Christian groaned internally.
It had been nearly half an hour, and he was still in the same spot, trying to work out the stiffness in his right thigh. Teammates passed by, asking if he was okay, if he needed anything.
"You good, man?"
"Need anything?"
Each time he brushed them off with a polite, "I'm fine," even though he wasn't entirely sure.
It didn't feel like a sharp pain—more like an uncomfortable tightness whenever he moved his leg a certain way.
A minor setback? Maybe.
A fucking disaster if left unchecked? Absolutely.
Any injury, no matter how small, could derail everything. And Christian couldn't afford that. Not now. Not when he had everything to prove. Not when failure was already breathing down his neck.
The locker room was nearly empty now—just the hum of silence and the faint hiss of a distant shower.
Christian gathered what little energy he had to finally push himself up and undress, but a familiar voice shattered the quiet.
"Yo, Evans. You're in my spot. Move your ass."
He didn't need to look to know who it was. He sighed anyway. Of course.
He looked up to find Caleb Weston standing in front of him, still in his hockey gear, the collar of his jersey damp with sweat. His dark hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead, and his usual cocky smirk was firmly in place.
Christian, absorbed in his own issue, hadn't even noticed he'd sat down in Caleb's spot. He shifted slightly to the side, ready to move—only for the muscle to fight back. His thigh clenched tight, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Caleb's smirk twitched. "Did you just whimper?"
Christian clenched his jaw. "No."
Caleb cocked his head, eyes flickering to where Christian's fingers were digging into his thigh.
"Did you pull a muscle?"
"Like you care."
Caleb shrugged. "You're right. I don't. I was just trying to be empathetic."
Christian snorted. "You? Empathetic? Since when?"
"Always been. You just couldn't see it. Probably 'cause you never wanted to be friends back in school."
Caleb's smirk faded slightly, his voice losing some of its usual teasing edge.
Christian blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He muttered under his breath, "Like I had a choice."
Caleb narrowed his eyes slightly. "What was that?"
Christian hesitated. He didn't really want to say it out loud.
"I said you did a good job hiding it."
Caleb raised his shoulders slightly, choosing to let it go. School memories had a way of ruining his mood, and he wasn't in the mood to dig up old shit now.
Caleb let the silence hang before shrugging. Whatever tension had sparked between them fizzled out.
"So," he changed the subject with ease, "are you planning to shower, or just stink up the whole place?"
Christian scoffed. "The whole locker room smells like a jockstrap factory. You're not exactly a rose garden yourself."
Caleb just chuckled, pulling off his jersey in one smooth motion before removing the rest of his gear.
Christian didn't mean to look, —but his gaze dropped anyway.
Broad shoulders. Defined abs. The casual strength that came from someone who didn't have to try to be intimidating. Caleb looked carved from heat and chaos.
Christian swallowed. He wasn't checking him out. Just… comparing physiques.
His body was lean, trained, but not as filled out. Stress and poor sleep were old habits—so was forgetting to eat. The hunger in his gut had nothing to do with food and everything to do with control. Seeing Caleb's body made him jealous.
Caleb smirked, catching Christian's eyes lingering on him. Without hesitation, he shoved his padded pants down, dragging his compression jock shorts with them in one quick movement.
Christian snapped his head in the other direction. "Fucking hell, Weston. A little warning next time?"
Caleb just laughed, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist before heading toward the showers.
"It's a locker room, Evans. Not a convent. If you're scared of a little nudity, maybe hit the stalls next time."
Christian exhaled through his nose, pressing his thumb into the sore spot on his thigh to distract himself.
The last of their teammates trickled out, and soon, the only sound left was the running water from Caleb's shower—and his off-key singing of Shake It Off.
Christian gently checked every inch of his thigh. He tried to recall everything he knew about overtrained muscles.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Caleb emerged from the showers, towel slung low on his hips, water droplets sliding down his still-damp skin. He rubbed another towel through his hair as he walked past Christian—then stopped, frowning.
"Wait… are you seriously still sitting there?"
Christian groaned. "Shut up, Weston."
Caleb ignored him, dropping onto the bench beside him. "Did you glue yourself to the bench or what? What's the deal?"
Christian clenched his jaw. "I'm fine."
Caleb's eyes flickered to Christian's thigh.
"You sure? Because most fine people don't sit around like abandoned puppies after practice."
Christian gritted his teeth.
"I said I'm fine."
Caleb hummed. "Hmm."
Christian narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck is hmm supposed to mean?"
Instead of answering, Caleb reached into his bag and grabbed a bottle of sports lotion. He held it up like a threat, smirk widening.
"Want me to rub it out for you?"
Christian choked. "What the fuck? No."
