceful gesture. “Relax, man. You don’t have to say anything. I’m just happy for you. Seriously. About time you got your dick wet somewhere that isn’t your own hand.” Shane opened his mouth, then closed it again. He offered one of those tight smiles that could mean anything from thank you to go fuck yourself. Hayden took it as gratitude. After all, Shane was a good dude. He worked hard and was the kind of guy who would spot you a hundred bucks without ever mentioning it again. He deserved someone to go home to, someone who could ride him until he forgot about turnovers and penalty kills for a few hours, even if imagining Shane actually in bed felt strangely impossible with that clean-cut face of his. Later that night, after the game against Boston, Hayden could not sleep. The game had been typical enough where Ilya Rozanov was concerned. Ilya had been his usual insufferable self, smirking across the ice like he owned the rink and chirping Shane in Russian that sounded suspiciously flirty. But rivals were going to rival, so Hayden pushed the thought aside. Still, insomnia gripped Hayden tightly. He had forgotten the melatonin gummies Jackie always packed in his travel bag, complete with her usual lecture on self-care. Too restless to stay in bed, he wandered the hotel hallways in his sweats, barefoot, hoping for anything that might quiet the buzz in his head. He had just reached Shane’s door when a sound stopped him cold. It was a moan that carried clearly through the thin walls. “Shit…” the voice rasped. Hayden’s pulse jumped. His first thought was injury. Maybe Shane had aggravated something in the third period and was toughing out the pain alone. Or perhaps he had hit the bar too hard after the game and was now regretting it. Or, more awkwardly, their strait-laced captain had turned up some hotel porn and forgotten to keep the volume down. Then another moan drifted, followed by a breathless, accented growl. Hayden froze. He recognized it instantly for what it was: pure, unfiltered sex.