Hockey Hearttrob

5- Dramatic

Anneliese Lang’s POV

Yawning loudly, I stretch on my bed lazily, sunlight slipping through the windows telling me it’s possibly near lunchtime. No worries, it’s Sunday.

Checking my phone, I giggle at my friends' messages, then I move through the hallway barefoot, hair loose around my shoulders, still tangled from sleep. My body is slow in that satisfied, post-game way, like every muscle is quietly replaying the aching muscle game from two nights back.

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no shouting, no doors slamming, no skates clicking against tile, no presence of twenty-four bodies moving like one restless machine.

Just silence. And it feels… addictive. I make coffee without thinking too hard about it, letting the sound of water and ceramic fill the apartment. It’s strange how quickly I get used to peace, like my mind immediately starts drinking it in to make up for everything else.

Two mouthfuls of coffee- I never drank it until I decided to try for the hockey team in high school- I walk back to the rooms and knock silently on each door, getting no response. I pushed open the last door just to be certain- Ethan’s- and I see the bed is empty. Letting the quiet wrap back around me.

Alone.

Finally.

My shoulders drop a fraction, as something inside me unclenches, and I don’t even realize I’ve been holding that tension until it’s gone. For a few seconds, I exist in it. No expectations. No ice. No captain- no Leo. No weight of being watched.

Just me.

And it feels good in a way that almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be guarded at all times.

My father’s voice comes through the phone in soft, uneven bursts, grounding me in a way nothing else really does. I listen more than I speak, letting him fill the silence with updates that try to sound lighter than they are. Every now and then, I hum a response, fingers tracing slow circles against the edge of my desk, pretending distance makes things easier.

When the call ends, the apartment feels quieter in a different way. Not empty exactly. Just… suspended.

Putting on music low enough so that it blends into the air instead of taking it over, I close my eyes for a bit basking in the peaceful sounds. For a while, I just lie there, eyes half-closed, letting yesterday’s game replay in fragments behind my eyelids.

The crowd. The shot. The sudden explosion of sound when the puck hit the net.

The adrenaline hasn't quite faded yet. Every pass, save, and goal keeps cycling through my mind, making the win feel fresh all over again. It loops endlessly in my mind, each memory carrying the same exhilarating rush that had my heart pounding on the ice.

It still feels unreal. Like it happened to someone else I was briefly connected to.

Eventually, I will move.

Not because I want to, but because stillness starts to feel too loud. And I could be taking a much-needed soak right now. Locking the front door, I run to my room gleefully, grab the necessities, and head to the bathroom, the tub full now, which I had put to fill while I spoke with my dad.

Humming to the low-fi music, I inhale in happy glee as I remove my clothing, putting my hair in a hair grabber, and climb into the hot water for my soak. I moan in pleasure because this is a treat in comparison to all the ice baths we usually take.

Drumming my fingers, enjoying the serenity for a few minutes, it takes a while for my nose to completely register the smell that I’d been enjoying. Crisp. Clean. Sharp at the edges. But- cologne. It’s dull, but I still pick it up..

My stomach tightens before my thoughts fully catch up, because recognition arrives like a delayed impact. My fingers pause mid-motion, my eyes opening wide, the setting of my heart- literally, I feel the harder thump of it.

Not just any cologne.

Leo’s.

That scent is everywhere he’s been, too close for too long. Ice, sweat, controlled distance, that infuriating calm he carries like it’s built into him.

Horrified, I turned around slowly. Had he been home all the time or just coming in?

He steps into the open bathroom doorway like mornings belong to him, blond hair sleep-messed in a way that should not look as good as it does, heaviness still lingering around his blue eyes. Low black shorts hang dangerously low on his hips, a towel slung over one broad shoulder,

So much for being home alone.

Mental note: lock the bathroom door from now on, whether I think the apartment is empty or not.

Furrowing slightly, he pauses the second he notices me, like the sight in front of him wasn’t something he expected walking in here. His gaze moves over me once, slow enough that heat prickles across my skin before my brain even catches up, then settles back on my face.

Oh my God.

I’m naked.

Sure, the bubbles covered everything important, but that was hardly the point. I was still sitting in a bathtub while Leopold Hayes stood three feet away, looking like some unfairly attractive hallucination my hormones had personally handcrafted to ruin my life.

And why are his abs never-ending?

My eyes betray me instantly, dragging downward before I can stop them.

Much like everyone else’s body on the team, Leo’s body doesn’t look gym-sculpted in that artificial, polished way influencers flex online. Dense muscle layered beneath pale skin marked by hockey instead of vanity. Broad shoulders shaped by years of checks against the boards. A chest strong enough to make my stomach tighten stupidly when he folds his arms. Bruises faded in yellow shadows near his ribs, old marks that never disappeared completely.