Caleb leaned back lazily, squeezing lotion into his palm. "Why not? You too shy to let me touch you?"
Christian sputtered. "That is not—Goddamn it, Weston."
Caleb's grin was downright sinful now. "If you're scared, just say so."
Christian snapped. "I'm not scared."
"Good," Caleb purred. "Then sit back and let me do my thing."
Before Christian could argue, Caleb was already shifting closer, cracking his knuckles like he was about to go full sports therapist on him.
Christian glared. "This is a bad idea."
Caleb smirked, voice dropping an octave. "For you? Maybe. Now be a good boy and lose the jock."
Christian gripped the waistband of his compression jocks, his scowl sharp enough to cut.
It was like Caleb had just suggested something utterly unholy—which, in a way, he had.
Sure, he was used to naked bodies in the locker room. But being half-naked, alone, with Caleb Weston? That was a whole different kind of inappropriate.
"Not happening, Weston," he said firmly.
Caleb sighed dramatically, leaning back like he had all the time in the world.
"Fine. Enjoy sitting here all night, then."
Christian glared, jaw tightening. His thigh throbbed in protest, and the thought of trying to sleep with that tension made him curse under his breath.
"You're not a damn therapist," he muttered.
Caleb smirked, tilting his head. "Nope. But I do know a thing or two about muscle tension. Especially when it comes to guys who think pushing through pain is the solution instead of actually fixing the problem. And… you don't have other choices."
Christian sighed sharply, shoving a hand through his hair. He hated this. Hated that Caleb was right. Hated that he was even considering his help.
"I swear to God—" he gritted out. "If you pull some dumb shit—"
Caleb grinned, cutting him off. "I am just trying to help. Plus, you'll be too busy enjoying it to complain, Evans."
Christian rolled his eyes but reluctantly stood. His thigh tensed instantly, and he sucked in a breath, bracing himself against the locker.
Caleb was watching him now, less teasing, more assessing.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
He tossed a towel at Christian's chest.
"Fine. Keep your modesty, princess. Just get those jocks off and wrap this around you."
Christian snatched the towel, muttering a curse as he turned away. It took way more effort than it should have to slide the fabric down his legs. He kicked them off, quickly tying the towel low around his waist before he could think too much about it.
When he turned back, Caleb was ready. Lotion in hand. Kneeling in front of him like some cocky, half-naked devil.
And that was—Wrong. So wrong.
Christian's stomach tightened. This was a bad idea.
Caleb patted the bench. "Sit. Let me work my magic."
Christian hesitated, then lowered himself down carefully, adjusting the towel to make sure it stayed secure.
The second Caleb's hands touched his thigh, his breath stuttered.
Firm, warm, confident. Caleb didn't ask permission—he just… took over, like touching him was the most natural thing in the world.
Christian swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the edge of the bench.
"Relax," Caleb murmured, pressing his thumbs into the knot of tension. "I know what I'm doing."
Christian exhaled sharply, but his body betrayed him—tensing instead of loosening.
"Fuck—"
Caleb chuckled, voice rich with amusement. "Relax, Evans. Tensing up makes it worse."
Easier said than done when Caleb's hands were on him, pushing into the muscle with a perfect blend of force and finesse.
The first few strokes sent a jolt of pain up his thigh—a sharp, aching tension that made his breath hitch. But then Caleb worked slowly, precisely. Pain gave way to warmth. Warmth gave way to something else entirely—pleasure. Deep, dangerous, undoing pleasure.
Christian bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself, but fuck—every pass of Caleb's thumbs was too much, too deep, too precise.
"Jesus," he muttered under his breath, his stomach tightening involuntarily this time.
Caleb's voice was practically a purr. "You're awful at relaxing, Evans," he murmured, voice lower now, almost mocking. "Should I be concerned? I've never had a guy this tense under me before."
Christian stiffened.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
Caleb just grinned, unbothered, his thumbs pressing deeper, teasing a slow, deliberate stroke along the muscle. The heat of his palms seeped into Christian's skin, making every press, every drag, every calculated roll of his knuckles feel dangerous.
His hands worked higher, pushing into the muscle near the groin, and Christian fought the instinct to jerk away.
"That's high enough."
Caleb's voice was low, smooth. "Hold still. I need to get deep into the muscle."
Christian clenched his jaw. "Just hurry up."
Caleb hummed, his thumbs dragging, pressing, kneading—not stopping.
"This is where the trigger point is," Caleb murmured, his fingers spreading wider. "I know what I'm doing."
Christian knew he should stop this, should push Caleb's hands away, but fuck—
His touch was intoxicating.
As intoxicating as the scent of Caleb's body wash.
