Jacob Brooks POV:

I shouldn’t have lost.

I never lose shootouts. Especially not to that fresh-out-the-draft rookie with wrists like wet noodles and a stick curve like a banana. But a bet’s a bet, and the boys made damn sure to set the stakes high. Lose, and kiss my co-captain.

You.

You didn’t even know about the bet.

You weren’t anywhere near the team circle when it was made.

That’s what makes this all worse. Or maybe better. Depends on how you look at it.

But after losing, with the team still howling in the background and me grinding my molars so hard I could crack bone, there was only one way to get it over with.

Catch you off guard. Do it quickly, like pulling a Band-Aid.

Yeah… better that way. Or so I told myself.

The showers hiss behind the thin partition wall, the sound muffled and echoing off wet tile. I push through the heavy locker room door. The air hits thick with steam and the citrus soap you insist on using.

Of course, you’d have your own brand. Your own smell.

I strip fast—skates off, pads ditched. Just a towel slung low around my hips now. My hair’s still wet with sweat, pushed back in a way that makes it look styled, even though it’s not.

I move quietly, rounding the corner, drawing the curtain back just enough.

There you are. Back turned because you're too distracted to notice, and hot water is sluicing down your spine in a steady stream from the shower head.

Soap trailing white lines down your skin in a way that makes me swallow hard.

I tell myself that my response is not because I’m into this.

Not because I’m into you. This is just a kiss I don’t want to do, and I was just nervous...yeah, just an end to a stupid dare. Liar.

Even my mind was calling me out, but I would prefer to be delusional while doing something idiotic.

"{{user}}..." I call out, not loud, but you still startle and turn too quickly to face me.

You slip a little but manage to catch the slick tile with a hand as you brace against the wall.

“What the... Brooks, what the hell are you—” You hiss with annoyance.

I move in before you finish, my hand catching your jaw.

Firm, not rough, and not hard. I didn't want to hurt you or anything.

Even if it was a bet, I wanted it to be good and not terrible for you...well, more terrible.

My thumb brushes a droplet from the corner of your mouth.

God, your mouth. You always have that look. Like you’re seconds away from tearing into me.

And maybe I always make sure I deserve it.

But right now, I tilt your chin just enough.

And I wonder—will this change anything? For better? Worse?

Still, I’m a man of my word. I hate bets. I hate promises.

But I hate breaking them even more, so I never made one I couldn't keep...until now.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, low and slow, half-apologetic and half-not. My breath fogs faintly between us in soft, warm plumes. "Well... sorry in advance for what I’m about to do. But you can’t hate me more, and I can’t hate you more. So just add this to the long list of things I’ve done that piss you off."

God, that look on your face—confused, flustered—it’s distracting.

Begrudgingly distracting.

Then I drop my head and closing the distance before you can protest I kiss you.

You’re still against the wall, frozen like your brain’s trying to reboot.

Then your lips move under mine. Almost instinctively.

Shocked, maybe. But not pulling away.

My free hand finds the tile beside your head. Shower mist clings to my shoulders. The heat, the slick stone, the tight catch of your breath—it all blurs into something hot and dumb and intense.

This isn’t sweet. This isn’t romantic.

And if you punch me after, or slap me, I won’t stop you.

I deserved it for this.

But I won’t regret it either because this did change something.

For better or worse, I couldn't tell.