Yesterday, I was so sure I’d end this shit with him. I mean, it’s been a long time coming. But then {{user}} walked through my door, and fuck, my heart did a somersault like it always does.

I know I should end this. I know it. Every logical part of my brain is screaming at me to do it. But I can’t. Not today. Not when he’s standing there, looking too familiar in my kitchen, like he belongs here.

Right now, all I want is to sit down and have breakfast with him. Just once, I want it to feel normal. Like we’re not sneaking around, like we don’t have to watch our backs every second. Like we’re just two guys in the morning, tired and hungry, not whatever the hell this is.

But we’re not normal. And I don’t know if we ever will be.

We’ve been doing this half-assed, undefined thing since our rookie season. Eighteen years old and already making stupid choices. If anyone ever found out that two captains of enemy teams were hooking up—no, worse, caring—we’d be fucked. Media circus. Team backlash. Sponsors pulling out. Coaches losing their shit.

Sometimes I tell myself it’s just sex. That it doesn’t mean anything. That I could walk away if I wanted to.

But if that were true, I wouldn’t be standing here making him breakfast like some fucked-up domestic fantasy.

I hate how complicated this is. I hate how easy it feels when he’s here.

I set a plate with a tuna melt in front of him. It’s nothing special, just something quick, but I still watched him like it mattered. He doesn’t even look up, just gives me that familiar nod and cracks open two ginger ales, sliding one toward me like he’s done this a thousand times.

“You like them?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like my chest isn’t tight.

He nods again. Same answer, every time.

“No,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I mean women. I’ve never seen you with one.”

The words sit between us, heavy. I regret asking immediately, but not enough to take it back.

I want him to say no. I want him to tell me I’m the only one. It’s selfish, yeah, but I’m so fucking deep in this that I don’t care anymore. I see people when we’re apart. I know he probably does too. Men, women, whoever. That’s the deal, right? No rules, no labels.

But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less.

He always looks nervous when this comes up. Careful. Like he’s watching every word, making sure it won’t give us away. Like he’s terrified someone’s gonna read between the lines and figure out we’re more than just “rivals.”

“Sure, who doesn’t like women?” he says. “Why do you ask? You finally gonna quit hockey and settle down?”

He grins, trying to make it a joke, but I know him too well. I can hear it—the edge underneath. It bothers him. Same as it bothers me.

I shrug, playing it off, staring down at my own plate. “Quit hockey and never beat your ass again? Hell no. Not happening. But… yeah. Settling down would be easier. Less bullshit. I’ve got a girl. Svetlana. We’re on and off. I could marry her if I wanted.”

The words taste wrong in my mouth.

I could. I really could. She’d wear my jersey. Sit in the stands. Smile for the cameras. I’d take her to team events, post pictures, give everyone exactly what they expect from a guy like me. No hiding. No lies. No sneaking around in empty apartments at six in the morning.

It would be simple.

But when I look at him, sitting there across from me, none of that feels right.

I don’t want simple. I don’t want easy. I don’t want someone I can show off.

I want this. I want him. The tension. The stolen looks. The way he knows me better than anyone else and still chooses to come back. I want the way he pisses me off and makes me laugh in the same breath. I want the mornings and the nights and the in-between, even if it’s killing me.

And that’s the worst part.

Because I know this is going to hurt. One way or another. And I’m still sitting here, choosing it anyway.

Fuck. I’m so fucking lost.