As intoxicating as the way Caleb's breath ghosted over his skin when he leaned in, voice lower, softer, more focused.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair that Caleb's hands felt this good, that his fingers knew exactly where to press, exactly how to knead, exactly how to unravel him.
His thigh throbbed—but not from pain. Not anymore.
Caleb's voice was dangerously smooth when he spoke again, sensing that Christian had finally given in.
"See? Told you I was good with my hands."
Christian barely registered Caleb's words. His head was tilted back against the locker, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling a little too fast.
And Caleb—Caleb made the mistake of looking up.
The second his gaze lifted, it hit him.
Christian's expression was wrecked—not in pain, but in …something else. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tense, his body completely melted under Caleb's touch, like he wasn't sure if he wanted this to stop or keep going.
Caleb's stomach tightened.
That was… not the look of someone getting a simple massage. That was too much. Too raw.
Caleb forced himself to focus, to convince himself that this was just about helping a teammate. Nothing else. Nothing more. But then—Christian shifted.
And the towel over his lap shifted, too.
And Caleb saw it.
The unmistakable outline of his erection, the way the fabric tented ever so slightly over his thighs.
Heat slammed into Caleb's chest like a goddamn freight train.
His hand froze on Christian's thigh. His throat went dry. His blood wasn't supposed to feel this hot. He wasn't supposed to be turned on right now.
Caleb inhaled slowly, willing himself to calm the fuck down.
This wasn't happening. This wasn't—
"I think I'm done," Caleb muttered, pulling his hands back. His voice wasn't nearly as cocky as he wanted it to be. He swallowed hard, forcing his usual smirk, trying to ignore the fact that his pulse was pounding in his ears.
And then—he opened his mouth. And his stupid fucking brain betrayed him.
"Do you have something else for me to rub?"
That was supposed to be his way out. His casual escape. The teasing remark that would break the tension, let them both pretend like this hadn't just happened.
Instead—Christian's eyes snapped open. And he smirked.
Not his usual annoyed glare. Not his typical Evans reaction. Like something switched off in his personality. Caleb felt it straight in his stomach. He was fucked.
Christian tilted his head, watching him, dragging out the silence just enough to make Caleb's blood simmer.
"Yes," Christian murmured.
Caleb stopped breathing.
The way he said it—soft, drawn out, his voice just rough enough to send heat curling down Caleb's spine. For a second—a split second—Caleb's mind went somewhere it absolutely should not have gone.
Christian watched Caleb squirm.
A pause.
"My back."
Caleb fucking choked.
Because for half a second, for the most dangerous, reckless, holy-shit-what-the-fuck second of his life—he had thought—No.
Caleb scrambled to his feet so fast, his towel almost slipped off.
He needed to get a grip. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to stop thinking about Christian's fucking—
He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking something off. He forced a cocky grin, desperately grasping at his usual bravado.
"Did you like my hands so much that you want them on your back now?" he drawled, trying to ignore the lingering heat still burning under his skin.
Christian barely blinked.
"You asked. I answered."
Caleb felt something low in his stomach tighten. Not irritation. Not even frustration. Something else. Something he didn't want to name.
Christian didn't look away. Didn't fidget. Didn't scoff. Didn't react the way he was supposed to. Instead, he just… watched.
His voice was smooth, his expression unreadable, but the way he held Caleb's gaze—fuck.
Caleb expected more irritation, more eye rolls, something that screamed Evans instead of… this calm, collected, almost daring energy.
And for the first time since he met him, Caleb had no fucking clue who had the upper hand.
Which was a problem. A really, really big problem.
Because Caleb needed to be in control.
And Christian? Christian looked like he was having the time of his life watching him unravel.
Christian smirked. "You backing out, Weston?"
Caleb huffed, rolling his shoulders again, trying to reclaim the upper hand.
"Not backing out," he said, though his voice wasn't nearly as firm as he hoped. "I've helped you enough. You're all good now, so I'm done with you."
"Enough with you being empathetic, I guess," Christian teased, still watching him like he could see every crack in Caleb's confidence.
Caleb scoffed, leaning back against the lockers. "Don't get greedy. Can't have you getting used to my hands."
Christian held his gaze for a long, burning second, then murmured, "Do you want something in return?"
Caleb exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself, pretending he was still in control.
"Dangerous question, Evans."
Christian arched an eyebrow. "You backing out?"
"I bet I know what you want," Christian added, voice like velvet and provocation mixed together.
Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached for the towel wrapped around his waist and let it fall.
It hit the floor with a soft sound.
Caleb's breath caught.
Christian stood there, completely bare. Unmoving. Proud. Like he'd just thrown down a challenge and dared Caleb to pick it up.
