Pairing: Hockey Player! Simon Riley x Figure Skater! Reader
Summary: Simon had never been one for grand displays of affection, but when you take a nasty fall during your competition, he finds himself breaking his own rules.
Word count: 770
Warnings: none really, just a short fluffy blurb.
Simon had never been to one of your competitions before. Not because he didn’t want to—hell, he’d watch you tie your skates for hours if he could—but because your relationship had been under wraps. His career in the NHL, your growing success in figure skating… it had been easier to keep things quiet. But now, after months of secrecy, the world knew.
Simon sat in the stands, cap pulled low, arms crossed over his broad chest as he tried to ignore the cameras sneaking glances his way. His teammates had given him hell about coming—some teasing, some genuinely surprised he’d sit through something that wasn’t about smashing into people at high speeds.
Simon wasn’t nervous. Not in the way most people got. He’d taken hits from guys twice his size, had teeth knocked loose, and played through injuries that would put others out for weeks.
But this? Sitting in the stands of a figure skating competition? This had his shoulders tight. The rink wasn’t set up the way he was used to—no hard-checking, no boards rattling, no brutal speed or body slams. Just an expanse of smooth ice, twinkling under the bright lights, waiting for you.
The moment your name was announced, the restless energy inside him sharpened.
You skated onto the ice with effortless grace, your expression poised, focused, like you weren’t thinking about the thousands of eyes on you. Simon knew better. He knew how much pressure you put on yourself, how much work went into making something this difficult look effortless.
You caught his gaze as you moved to your starting position, and the briefest hint of a smile tugged at your lips.
Simon exhaled.
And then the music started.
You moved like water, fluid and controlled, your blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. He’d seen you practice a hundred times, had even let you teach him some of the simpler moves when you insisted he had the balance for it. (He didn’t, but he liked the excuse to let you get your hands on him.)
The crowd was quiet except for the soft crescendos of the music, and Simon found himself caught in the rhythm of your movements, the way your arms extended, the way you spun with impossible precision.
It happened fast.
One second, you were setting up for a jump. The next, your blade caught wrong, and instead of landing gracefully, you went down hard.
Simon was on his feet before he even registered moving. The sharp crack of your body hitting the ice sent a sickening jolt through him. The crowd collectively gasped, but Simon barely heard them over the blood rushing in his ears.
You didn’t get up right away.
His gut twisted.
Come on, love. Get up.
The medical team was already moving and Simon shoved past anyone in his way, his long strides eating the distance. By the time he reached the ice’s edge, you were pushing yourself up, wincing, cradling your wrist.
Relief crashed through him, so strong it almost made him dizzy.
“You alright?” His voice was gruff, louder than he meant. You blinked up at him, dazed but breathing.
“Simon?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. ‘M right here.”
The officials hesitated, unsure whether to let him any closer, but he didn’t give them a choice. His feet hit the ice without a second thought, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was you.
You tried to shake it off, but he could see the way you were favoring your arm, how your expression was tighter than it should be.
“Can you stand?”
“I—I think so.”
“Let me help.”
And just like that, Simon Riley—cold, ruthless on the ice, known for brutal hits and not giving a damn about anyone in his way—was kneeling beside you, his hands gentle as they helped you up.
The crowd murmured, cameras flashing, but Simon didn’t give a shit.
All that mattered was that you were standing.
Your good hand tightened in his hoodie, and even through the fabric, he could feel your fingers trembling. “I—I didn’t finish.”
“Don’t care,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You did good, love.”
You swallowed, and for the first time since your fall, your lips twitched upward. “You’re making a scene.”
Simon scoffed. “Let ‘em stare.”
He slipped an arm around you, steadying you as you stepped off the ice together.
“Scared the bloody hell outta me.”
“You? Scared?”
“Terrified.” His hands slid over your waist, steady, grounding. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Maybe you hadn’t finished your routine. Maybe you didn’t win tonight.
Pairing: Hockey player Simon Riley x girlfriend!Reader.
Summary: After an event, Simon's name gazes the tabloids.
Word count: 630
You weren’t the jealous type. You and Simon had been together long enough for that. You knew exactly where you stood with him—right in the center of his world, even if he wasn’t the best at putting it into words.
