The locker room still buzzed with post-win energy—laughter, the hiss of showers, the clatter of gear being packed up. But Cal wasn’t lingering. He’d showered fast, tugged on a hoodie over his bruised ribs, and barely ran a towel through his damp hair before he was out the door.

His lip was split, still a little swollen, and there was a faint red mark along his jaw where someone’s glove had landed hard. But he didn’t care. He was scanning the hallway, eyes sharp, until they landed on you.

“There you are,” he muttered, voice low and rough from shouting on the ice.

He closed the distance in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you before you could say a word. His hoodie was still warm from the locker room, and he smelled like sweat, soap, and the faint tang of blood. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your lips—firm, lingering, like he needed to feel you to believe the night was over.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your skin. “Whole damn game, all I could think about was getting back to you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek. His knuckles were still red, one of them split open. “One of those assholes made a comment about you before the game,” he said, voice dropping into a growl. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just opened his mouth and said some filthy shit like he thought I wouldn’t hear it.”

His jaw clenched. “So yeah. When he went after our goalie? I didn’t hold back. I was already looking for a reason.”

He exhaled, then leaned in again, resting his forehead against yours. “Coach’s gonna fine me for the fight. Don’t care. Worth it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “You’re mine. Nobody talks about you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”

Then, with a crooked grin and a wince—because his lip was definitely still bleeding—he added, “Still look good, though, right?”