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"I felt nothing," Aidan says. Snap.

Baxter howls with laughter as Aidan falls to the floor after a dead-eyed snap of the towel. "You felt something!"

Coach Dave raises his thermos over the chaos. "Boys. Tonight you beat actual professionals. Which means, officially, you are now"—he pauses for effect—"moderately employable. Congratulations. Nobody touch me."

But underneath the circus, after everyone has showered and calmed down a little, the congratulations get quieter and more serious.

Nate grips my shoulder on his way past, still rubbing his ass. "Word's going around, Cap. Big teams are sniffing about the Wildcards. When you're famous, I expect a shout-out. 'I owe it all to Nate Hargrove' is the accepted phrasing."

"I'll workshop it."

Aidan waits until the room thins out, then says it simply on his way out the door. "Nobody's earned another shot more than you, Cap. Just don't forget your family when you make it big, trust me, I know how that feels."

I look up at Aidan, but have nothing to say.

We all know his struggles, but when it's laid out like this, after a night where all of us want nothing more than to celebrate with our loved ones, Aidan Colby, finds himself alone at Christmas.

Poor bastard.

I finish getting changed, then look toward the locker-room door and stop thinking about contracts entirely.

Because Audrey Fields is leaning against the frame with two cups of hot cocoa and my name still stretched across her back, and the sight of her in that jersey does more damage than Boston managed all night.

"Congratulations, Captain." She hands me a cocoa, then a cream envelope sealed with a gold snowflake. "I got something for you."

I look at the envelope, then back at her. "I'm supposed to be the one spoiling you with festive gifts. That's my whole brand."

"Who says it's for you?" Her big beautiful eyes go wide and innocent. It's hot as fuck. "Maybe I'm rewarding myself for surviving another hockey game without understanding the offside rule."

I laugh and rip it open.

Inside the envelope is a confirmation card for a private hydrotherapy suite in the thermal pools. It's reserved tonight under my name, with CAPTAIN'S POST-GAME RECOVERY printed in elegant script.

Underneath, in Audrey's handwriting: Private assessment of your leadership qualities to follow.

I look up and her expression is pure professional courtesy.

It fools absolutely nobody, because I have seen exactly what those innocent lips look like wrapped around my cock.

"Recovery?" I say, hooking one brow up in question.

She grins but can't help bite her bottom lip. "I hear it's very important for athletes your age."

"My age—"

"Drink your cocoa, old man. You've got an appointment." She spins on the spot and my name flashes before my eyes. "And believe me, you don't want to be late."

Chapter 13

Miles

Ibarely survive the walk because of the boner pressing at the front of my pants.

Audrey strolls the glass corridor toward the spa wing of the resort explaining, in her most reasonable voice, that a responsible team liaison must protect valuable players from muscular fatigue.

"You created the muscular fatigue," I remind her. "Last night. In my groin."

She laughs as we turn a corner and the smell of the pools becomes stronger. "Which is why your recovery schedule concerns me. Frankly, your stamina seems unprofessional. You should work on it."