The TV in your shared apartment was on, muted, while you scrolled through your phone. You already knew what was blowing up online, but curiosity got the better of you. A sports gossip account had posted a grainy, over-zoomed picture of Simon standing on a red carpet next to some actress—tall, blonde, stunning. They were mid-conversation, Simon leaning slightly toward her to hear her better over the event noise. The headline? NHL’s Simon Riley Spotted Getting Cozy with Hollywood Starlet!
You snorted. "Cozy, huh?"
You heard Simon before you saw him, his heavy steps echoing down the hall. He was fresh out of the shower, a towel slung around his neck, wearing a pair of sweats low on his hips. When he spotted you eyeing your phone, he let out a deep sigh.
“So, should I start packing my bags now, or…?” you asked before he could say anything.
"Don't tell me you're readin' that shite."
You scrolled down dramatically, reading aloud, “‘Riley and Hollywood star Mila spotted together in what can only be described as undeniable chemistry—’”
Simon groaned, “For fuck’s sake.”
“‘Sources say—’”
“Bloody who?”
“‘—that the pair looked rather intimate during their conversation, leaving many to speculate that—’”
You turned the screen toward him, the article still open. "Should I be worried?"
Simon rolled his eyes and plopped down beside you on the couch. "Yeah, love. Absolutely terrified. She's already picked out wedding colors."
You smacked his arm lightly. "Don't be an ass."
He chuckled, voice low and raspy. "Y’know, they really like stirrin’ up drama, don’t they?"
"Oh, for sure," you agreed. "They could’ve just said NHL player has a conversation like a normal human being, but where’s the fun in that?"
Simon stretched his legs out, tilting his head toward you. "If I was gonna cheat, d’you really think I’d do it in front of cameras?"
"Wow, what a convincing defense," you teased. "So what did you talk about?"
"Her brother plays hockey. Big fan of the team." He shrugged. "She asked for an autograph."
Your lips twitched. "And you gave her one?"
"Of course. Thought about signin’ it as someone else’s name, just to see what she'd do."
You shook your head with a laugh. "You're impossible."
Simon smirked, reaching over to pull you into his lap. His arms looped around your waist, warm and solid. "You worried, love?"
You played along, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. "I mean… she is gorgeous. And famous. And—"
Simon cut you off by pressing his lips against yours, a slow, lazy kiss. "Not my type," he murmured against your mouth.
You raised a brow. "No?"
He kissed you again, this time with a little more heat. "No," he muttered, fingers trailing up your spine. "My type's sittin’ in my lap, talkin’ nonsense."
You melted just a little, even as you rolled your eyes. "Smooth."
He grinned. "Worked, didn’t it?"
"Maybe."
Simon nipped at your jaw, voice softer now. "Y’know I only have eyes for you, yeah?"
Your fingers carded through his damp hair, the familiar weight of him grounding you. "Yeah, I know."
"Good." He smirked again. "Now, c’mon, let’s give ‘em somethin’ else to talk about."
Before you could ask what he meant, Simon grabbed the phone and snapped a picture of you both—your legs tangled together, his arm wrapped possessively around you, lips grazing your temple. Then, with a shit-eating grin, he posted it.
Within seconds, notifications flooded in. You groaned. "Simon!"
"Oops." He didn’t look sorry at all. "Guess the world knows who I’m really cozy with now."
Pairing: Hockey player Simon Riley x data analyst fem!Reader.
Summary: Tention rises as you try to improve his performance. Spoiler alert- he's not a fan at first.
Word count: 4,100 something.
Warnings: Light smut.
Note: I might be making more of this AU, because I am kinda back on the Hockey fanfics at the moment. (Might not really be Hockey accurate though.)
You weren’t supposed to be here.
Your job was simple: analyze the numbers, track player performance, and keep your head down. You were a data analyst, not a coach, not a player, and certainly not someone who should be arguing with Simon Riley in the middle of the rink.
But here you were.
"You skate like you're afraid of breaking something," you snapped, arms crossed against the biting cold of the arena.
Simon—Ghost, as he was known on the ice—tilted his head, eyes glinting under the shadow of his helmet. "And you talk like you know what you’re on about."
