The following evening, the Ontario sky had turned a bruised, heavy charcoal, weeping a thin, icy sleet that turned the rugby pitch into a graveyard of frozen mud. Liam Thorne had pushed his team until their lungs burned and their limbs turned to lead, but as the Captain, the "Iron King" stayed longest. He needed the physical exhaustion to drown out the memory of the ballet studio—to erase the phantom sensation of Noah's fingers on his skin.
By the time Liam stepped into the communal locker room, the building was a tomb. The only sound was the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his own heart.
He stripped off his mud-caked jersey, his chest heaving. His body was a map of the sport's violence—bruises bloomed like dark flowers across his ribs, and his shoulder was raw from a collision during practice. He stepped into the communal shower area, a vast, tiled space filled with the scent of bleach and old steam. He didn't bother with a curtain; there was no one left to see the Student Council President stripped of his armor.
He turned the handle, and the water came out scalding, hitting his neck and back. He groaned, leaning his forehead against the cold tile, his eyes shut tight. In the steam, he was no longer the President. He was just a man, naked and hurting and hopelessly confused.
Thud.
The heavy door to the showers swung open.
Liam bolted upright, his eyes snapping open. Through the thick, swirling fog of the steam, a silhouette appeared. A slender, graceful shadow that didn't belong in this temple of sweat and grit.
"Who's there?" Liam barked, his voice echoing off the tiles, sounding like a cornered animal.
The steam parted, and Noah stepped through. He was wearing his school uniform, but his blazer was gone, his white shirt clinging to his skin from the humidity. His blonde hair was already damp, curling against his forehead. He stopped dead, his gaze dropping instantly.
Liam was stark naked. The water sluiced down his massive, rugged frame, highlighting the sharp definition of his abdominal muscles and the powerful, tree-trunk thickness of his thighs. He was a masterpiece of raw, masculine power—a stark contrast to the ethereal dancer standing before him.
Noah's breath hitched audibly. His eyes traveled slowly, hungrily, over the expanse of Liam's wet skin, lingering on the way the water pooled in the hollow of his collarbone and traced the dark trail of hair leading down his stomach.
"Valentine?" Liam's voice cracked. He instinctively crossed his arms over his chest, his face flushing a deep, humiliated crimson. "What the hell are you doing here? This is the rugby wing. Get out!"
"I... I was practicing late in the studio," Noah lied, his voice a low, melodic hum that vibrated through the steam. He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Liam's body. "The heaters are out in the East Wing. No hot water. I'm sweaty, Liam. I just wanted a shower."
"Go home!" Liam hissed, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The sight of Noah in this sanctuary—the proximity of their bodies in this humid, enclosed space—was a death sentence for his self-control. "You can't be here. I'm... I'm naked, for god's sake!"
"I noticed," Noah whispered, taking another step. He was so close now that the steam from Liam's shower was beginning to dampen his shirt, making it translucent, clinging to his own lean ribs. "Why are you so afraid, Liam? We're both men. It's just a shower."
Liam's mind was a whirlwind of panic and desire. He looked for an escape, his eyes landing on the row of private, single-person shower stalls at the far end of the room. "Fine. Stay. I'm leaving."
Liam turned, his wet feet skidding slightly on the slick, soapy tiles. He was desperate, his mind screaming at him to flee before he did something he couldn't take back. He made a move for the nearest stall, his body fully exposed as he lunged through the steam.
But the floor was a trap of water and industrial soap.
Liam's foot slipped. He let out a sharp, choked gasp as his balance vanished. His massive frame tilted dangerously toward the hard tile.
"Liam!"
Noah moved with the lightning reflex of a dancer. He lunged forward, his arms reaching out to catch the falling titan.
The collision was total.
Liam didn't hit the floor. He hit Noah.
The President's entire naked, wet, and steaming body slammed into the dancer's chest. Noah was thrown back against the tiled wall, but he held on, his arms wrapping around Liam's waist to steady him.
The world stopped. The only sound was the roar of the shower and the frantic, synchronized gasping of two men pushed to the edge.
Liam's chest was crushed against Noah's damp shirt. His bare, muscular thighs were intertwined with Noah's legs. The heat between them was no longer just the steam; it was an electric, carnal friction that made the air turn to liquid. Liam's face was buried in Noah's neck, the scent of vanilla and sweat filling his lungs, driving him insane.
Noah's hands were flat against Liam's wet back, his fingers digging into the hard muscle. He could feel everything—the heat, the moisture, the sheer, overwhelming size of the man he had been dreaming of.
"I've got you," Noah whispered into Liam's ear, his voice a sinful, jagged caress.
Liam was paralyzed. He could feel Noah's heart thumping against his own ribs. He could feel the softness of Noah's body yielding to his weight. The "Iron King" was completely exposed, vulnerable, and held by the one person he was supposed to hate.
For a heartbeat, Liam didn't pull away. He leaned into the embrace, his forehead resting on Noah's shoulder, his breath coming in broken, ragged hitches. His hand, acting on a primal instinct he could no longer fight, slid up Noah's arm, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric.
They were a mess of wet skin, sodden clothes, and forbidden heat.
"Liam..." Noah murmured, his hand sliding down Liam's back, his palm cupping the firm, wet curve of Liam's hip. He pressed himself closer, letting Liam feel the hardness of his own desire through his trousers. "Don't run. Stay here. With me."
The touch was a spark in a powder keg. Liam's eyes flew open, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by a dark, terrified pupils.
"No!"
With a violent, desperate surge of strength, Liam tore himself out of Noah's arms. He stumbled back, his wet skin glistening in the dim light, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. He looked at Noah—really looked at him—with a gaze filled with raw, naked betrayal.
"Don't touch me!" Liam roared, his voice breaking.
He didn't grab his towel. He didn't turn off the water. He didn't even look back.
Liam Thorne, the Student Council President, the Rugby Captain, the Iron King, fled the showers stark naked. He ran into the locker room, his wet feet slapping against the floor, his heart a screaming mess in his chest. He grabbed his clothes in a frantic bundle and bolted for the exit, disappearing into the cold, dark Ontario night without a single word.
Noah stood alone in the steam, his clothes soaked, his chest still burning from the weight of Liam's body. He leaned his head back against the cold tiles, a slow, wicked, and utterly devastated smile spreading across his face.
He looked down at his damp shirt, where the imprint of Liam's chest still lingered.
"Almost," Noah whispered to the empty room, his voice a promise and a curse. "So fucking close."