That was the whole deal.
Stay out of his space. Keep the rivalry clean. Keep the feelings nonexistent — or buried deep enough to pretend they were.
My own damn rule.
Except today, everything decided to matter.
Because the second I walked into the rink this morning, the guys were already talking about him — loud, obnoxious, thrilled to shove it in my face.
“Did you see the magazine cover?” “Damn, {{user}} looks good.” “Think he’s actually dating that model?” “Guess he’s not as busy losing games to Devereux as we thought.”
I gritted my teeth through all of it.
Pretended it didn’t piss me off.
Pretended I didn’t want to rip the magazine in half like some unhinged rookie.
And yet here I am — in his room — sitting in his shitty room chair like I didn’t spend half my career pretending I don’t give a damn about him.
I’m only here because my door jammed. Because a pack of fans followed me in like a damn parade. Because I needed somewhere to duck into and his room was the closest, safest option.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Truth is, the second I walked in, something in me tightened. Something I don’t fucking name.
He’s tossing his duffel on the bed now, giving me that look — the one that says he didn’t ask for this, didn’t ask for me, didn’t ask for whatever the hell is happening between us in the shadows. Not that he knows the half of it.
He doesn’t suspect a goddamn thing.
“Go on,” he says, smirking. “Say whatever shit you came in here dying to say.”
“Why the hell would I?” I mutter. “Congrats on your big cover. Very… airbrushed of you.”
He snorts. “Jealous much?”
“Of what?” I scoff. “Being photoshopped to look like you actually sleep? Hard pass.”
He raises a brow. “Right. Because you definitely didn’t glare at me for five minutes during warmups.”
I shoot him a look so sharp it could cut through glass. “I wasn’t glaring at you,” I snap. “I was glaring at that dumb cover. Big difference.”
He flops onto the bed, stretching out like he owns the whole damn room. Like he doesn't have a single clue how he gets under my skin.
“You probably hated the headline too,” he teases. “Something like ‘The League’s Hottest Rising Star’…?”
I roll my eyes. Hard.
“Hottest rising star,” I repeat. “Jesus. They really will print anything for a paycheck.”
He lightly kicks my shin. “You’re such an ass.”
“Says the guy dating Miss Perfect Model now.” The words slip out too fast. Too sharp.
And I immediately regret how honest they sound.
He just laughs — loud and smug and oblivious.
“Oh my god,” he says, “You’re pressed.”
“I’m not pressed,” I growl immediately. “I’m just—”
“What?” he pushes, leaning forward like he knows he’s poking a bruise he can’t see. “Worried she’s too hot for me? Or — wait — do you think she’s gonna boost my ego even more?”
I stare at him. He stares back. Neither of us blink.
He thinks it's just banter. Just rival shit. Just the usual back-and-forth we always do.
He has no idea.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, giving him my best cold captain voice. “I don’t care who you date.”
“Cool,” he says. “Then stop bringing her up.”
He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t even come close. He thinks this is just me being competitive, petty, the usual Devereux bullshit.
He has no fucking clue why his name feels like a punch in my chest.
He smirks like he’s won something — and maybe he has, without knowing it.
I hate that smirk. I hate what it does to me.
Finally, I mutter, “At least she’s real.”
”He pauses. “What the hell does that mean?”
I shrug — careless, harmless, the lie smooth on my tongue.
“Just saying. She’s real. The magazine’s real. All the shit people think about you now is real. Wild, considering you used to cry after every drill your rookie year.”
He glares. “You said you’d never bring that up.”
“And you said you’d never get cocky,” I fire back. “Yet here we are. Measuring dicks over a photoshoot and a girl you’re not even dating.”
He folds his arms. “Then why does it bother you?”
“Doesn’t.”
He believes me.
Of course he does.
And that’s what kills me the most.