Your jaw clenched. The man was infuriating. He was also one of the best enforcers in the league, a defensive powerhouse with a reputation for being impossible to get past. He was ruthless, strategic, and, unfortunately, absolutely terrible at taking advice.
"Your speed's down this season," you said, stepping closer. "You're holding back."
Ghost huffed, a short, unimpressed sound. "And what? You think your little spreadsheets can tell me how to play?"
"Yes, actually," you shot back. "And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d listen."
He smirked— just the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was almost worse than his usual blank stare because it meant he was enjoying this.
"Alright," he drawled, voice low and edged with challenge. "Show me."
Your pulse jumped. "What?"
"You think you know how to fix my skating? Prove it." He tapped his stick against the ice. "Get your skates on."
Your stomach dropped. It had been years since you'd been on the ice properly, but there was no backing down now. Not with Ghost watching.
And definitely not with the way his gaze lingered, like he already knew you were going to fall—and was waiting to catch you.
You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Simon Riley, had just called your bluff, or the fact that you were actually considering going through with it.
You stared up at him, his smirk carved into his face like he already knew you’d back down. Like he was daring you to try.
Shit.
"Fine," you said, your voice sharper than you felt. "But if I prove you’re holding back, you listen to me."
Ghost’s smirk deepened. "Deal."
Your skates cut into the ice as you glided forward, adjusting to the familiar but slightly awkward feeling of being back on your blades. It had been years, but muscle memory kicked in fast. You weren’t a pro, but you weren’t half-bad either.
Ghost skated a slow circle around you, watching. "Didn’t think you’d actually do it."
"You should stop underestimating me."
He let out a low chuckle, barely audible over the distant echo of a puck hitting the boards. "Alright then. Show me."
You took a breath, planting your stick against the ice. "You’ve been pulling up too early on your stops," you started. "You’re bleeding momentum before you need to, which slows you down in transitions."
Ghost raised an unimpressed brow. "Or maybe I just know how to control my movement so I don’t go crashing into people like a bloody wrecking ball."
"That’s literally your job, though."
He grunted, but didn't deny it.
"Watch," you said, skating ahead.
You picked up speed, your movements steady but aggressive, before shifting your weight and digging your blades into the ice. You came to a clean, sharp stop, sending a spray of ice in Ghost’s direction.
His mask did nothing to hide the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Now, your turn Ghost." You said, turning your attention to him, while trying to catch a breath and don't make it too obvious. His stance was wide, solid, but you could see where he hesitated just a fraction of a second before his stops, just enough to take the edge off his speed.
"You're compensating for something," you said, "Left knee?"
Ghost’s expression darkened.
Bingo.
"Not injured," he muttered. "Just... old habits."
You skated closer, your fingers flexing around your stick. "You trust me yet?"
He just watched you, his jaw tight, something unreadable behind his gaze.
"You always this stubborn?" he finally asked.
You smirked. "You always this difficult?"
Ghost exhaled through his nose, like he wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t quite get there. "You’re trouble," he muttered.
You weren’t sure if it was the cold or the way Ghost was looking at you that made your pulse pick up speed.
"Alright," he muttered after a long pause. "Say you’re right—say I’m slowing down."
"You are."
His eyes narrowed. "Then fix it."
That caught you off guard. You blinked up at him, breath still coming a little faster from skating. "You actually want my help now?"
He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. "You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re not wrong."
Coming from him, that was the closest thing to a glowing endorsement.
"Alright," you said, shifting your grip on your stick. "We’ll start with edgework. If you can get more confidence on tight turns, you won’t instinctively brace as much."
Ghost made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. "I don’t brace."
You tilted your head, letting your smirk show. "Then you won’t mind proving it."
Something flickered behind his gaze and suddenly he was moving—fast. Before you could react, he cut a tight circle around you, his skates carving clean, efficient arcs into the ice. He was controlled, powerful, and when he stopped—right in front of you—the spray of ice nearly hit your face.
You stumbled back half a step, startled.
Ghost caught your wrist before you could fall.
The contact was brief but solid, his glove warm against your sleeve, his grip unyielding. You inhaled sharply, eyes snapping up to his.
He was too close. Close enough that you could see the way his breath misted in the cold air, close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of something—cologne, sweat, a lingering sharpness of the rink.
