Page 8 of Poetry On Ice
I can’t believe I’ve been behaving like this. A couple of days ago, when I got here, I saw my reflection in the glass and literally could not believe I was wearing a Vipers practice jersey. I looked like someone I’d only ever fantasized about being. It was a dream come true, and now look at me, being almost as much of an asshole as Ant Decker. I need to get my head out of my ass in a very big way. It’s a privilege to be here, and I need to start acting like it.
By the time we get to the locker room, most of the rest of the team has already made tracks and the guys still here are in the final stages of getting dressed. Emptydrink bottles are strewn all around and wet towels hang out of the big hamper near the shower.
Steam from the showers has wafted into the locker room, thickening the air and making it stagnant. The strangely not-totally-unpleasant smell of sweat and soap sears my nostrils when I inhale.
The shower has seen enough through traffic tonight that the mottled beige tiles are glossy and wet. Vapor has gathered and condensed, forming rivulets that run down the walls in tiny parallel lines. There are two rows of showerheads in the room, five on each side, with a hook and a shelf each for toiletries. I undress quickly, eager to get away from Decker as fast as I possibly can. He’s still getting out of his protective gear by the time I hang up my towel and flick the faucet on. I choose the spout farthest from the door and step back as I wait for the water to warm up. When it’s as hot as I can handle, I step in and almost groan from the instant relief the heat on sore muscles brings. Every year I go out of my way to maintain condition during the off-season, but no matter how fit you are, the first game of the season is still a shock to the system. My legs feel like lead, my hamstrings tight and making their objection to my treatment of them plainly known. I turn my back on the spout, letting the jet hit my back and run down my legs. I zone out for asecond as the water does its work, only to be jolted back to the present by an unmistakable presence.
A cold, dark presence.
A tingling sensation at the base of my skull informs me I’m not alone. Decker is here. He hangs his towel beside mine and starts running the shower directly opposite me. He’s stark naked. I mean, of course, he’s naked. Everyone showers naked. That’s not my point. My point is…fuck. What’s my point again?
Right.
It’s Decker. He’s standing across from me, taking his time to arrange his toiletries just so on his shelf. His back is turned to me, and damn, he’s built like a tank. Thick, hard muscle knots under his skin, rippling with even the slightest movement of his arms.
He steps under the spout, facing me, and tilts his head back. Water cascades down his face. His lashes are wet. Dark and sticking together in a way that makes him look almost peaceful. Almost, not quite. It runs down his cheeks, down his neck, and pools in the hollows above his clavicles. His chest and abs are built, but that’s not the main thing giving me pause.
He’s inked.
On his back.
His traps and lats are almost completely covered in a huge, intricate piece.
For some hard-to-explain reason, it almost annoys me. Not annoys, just irks. Not even irks—I just didn’t know he had tats. That’s all. I haven’t seen him shirtless since we were teens, and I never imagined him having ink. Especially not so much ink. Especially not ink like this. Tasteful. Artistic. Dark. Lots of black. Lines and curves. Splashes of red. Roses. The splashes of red are roses. Old vintage roses that look like vines climbing his body.
Not that I’ve spent a lot of time imagining him shirtless. Fuck no. Definitely not.
He bows his head, letting water hit the back of his neck. His mouth drops open slightly and his lashes begin to part.
I spin around, taking a jet straight to the face and not caring at all. I grab my shampoo and slather it into my hair, digging my fingers across my scalp hard and fast to get it to sudd up. I don’t need a degree in psychology to know that Anthony Decker is not a man I want to catch me looking at him naked. The guy attacked me yesterday for making eye contact with him, for Christ’s sake.
Yeah, no. He would definitely be the opposite of cool about a misunderstanding like that.
Oooh.
Shit.
How the hell am I going to rinse my shampoo out without turning around again?
I have no choice but to brace with one hand on the wall and drop my head forward, letting that water hit my crown. Soapy water pours down my face and gets up my nose, but it seems like a small price to pay.
As the water runs clear, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I feel weird, tingly, like when Decker first walked into the shower, but worse. My front is hot from the water and a rash of goosebumps forms on my lower back. I feel warm. Hot. And cold. Hotter and colder than I should be in the shower. Warm on my front, like hot oil has been poured on my shoulders and is slowly tracking down my chest while cold creeps up the back of my legs. A chill runs up my spine. A hot-cold burn that feels like a block of ice is being traced over my skin.
An eerie feeling sets my marrow alight. A dark, menacing feeling. An inimitable, unmistakable feeling—a man’s eyes boring into me. It moves down my body, tracking slowly like a blunt fingernail on sensitized skin. Skin on skin. Hot, taut skin, slippery where two bodiesmeet.
Huh?
My heart rate spikes, a gentledoo-doofchanging gear and speeding up.
Why am I reacting like this? Jesus, I’m losing the plot. I’m going insane. He’s not…like, Decker’s not checking me out, is he?
Is he?
If he is, I’d like to spin around and give him unadulterated hell. I’d like to face him, chin up, eyes wide open, and demand an explanation. I’d do it too. I’m well within my rights to do it.
There’s only one thing stopping me: those fucking tattoos. The roses. The one on his shoulder blade. The one near his spine. The one in the arch that leads to his…
Errant nerves send unsolicited signals. Arteries relax and open. Veins contract. Blood flows downward and becomes trapped.