There’s a small scar near one shoulder. Another faint line near his side.

Hockey carved itself into him everywhere. Even standing still, tension lived in his body like it had forgotten how to switch off.

And his thighs?

Jesus.

Massive beneath the shorts, powerful from skating drills and endless training, the muscles shifted every time he moved. His forearms flex as he adjusts the towel on his shoulder, veins catching briefly beneath skin, and I suddenly become painfully aware that I am staring.

Aggressively staring.

How annoying that I still notice everything about him after all these years, causing my pulse to trip over itself while my brain desperately waves red flags in the background.

I cannot stand him. Which honestly makes this whole situation feel like a personal attack.

Silence stretches.

“I thought you were gone,” I manage, voice coming out steadier than I feel when it begins to feel too electric for me to handle.

His head tilts slightly, as if that information amuses him in a way he won’t admit. He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans a shoulder against the doorframe, casual in a way that makes the space between us feel smaller than it should be.

“I live here,” he finally responds, flat, jaw muscle working.

My fists tighten under the water.

Right. Yes. Obvious. Brilliant, Anneliese. But it wasn’t what I said, though.

“What are you doing?!” The words leave me far more breathless than angry when he saunters in, shutting the bathroom door behind him with an easy click before crossing toward the sink like I’m not currently naked in a bathtub three feet away.

Jaw-dropping, I stare at the bubbles, sinking slightly lower despite knowing they already cover everything.

Leo barely reacts. “You forgot to lock the door,” he mutters, voice rough from sleep, like that somehow explains this situation.

My mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again because what kind of answer is that? “That does not mean you just walk in!”

Then, to my horror, he turns toward the toilet, and my eyes widen instantly. “Leo.”

He glances over one shoulder. “What?”

“You cannot be serious.”

His brows lift slightly, completely unimpressed with my suffering. “I live here too, Lang.”

And then the jerk actually turns his back toward me out of some twisted version of politeness.

I could die. Actually die.

The bathroom suddenly feels unbearably warm, steam curling against my skin while I sit frozen in the tub, staring aggressively at literally anything except him. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs hard enough to feel embarrassing.

This cannot be my life! He’s actually urinating with me right here?!

Sounds of it reach me, and I turn facing the wall, my eyes firmly shut, then silence telling me he had finished, followed by the quiet sound of him washing his hands.

Then silence. Then- he’s brushing his teeth now?

Peeking slightly, I see he’s completely unbothered, like this is an average Tuesday morning and not the most psychologically violent experience of my life.

God, I just want to leave here, but how?

Foam gathers briefly at the corner of his mouth before he rinses it away, large hands braced against the sink as cold water runs over them, and my eyes betray me again for half a second too long.

Traitors. Absolute traitors. I snap my attention toward the ceiling instead.

“Are you done being dramatic?” he questions calmly, splashing water over his face.

“Are you done being insane?”

That response earns me a quiet huff of laughter. Not a full laugh. Leo apparently doesn’t believe in those. Just something low and brief that still does unfortunate things to my stomach. Still unbothered by my presence, he washes his face next using my face wash, even reading it and commenting that it’s a good feel and smell.

Remaining quiet because- how am I supposed to react to that? Converse casually?

Drying his face on his towel, his arms then folded loosely across his chest, blue eyes fixed directly on me with that infuriatingly controlled expression he wears when he knows something and intends to weaponize it later.

A slow smirk appears.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, sinking deeper into the bubbles. “You enjoy this.”

“Lang, we know each other. Would you relax, drama queen?” His gaze drifts over me once more, slower this time, and my pulse trips so hard it feels painful. “If I wanted to traumatize you, I would be in the shower without a care. I just brushed my teeth.

Honestly, the audacity of this man should be medically studied! Heat floods my face again, so fast it actually hurts. I hate him. I really, really hate him. “Yeah, with me naked! What if your girlfriend finds out?”

Lips pursed, he nods, and I hated how my body reacted to him like it had forgotten every reason I couldn’t stand him. Like attraction was stupid enough to survive resentment, surviving anyway beneath all the irritation and anger he dragged out of me.

Because Leo Hayes made me want to simultaneously shove him into a wall and stare at him for entirely too long afterward.

Expression unreadable in that irritating way that never gives anything away, eyes flicking once toward the bathroom door, then back to me, “Careful,” he says quietly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

My throat tightens for no logical reason. “About what?” I answer too quickly, my heart racing out of my chest. “As if I would run to tell her you saw me naked.”

A pause. Then something that almost resembles a faint curve at the edge of his mouth, but not enough to call it a smile. “I meant thinking you’re alone and in a house of men.”

“And can you remember to flush?” Was my quick comeback, my cheeks stained with embarrassment.

"FYI, I didn't see anything, but I'll take that as an invitation."

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