Chapter 60: Yeah, the Jumbotron was a disaster

​I pushed the office door open and stepped back into the corridor leading to the ice. The cold, crisp air of the rink hit my face, cutting through the lingering warmth of the locker room.

I walked out toward the bench, grabbing a clipboard from the equipment rack, ready to bark out the morning drill orders just like I had promised.

​But the moment I leaned my good side against the boards, my eyes instinctively scanned the ice.

​There he was.

​Reid was already out there, gliding across the blue line with a terrifyingly effortless grace. The morning ice light caught the sharp lines of his face and the stray strands of his blonde hair sticking out from beneath his helmet.

He was running a puck through a tight, rapid-fire slalom drill, his broad shoulders cutting through the air with absolute, unbothered power.

​As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly paused the drill, bringing his skates to a sharp, spraying halt against the ice.

​He turned his head slowly, his smoky grey eyes locking right onto me standing by the bench. The moment he saw me tracking him, that signature, snobbish smirk bloomed across his lips.

He lifted his hockey stick, offering me a lazy, mocking little salute across the rink, his eyes burning with the exact same private intensity that had kept me awake all night.

​A heavy, familiar wave of irritation flashed behind my teeth. Give the fans a big grin.

​I gripped the edge of my clipboard tighter, pulling my high collar up to cover the patch on my neck, and prepared myself for the absolute disaster today was going to be.

...

Practice was a grueling, two-hour test of my vocal cords and my patience. Even though I didn’t participate in the physical drills, standing on the bench and shouting orders over the roar of scraping skates and heavy collisions took a toll.

By the time Coach Devin blew the final whistle, the high-grade pain patch over my ribs was the only thing keeping me upright.

​I didn’t even get a chance to sit down and recover in the locker room. The moment I threw on a clean change of clothes, our team manager, Marcus, dragged both Reid and me out to the parking lot.

​Now, we were seated in the back of the spacious black team SUV, the vehicle humming smoothly as Marcus navigated through the midday Seattle traffic toward the downtown studio venue.

​The silence inside the car was heavy, a sharp contrast to the chaotic noise of the morning rink. Up front, Marcus was completely focused on the road, occasionally checking his GPS or muttering under his breath about the highway delay.

​In the backseat, I leaned heavily against the passenger window, staring out at the passing rain-slicked buildings. I was deliberately trying to maximize the physical distance between us, pressing my right shoulder into the door panel.

But the SUV’s luxury leather seats weren’t wide enough to completely escape his orbit.

​Every time Marcus hit a bump or took a sharp turn, Reid’s shoulder would brush against mine. He had changed into a fitted dark crewneck that made his frame look even more imposing in the tight space.

Even with the window cracked a fraction of an inch to let the cool air in, the faint trace of frozen pine was already beginning to seep into my senses, teasing the hyper-reliant edge of my Omega brain.

​"You’re awfully quiet, Cap," Reid’s smooth, lazy drawl suddenly broke the silence, his voice dropping below the steady hum of the tires so Marcus wouldn’t catch it.

​I didn’t turn my head away from the window. "I’m preserving my energy for the cameras, McCoy. Unlike you, I don’t naturally thrive on artificial attention."

​Reid let out a low, amused chuckle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shift, leaning back against the leather cushions and turning his head to study my rigid profile.

​"Oh, come on. It’s just a couple of photos. It’s not like it’s our first," he murmured, his tone dripping with that signature, unbothered arrogance.

Yeah, the Jumbotron was a disaster.

"Though I have to admit, I’m pretty excited to see how you’re going to pull off that ’happy face’ Coach Devin was talking about. Given your current expression, the photographer is going to think you’re heading to an execution."

​"If I look miserable, it’s entirely because of my company," I shot back coldly, finally turning my head to fix him with a flat, deadpan captain’s stare. "Just remember to play your part. The second we get under those studio lights, you play the part of the professional rookie. No petty mind games, and absolutely no tricks. We get in, we do the shoot, and we leave."

​Reid’s smirk only widened, a dark, victorious flash dancing in his smoky grey eyes as he tilted his head.

He didn’t look intimidated by the warning at all. Instead, he leaned a fraction of an inch closer, his shoulder firmly pressed against mine as the car took a sharp left turn.

​"Don’t worry, Cap," he whispered, his eyes dropping briefly to the high collar of my jacket before rising back to lock with mine. "I’ll be a perfect gentleman on camera. But once the lights go off... well, we still have a lot of marketing synergy to work on."

I pressed my palm directly onto his face and pushed him back.

​"Get away," I hissed.

​Reid’s head snapped back against the headrest, a muffled, startled laugh escaping his lips as my fingers forcefully shoved his jaw away.

He didn’t fight the physical rejection—he just let himself be pushed, his hands coming up to gently grasp my wrist, his grip warm and solid as he pulled my palm down from his skin.

​He didn’t let go of my wrist right away. Instead, he held it for a brief, dangerous second, his thumb brushing light, deliberate friction against the racing pulse in my arm before he finally released me.

​"Careful, Cap," Reid murmured, his smoky grey eyes practically dancing with pure, unfiltered mischief as he straightened his fitted dark crewneck. He rubbed his chin where my palm had just been, a lazy, unbothered grin spreading across his face. "If you bruise my face before we get to the studio, Marcus is going to have a heart attack, and you’ll have to explain to the production crew why your ’star rookie’ looks like he got into a bar fight."