His fingers flexed around your wrist before he let go.
"You alright?" he asked, voice lower than before.
You swallowed. "Yeah."
Liar.
His head tilted just slightly, like he could see right through you. Like he knew exactly what effect he had.
Then, as quickly as it happened, he skated back.
"Try to keep up, then," he said, his smirk making a slow return.
Your pulse was still racing by the time practice ended. You weren’t sure if it was from the skating or the way Ghost had looked at you when he let go of your wrist.
You tried to shake it off as you made your way through the tunnel, past the locker rooms. The team had filed in already, and the distant sounds of showers running, sticks clattering, and voices arguing over game footage filled the air.
You weren’t supposed to be in here. But you also weren’t supposed to be coaching one of the most stubborn players in the league, so at this point, what was one more bad decision?
Ghost’s locker was near the back, separate from the others. He wasn’t one to linger, always the first to leave after, rarely talking unless absolutely necessary. But tonight, he was still there, taping up his stick with slow, methodical movements.
He didn’t look up when he spoke. "You lost?"
You crossed your arms. "I don’t get lost."
Ghost huffed out something that could have been a laugh. "Right."
The air in the room was warm from the showers, a stark contrast to the cold rink. You ignored the heat creeping up your neck as you leaned against the wall. "You were faster by the end of practice."
He didn’t respond, just tore another strip of tape and smoothed it over the blade of his stick.
"You gonna pretend that wasn’t because of me?" you pushed.
Ghost finally glanced up, his gaze unreadable. "You want me to say thanks?"
You shrugged. "Would be nice."
He made a low sound, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Don’t hold your breath."
You rolled your eyes, pushing off the wall. "You really are impossible."
"Yet you keep coming back."
Your steps faltered for half a second. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one feeling the pull between you.
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to shut it down before it could turn into something more. But before you could speak, another voice called out.
"Oi, Riley! You done brooding, or what?"
You turned just in time to see Johnny MacTavish rounding the corner, towel slung over his shoulder, still damp from the showers. His gaze flicked between you and Ghost, brows raising slightly at the tension in the air.
Ghost sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. I’m coming."
Soap smirked, clearly picking up on something. "Didn’t mean to interrupt."
You felt your face heat. "You weren’t."
"Sure, sure," he said, grinning like he absolutely didn’t believe you. "See you ‘round, then."
He clapped Ghost on the shoulder before heading out, leaving you standing there, still caught in the moment you weren’t sure how to walk away from.
Ghost exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You really that determined to fix me?"
Your stomach twisted. "I don’t think you’re broken, Riley."
Something flickered in his eyes—something quick, unreadable. Then, just as fast, it was gone.
"Get out of here," he muttered, reaching for his duffel. "Before you start thinking I might actually listen to you."
You smirked, stepping back toward the exit. "Too late."
You told yourself you weren’t thinking about him.
You told yourself you weren’t replaying that moment in the locker room—the way Ghost had looked at you, the way his voice had dipped just enough to make your breath hitch.
You told yourself a lot of things.
But then the road trip happened.
The team bus was packed with gear, exhausted players, and the hum of pre-game tension. You had claimed a seat toward the middle, laptop open, reviewing analytics for the match against Dallas.
You were not paying attention to the man sitting across the aisle.
Ghost had his hood up, arms crossed, a pair of headphones resting around his neck. He wasn’t asleep, but he also wasn’t acknowledging anyone—classic Ghost behavior.
You tried to focus on your work. You really did. But then Soap, sitting in the seat behind you, leaned forward with a shit-eating grin.
"So," he said, voice low enough to not attract too much attention. "You and Riley, huh?"
You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers stilling over your keyboard. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
Soap chuckled. "Aye, sure you don’t. Just sayin'—never seen him listen to anyone the way he listens to you."
Your lips pressed into a thin line. "He doesn’t listen to me."
"Relax," Soap said, clapping your shoulder before leaning back. "Just don’t break his heart, alright?"
Soap just laughed, shaking his head like he knew something you didn’t.
And across the aisle, Ghost’s fingers tapped once against his knee—just once, barely noticeable. But you saw it.
Like maybe he’d heard everything.
