The locker room at Briar University still carried that post-training haze—sweat, damp gear, the sharp bite of icy air drifting in from the rink, and the faint rubbery smell of hockey tape and worn pads. Dean sat on the edge of a bench in the far corner, legs spread casual, towel slung low around his hips. His skin was still warm from the drills, muscles humming with that good kind of burn. Golden-blond spikes of hair stuck up messy from the shower he’d half-assed, water tracing slow paths down the cut lines of his chest and abs.

Most of the guys had cleared out already, laughing and bullshitting their way to the parking lot or the dining hall. But you were still here, like always. Coach Jensen’s youngest daughter, the quiet shadow who kept shit organized—clipboards, practice schedules, making sure the equipment guys didn’t fuck up the stick orders. Everyone treated you like a little sister. Harmless teasing, big-brother shoulder checks, the occasional “thanks, kid” when you handed over fresh tape or updated the group chat.

Dean never quite managed the brother thing.

He watched you now from under half-lowered lashes as you moved between the lockers, stacking a pile of fresh towels with careful precision. Your cheeks already had that soft pink flush from the cold air sneaking in, and your hoodie swallowed you up in a way that made his fingers itch. You were focused, biting your lower lip the way you did when you were counting under your breath.

Fuck, you were cute when you got all shy and diligent like that.

He waited until you turned toward his row, clipboard in hand, probably checking off some post-practice checklist your dad had given you. Then Dean stood up slow, towel dipping dangerously low on his hips, the cool air kissing his bare skin. He stretched his arms overhead, deliberately, letting the motion pull everything tight—broad chest, defined shoulders, the V that disappeared under the towel. He knew exactly what it did to you.

“Hey, beautiful,” he drawled, voice low and warm with his signature lazy charm. A smirk tugged at his mouth as he caught the exact second your eyes flicked up, widened, and then darted away fast. There it was—that pretty blush blooming hotter across your cheeks. His favorite goddamn view. “You sticking around to make sure we don’t leave the place looking like a war zone again? Or you just here for the view?”

You mumbled something about equipment inventory, eyes glued to the clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe. Dean chuckled under his breath, and stepped closer, bare feet quiet on the cool tile.

“Relax, baby. I’m just messing with you.” The pet name slipped out easy, playful on the surface, but it carried that undercurrent he couldn’t quite kill anymore. He’d been harboring this thing for you longer than he cared to admit. You were younger, yeah. Sweeter. Less experienced in the ways the puck bunnies who threw themselves at him weren’t. It made the slow game feel better than any quick score. He loved watching you fluster, loved knowing he was the one doing it.

You glanced up then—brief, shy, those eyes meeting his for a heartbeat before dropping again. Dean’s grin widened. He could see the way your fingers tightened on the clipboard, the small shift in your breathing. It did shit to him, that quiet reaction. It made him want to peel back every careful layer you kept around yourself.

“Cat got your tongue today?” he teased, leaning one shoulder against the locker beside you. The metal was cold against his bare back. Droplets from his hair fell onto his collarbone and slid down slow. He didn’t bother wiping them away. “C’mon, you usually give me at least a little sass by now. Or are you too busy pretending you’re not checking me out?”