Chapter 3

Emma's POV

The hallway behind the door was narrow and dim, lit by fluorescent strips that buzzed overhead. Team photos lined the walls—rows of guys in blue and white jerseys, all looking intimidating as hell. Game schedules were pinned up on cork boards. Everything smelled like rubber and cleaning solution and that distinct locker room funk that made my nose wrinkle.

I pressed my ear against the next door. Silence. Just the muffled roar of the arena behind me, distant enough that it felt safe.

They're all out there. On the ice. This'll take two minutes. Grab the keys, and get out.

I pushed the door open.

The locker room was exactly what I expected—metal lockers lining the walls, benches bolted to the floor, the sharp tang of sweat hanging in the air. Empty. Thank god.

I scanned the nameplates above each locker. LANE. McRAE. PORTER. My eyes kept moving, searching, until I found it in the corner.

CLAFFEY.

My pulse kicked up as I pulled the locker door open. Hockey sticks leaned against the back. Pads and gear hung on hooks. A black duffel bag sat on the bottom shelf, and above it, a jacket that smelled faintly of cedar wood. The scent hit me before I could stop myself from noticing it—clean, masculine, annoyingly pleasant.

Okay. Think. Victoria just said 'get the key from Caleb.' She didn't say where he keeps it. But he's at practice, so his regular clothes have to be here somewhere. People don't just leave their house keys lying around—they keep them with their wallet, their phone, stuff like that. Probably in the bag.

I reached for the duffel bag's outer pocket, fingers fumbling with the zipper.

Footsteps.

My heart stopped. Actually stopped. The sound was coming from the hallway, getting closer, and I had maybe three seconds before whoever it was walked through that door.

I slammed the locker shut and spun around. The locker room had a shower area on one side, a few bathroom stalls, and in the corner—

A massive laundry hamper.

No. No way. I am not—

The footsteps were right outside.

I dove for the hamper, yanking the lid open and practically throwing myself inside. Damp jerseys and practice gear cushioned my fall. I pulled the lid down just as the door opened, then grabbed a sweaty shirt and draped it over my head, burrowing deeper into the pile.

The smell hit me like a physical wall. Sweat. Old sweat. The kind that had been fermenting in here for days. My stomach turned, and I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth, trying not to gag.

Just breathe through your mouth. Don't think about it. He'll leave in a minute.

I heard footsteps crossing the room. A locker door opening. The rustle of clothing.

Through a gap between two jerseys, I could see him. Tall. Broad shoulders. He walked to a locker a few rows down from Caleb's and started stripping off his practice jersey.

Oh god. Oh no. I'm watching someone change. A boy. An athletic one.

He pulled the jersey over his head, and I caught a full view of his chest—defined pecs, abs that looked like they'd been carved from stone, sweat glistening on his skin as it traced down the lines of muscle. He tossed the jersey aside and reached for his waistband.

My face went nuclear. I could feel the heat spreading down my neck, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

This is fine. This is totally normal. Just a guy changing. Happens every day. Nothing weird about accidentally hiding in a laundry hamper and watching it happen.

He shoved his practice pants down, and now he was standing there in nothing but compression shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Okay so maybe tonight's dream material just got a serious upgrade—

I immediately hated myself for that thought.

But then he stopped. Just stood there, staring down at his right wrist. There was a bracelet there—green, woven, the kind someone makes by hand. His thumb brushed over it, slow and deliberate, and his whole expression changed. The cocky athlete swagger disappeared, replaced by something that looked almost... sad.

His throat worked. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to swallow something down.

I forgot about the smell. Forgot about the fact that I was literally hiding in a pile of dirty laundry. All I could see was the way he touched that bracelet, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Who gave him that?

My leg cramped. Sharp, sudden, the muscle seizing up from being folded at a weird angle. I tried to shift, just a little, to ease the pressure, and my hand landed on something wet.

I looked down.

A sock. Soaked through. With white stains crusted on the fabric.

Oh no. Oh no no no no—

My stomach lurched. I couldn't stop the reaction. Couldn't hold it back. I exploded out of the hamper like someone had set it on fire, gasping for air, my hands braced on my knees as I tried not to vomit on the floor.

When I looked up, he was staring at me.

Still in his compression shorts. Holding a clean t-shirt in one hand. His expression went from shocked to suspicious in about half a second.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice was sharp. Demanding. "How did you get in here?"

"I—I didn't—it's not what it looks like—"

His eyes narrowed. Then understanding dawned on his face, and somehow that was worse.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" He grabbed his pants and yanked them on. "A Puck Bunny."

I had no idea what that meant, but it didn't sound good.

"What? No, I—"

"Don't bother." He cut me off, zipping his jeans. "You people are insane. Breaking into the locker room, stealing shit, taking pictures—what was it this time? Wanted Caleb's jersey? His gear? Or were you hoping to catch him changing?"

Technically yes but not for the reason you think—

"I wasn't—I'm not—"

"Save it." He grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head. "Next time I catch you in here, I'm going straight to Coach. Got it?"

"I'm sorry, I'll just—" I backed toward the door, my face burning so hot I thought my skin might actually melt off. "I'm leaving. Right now."

I bolted.

The hallway spun around me as I stumbled out, pressing my back against the wall and sucking in air that didn't smell like a biohazard. My hands were shaking. My shirt—I looked down and wanted to die. There were stains on it. Sweat stains. And something else I didn't want to identify.

Perfect. Just perfect. Now I'm not just the girl who broke into the locker room—I'm the girl who broke into the locker room and rolled around in their dirty laundry like some kind of deranged superfan.

Voices echoed down the hallway. Multiple voices. Getting closer.

Practice was over.

"—told you I'm not going," someone was saying. Male. Confident. "I've got shit to do."

"Dude, you literally complained yesterday about having to pick up your sister from the airport today." Another voice, teasing. "What happened to that?"

My entire body went cold.

"I don't have a sister."

Caleb's voice. I'd recognize it anywhere—that flat, hard tone he always used when he was pissed off.

"That person isn't my sister."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Not a metaphor. An actual physical sensation that made my lungs stop working.

Of course. Of course he still hates me. Four years and he's still holding a grudge.