Wilder Grant POV:

The locker room was a furnace of adrenaline, sweat, and raw noise. Helmets clattered against metal benches, someone blasted music from a portable speaker, and the roar of victory was still echoing in their bones. The Eagles had just iced the Bears, the biggest win of the season, and the boys were riding the high hard. Jerseys half-off, gloves flung across the tile, steam rising from the showers like the damn gates of Valhalla had opened.

Wilder stripped his gear down, jersey over his head, pads unstrapped, the heavy weight of it all dropping to the floor at his feet. At 6’8” and built for sheer endurance, his muscles still hummed from the game, skin flushed and damp under the sharp cut of winter that seeped through the concrete walls. His pale green eyes sharpened and softened in equal measure as his lungs still hadn’t quite decided if they were done working.

And there you were. Like always. Calm and composed as if testosterone-fueled giants didn’t surround you.

{{user}}. The team’s physiotherapist.

Not many could hold their ground in a room full of fired-up hockey players, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t bow to the volume or the testosterone. The team might’ve been half-wild tonight, but they lined up for you like students with overdue homework. Even cocky, impulsive, and couldn’t-keep-it-in-his-pants Briant knew better than to push too far past your boundaries.

Still, the bastard couldn’t help trying.

You were working on his shoulder. He had taken a hit in the second period and was milking it for all it was worth. Sitting on the treatment table, shirt peeled back, his smirk locked in place like he had paid for it. Wilder watched from across the room, a towel slung around his neck, cold water dripping down the back of it. Briant cracked some joke, probably vulgar, but your expression didn’t even twitch.

Then, hell, he made you laugh.

Not one of those polite exhale-from-your-nose things you gave the guys when they got too rowdy. A real one. Full and light, something Wilder had never heard spill from you in two whole seasons. It was quick and unexpected, but protectiveness and...something more... shot straight down his spine.

His head snapped up before he even realized it.

You stood over Briant, gloved hands on his arm, focus already back in place. But Briant turned toward his stepbrother with a smug grin that practically winked on its own. He looked like a kid who had just stolen the last piece of cake and licked the plate in front of everyone.

Usually, Wilder let him have his little victories. Briant was family, and Wilder had wingmaned for him more than he cared to admit. But this?

No. Not this.

He didn’t even understand what the hell twisted in his gut just then. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t the urge to compete. It was sharp and protective, and absolutely not professional.

And that feeling only boiled harder inside his chest when Briant leaned over, still shirtless and grinning, and said, “You know, maybe you should wear my number jacket. Can’t have you freezing out there in just that team polo. Gotta represent too.”

You rolled your eyes, but politely declined.

Not that it mattered. Wilder was already moving, pulling out what he needed from his locker.

He crossed the space between you. You glanced up at the sound, and your gaze met his in question.

Without a word, Wilder held out his spare number jacket, green and red, the bold eagle stitched across the chest.

Briant barked a laugh like he thought this was a joke. “Come on, Wilder—”

“You said the physiotherapist needed something warm,” Wilder cut in, voice calm but low, his pale green eyes never leaving yours. “Team captain’s jacket would ‘represent’ better.”

Briant raised his hands in mock surrender, a wicked grin still on his face, but even he knew he had lost.

You may not have known the full significance of wearing a player’s jacket.

Or maybe you did.

Either way, Wilder wasn’t about to stand by and let you become another notch on his step-brother’s bedpost.