I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. I squared my shoulders, turning to see fucking Ryan Lindson jogging toward me. The star catcher of the team.
At 6’2, he didn’t just walk; he occupied space. He was all lean muscle and veteran confidence, his jersey fitting him in a way that made the rest of us look like we were playing dress-up in our dads’ clothes. He’d been the face of the Beavers for years, and even after a full season of playing behind him, my heart still did a weird little hitch whenever he pointed that “leader of the pack” grin in my direction.
His hair was dark brown, with a stubble on his jaw, but damn. He was hot.
“It’s called being aerodynamic, Lindson,” I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady as he closed the gap. “Some of us don’t need to catch the ball from a star catcher.”
Ryan laughed, a deep, easy sound that vibrated in the morning air. He reached out, his hand heavy and warm as he gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. “Glad you’re back, kid. I was worried you’d spent the off-season getting soft.”
His thumb brushed against the collarbone of my jersey for just a second too long before he let go.
“Not a chance,” I muttered, though my skin felt like it was humming where he’d touched me. “I’m ready to work.”
And I’m letting him get to me.
* * *
The morning sun had turned into a heavy afternoon heat by the time the coaches blew the final whistle. My jersey was plasteredto my back, and my lungs felt like they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper, but I felt good. Or I did, until I walked into the locker room and realized my locker had been moved.
Originally, I was next to Steve’s. Now, my locker was next tohim.
Right next to Ryan Lindson’s.
Shit.
The locker room was a chaotic symphony of snapping tape, splashing showers, and the loud, boisterous post-practice chirping of thirty grown men. I navigated the maze of benches, dropping my glove onto the wooden seat.
Ryan was already there. He was stripped down to his compression shorts, his back to me as he reached for a towel on the top shelf. The muscles in his back rippled with the movement—a map of every hour he’d spent in the gym while the rest of the world was sleeping. He was 6’2 of pure, seasoned athlete, and standing next to him, my 5’8 frame felt… compact.
“I see they moved your tag,” Ryan said, not turning around.
“Yeah. I noticed,” I muttered, focusing very hard on unlacing my cleats. “Guess the manager wants me to pick up some of your veteran wisdom by osmosis.”
Ryan finally turned, leaning back against his locker. He was close. Too close. The scent of him—sweat, expensive deodorant, and something metallic like the weight room—hit me all at once. He was huge. He didn’t look annoyed; he looked thoughtful, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made me feel like he was reading my stats off the back of a baseball card.
“Or maybe,” Ryan said, his voice dropping an octave to stay under the roar of the team’s laughter across the room, “he wants me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t burn yourself out in the first week.”
“I can handle myself, Ryan.”
“I know you can, Oz.” He reached out, his large hand landing on the back of my neck. It wasn’t a teammate’s shove this time; it was steady, his palm hot against my damp skin. He used his thumb to tilt my chin up just a fraction so I had to look him in the eye. “But it’s a long season. You’re gonna need someone to remind you to breathe.”
Fuck.Just him touching me, ignited something inside me. But I didn’t what it was.
He let go as quickly as he’d touched me, grabbing his gear and heading toward the showers without another word. I stayed frozen on the bench, my heart drumming a rhythm that had nothing to do with the sprints I’d just finished.
I sat there for a beat, the spot on the back of my neck where his hand had been feeling like it was literally on fire. Keep an eye on me? Remind me to breathe? My lungs were working fine, it was my brain that was short-circuiting.
What the fuck is he talking about?
I grabbed my shower bag and headed for the back. The main shower area was loud and crowded, but the Beavers’ facility had a smaller washroom near the sauna that most guys ignored. That’s where the veterans usually went for some peace.
The steam hit me the moment I pushed the door open. It was thick, smelling of eucalyptus and hot slate. Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of a tall, broad frame under the far showerhead.
Ryan.
Fuck.
He didn’t hear me come in over the roar of the water. He was standing with his forehead pressed against the tiles, the hot spray drumming against his heavy shoulders. I should have turned around. I should have gone back to the main room and cracked jokes with the rookies.