The game had been brutal. Hard hits, dirty plays, and a one-goal lead that had come down to the final seconds.
Ghost had been a force, shutting down every attempt on net, getting under the other team’s skin until fists started flying. You weren’t sure if it was the strategy sessions or the sheer stubbornness, but he’d been faster tonight. More aggressive.
More himself.
The team was celebrating in the hotel bar, but you weren’t drinking. You were tucked into a booth in the corner, reviewing the game footage. You were so focused you didn’t notice him until he sat down across from you.
"You’re avoiding me," Ghost muttered.
You looked up, caught off guard. "I’m working."
He huffed, shaking his head. "Bullshit."
You tensed. "What’s your problem?"
Ghost leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. "You got in my head."
Your breath caught. "What?"
"You heard me." His gaze was heavy, unreadable. "Every time I skated, every time I stopped, I heard your voice. You sure you’re not tryin’ to fix me?"
Your mouth felt dry. "I told you. You’re not broken."
Ghost exhaled slowly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
And then, before you could stop yourself, you said it, "You were better tonight."
His fingers curled into fists on the table. His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something back.
Then, without a word, he stood up.
The hotel was quiet.
Most of the team was still downstairs celebrating, but you had slipped away, the weight of the game and whatever the hell was happening with Ghost pressing down on you.
You told yourself you were just tired. That you weren’t replaying the way he looked at you in the bar, like you had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.
But then—a knock at your door.
Your stomach flipped.
You already knew who it was.
You took a slow breath before opening the door.
Ghost stood there, still in his hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets. His mask was gone, leaving his face shadowed in the dim hallway light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.
You swallowed. "Ghost—"
"Simon," he interrupted.
You blinked. "What?"
His jaw clenched, "Call me Simon."
He never let people use his real name. Not teammates, not coaches, no one.
And yet, here he was, standing in your doorway, demanding it from you.
You felt lightheaded. "Simon."
His eyes darkened.
Then, suddenly, he was inside.
You barely had time to step back before he pushed the door shut behind him, crowding into your space. You should have been nervous—he was so close, his presence so overwhelming—but you weren’t.
"You got in my head," he muttered. "You’re still in my head."
Your breath hitched. "Simon—"
"You’re pissin’ me off," he growled. "But I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I can’t stop thinkin’ about you."
The words hit you like a body check against the boards.
"What do you want me to say?"
His eyes flickered down to your lips.
"Tell me I’m not losin’ my mind," he muttered.
You swallowed hard. "You’re not."
Something snapped.
Then—his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, all sharp edges and frustration, like he had been holding back for too damn long and finally let himself break.
You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you pull away. His hands braced against the door, caging you in as he kissed you like he had been waiting for this since the moment you first challenged him on the ice.
You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly your hands were in his hoodie, grabbing at the fabric, pulling him closer.
Simon groaned—actually groaned—into your mouth, pressing harder, like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to make sure you knew this wasn’t just a mistake.
Like he was staking his claim.
And God help you—you let him.
Simon kissed like he played—hard, relentless, and with no intention of letting you walk away unscathed.
His mouth slanted over yours, demanding, pushing, devouring. His hands, huge and impossibly steady, bracketed your face, fingers threading into your hair as he backed you up against the hotel door.
You should have slowed down. You should have stopped. But the way he kissed you—rough and unyielding, like he had been starving for this—made it impossible to think about anything but more.
A gasp slipped from your lips as he moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. His breath was ragged, his stubble scraping against your skin as he pressed against you, all muscle, all heat, all Simon.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your throat, "how long I’ve wanted to do this."
Your legs nearly gave out.
But Simon was already there, catching you, pressing you against the door like he didn’t trust himself not to tear you apart right there.
"Bed," you managed to whisper, you grabbed his hoodie and yanked it over his head.
His shirt went next, and—fuck.
You had known he was built—obviously—but seeing him like this, bare, scarred, solid, was something else entirely.
Simon didn’t give you long to stare. He was already on you again, kissing you deeper, rougher, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed.
Then—you were falling.
Simon followed, his body covering yours, heat pressing into you, his hands already working your clothes off. Every inch of skin he revealed, he touched. Every inch of you, he claimed.