There was a new kind of energy radiating from him—something confident, unrushed, magnetic. Caleb's usual smirk disappeared, replaced by something far more dangerous. He couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe.
Christian saw it. The way Caleb's fists clenched. The way his chest rose faster than before.
And Christian? He smiled. Just a little. A quiet, knowing curl of his lips that made Caleb's blood run hot.
Then he stood from the bench and walked—imperfectly, with a subtle limp in his recovering thigh—but with deliberate poise. Like every inch of exposed skin was a statement. Like every step was meant to drive Caleb wild.
He reached the shower stall. Paused.
Then turned his head over his shoulder, dark lashes low over his eyes.
"Are you coming?"
Caleb was already moving.
He stepped into the stall with him, and Christian turned just as Caleb entered. In one swift movement, Christian reached for the towel still hanging around Caleb's hips and yanked it free.
And there they were.
Both naked. Inches apart. Bodies warm despite the cool tile. Water dripping faintly from above, the steam curling between them like something alive.
Caleb lifted a hand to Christian's face, leaning in. Their mouths were inches away, the pull magnetic. But Christian turned his head. Caleb's lips brushed his cheek instead. The rejection wasn't cruel—it was trembling. Hesitant. Loaded with something that ran far deeper than physical fear.
Caleb paused, breathing hot against his skin. "If you're not kissing me," he whispered, voice low and firm, "I'm not gonna satisfy you."
Christian's breath hitched, and something in him snapped.
He didn't want to think. Didn't want to hesitate. Didn't want to ruin this moment with fear. So he grabbed Caleb's jaw and kissed him.
It was rough. Urgent. Their mouths colliding in a clash of teeth and tongue, all heat and pent-up need. Caleb made a low, surprised noise—part groan, part victorious growl—and wrapped his arms around Christian's waist, pulling him close.
Bodies collided. Chest to chest. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
Caleb backed Christian into the tiled wall and twisted the knob—
Water surged over them, pouring down in a heated cascade.
Their lips didn't part.
They kissed like they'd been waiting for this for years. Like they were desperate to devour each other. Christian's fingers tangled in Caleb's wet hair, and Caleb's hands gripped his hips tight, thumbs brushing bone, mouths never separating for more than a breath.
Eventually, they broke apart—barely. Their foreheads pressed together, steam rising all around them.
Christian was panting. Shaking. His thigh ached again, but he didn't care. Not now.
Caleb spoke first, voice thick with lust and concern.
"We need to protect your thigh."
Christian gave a breathless laugh. "So I guess… you'll have to extend the massage into hydrotherapy."
Caleb's grin was wicked. "Doctor's orders."
He squeezed body wash into his palm, rubbed his hands together until they lathered—then pressed them slowly to Christian's neck.
Down his collarbones. Over his shoulders.
He pulled Christian close, their wet bodies sliding together. His hands dipped down Christian's back, over the curve of his ass, making Christian gasp.
Then to his arms. Biceps. Forearms. Palms. Back to his chest. Strong, sure hands traced over his pecs, down his abs—lingering. But not low enough.
Christian's body twitched.
Caleb's hands slid past his erection. Down his thighs. Focused again on the sore one. He massaged deeper this time, drawing a groan of pain-laced pleasure from Christian's throat.
"Still hurts?" Caleb murmured, mouth grazing his ear.
"A little," Christian whispered. "But… it hurts so good."
Caleb smiled darkly. His hands drifted up Christian's inner thighs again, brushing over the sharp V of his lower abdomen—
But not where Christian needed him most.
Christian trembled.
"Please," he whispered, desperate now. "Please. Touch me."
Caleb's hands paused, hovering just inches from Christian's cock.
But instead of giving in, he leaned in, lips brushing his ear again.
"You think one little 'please' makes up for you acting like I was beneath you this whole time?"
Christian shuddered, his body pulsing with tension.
"Caleb—"
Just then— The locker room door creaked open.
Footsteps. A familiar voice echoed:
"Anyone still here?"
Both of them froze.
"Weston?" Kurt called out. "The boys are ready to head to the pub."
Caleb's hands were still on Christian. Christian's body was trembling, wet, flushed, backed against the tile.
And without hesitation— Christian pressed a finger to Caleb's lips, silencing him.
Then, casually, with a steady voice:
"No idea where Weston is."
There was a pause. Then the door creaked again. Footsteps fading.
Silence returned.
Caleb stared at Christian, stunned.
And Christian?
Christian grinned.
Wicked. Confident. Victorious.
"You were saying something about me being a pain in the ass?"
Caleb groaned. "Fuck you."
Christian leaned in, brushing their noses together, his voice dropping low.
"Not yet."