You weren’t sure who moaned first when he finally got you bare beneath him, but it didn’t matter.
"You sure about this?" he rasped, voice strained, like he was holding onto the last thread of his control.
You pulled him down, lips brushing against his.
"Shut up and fuck me, Riley."
His control snapped.
Simon wasted no time. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid between your legs, finding you soaking, ready, desperate for him.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, nearly losing it right then and there. "Look at you."
Your back arched as he teased you, dragging his fingers through your slick, his breath hot against your ear.
"You want me?" he rasped, pressing against your entrance but not quite giving you what you needed.
"Simon," you gasped, nails digging into his arms.
"Say it," he demanded, voice low and dangerous, like he needed to hear it just as bad as you needed him.
Your head fell back against the pillows. "I want you."
That was all he needed.
In one smooth, powerful thrust, Simon buried himself inside you.
You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, nails scraping down his back as he stretched you, filled you, ruined you.
"Fuck," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours, fighting for control as your body squeezed around him.
But you didn’t want control.
You wanted him raw, reckless, gone.
"Move," you whispered.
Simon set a brutal pace, his hips snapping into yours, taking you apart one deep thrust at a time. Every movement, every sound, every ounce of tension that had been building between you for weeks, months, longer than either of you wanted to admit—it all exploded into this moment.
He fucked you like he played—ruthless, unstoppable, and completely, devastatingly yours.
"Mine," he growled against your throat, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises.
You barely managed to gasp out, "Yours."
His rhythm stuttered, his breath came ragged, and his hands pinned you down as he chased his high—dragging you with him.
And when you shattered—when pleasure tore through you so hard you thought you might break—Simon was right there with you, cursing, groaning, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Your chest heaved, your body still trembling, every nerve burned raw from him.
Simon stayed inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven.
"You," he finally muttered, voice hoarse, "are the biggest fucking mistake I’ve ever made."
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.
"But?" you whispered.
His fingers brushed over your jaw, his lips ghosting against your temple.
"But I’m not sure I give a shit anymore."
You were fucked.
Not just because you had let Simon Riley break you apart in a hotel room last night—more than once. Not just because you could still feel the ache between your legs from the way he had taken you like he had something to prove.
But because now, by the ice at morning skate, you couldn’t stop looking at him.
And worse—he was looking at you, too.
It had started the moment you walked onto the rink.
Simon was already there, stretching near the bench, looking every bit the same as always—broad, unreadable, perfectly in control.
Except he wasn’t.
Because the second you walked in, his eyes snapped to you.
It wasn’t obvious. Not to anyone else. But you felt it.
And then—he smirked.
Smirked.
The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, standing there like he wasn’t the reason your entire body was still on fire from last night.
You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus, forcing yourself to act like nothing had happened. But it was impossible. Because every time he moved, every time his voice rumbled across the ice, you remembered.
You remembered the weight of him, the way he had growled your name, the way he had—
"Hey data girl."
Simon had skated right up to you, stopping by the boards, just close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t.
You swallowed hard. "Riley."
His lips twitched. "You look tense."
Oh, this fucker.
"Stretching helps," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "Wouldn’t want you getting all stiff."
Your brain short-circuited. Last night. His hands. His mouth.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
You forced a neutral expression. "You here to skate or run your mouth?"
Simon’s smirk deepened.
"Both."
Fucker.
You should have expected it.
Simon had always played hard, but today—he was on a mission.
And apparently, that mission involved driving you insane.
Every time he came near the bench, he would stop just close enough to make you notice. He’d glance at you, barely smirking, his gaze dark and knowing.
But the worst part?
He was playing better than ever.
Faster. Sharper. Completely in control—unlike you.
And then—the hit happened.
It was mid-scrimmage, a full-contact drill, but when Simon slammed an opposing player (who, by the way, was trying to hit you up before the game) into the boards with enough force to shake the glass, you knew.
That wasn’t just a hit. That was territorial.
The other player groaned, shoving at Simon's chest. "Jesus, Riley, calm the fuck down."
But Simon barely acknowledged him. He was already skating away—backward.
Looking at you.
Only you.
And you knew, without a doubt, that the hit had nothing to do with the play and everything to do with last night.
Your grip on the boards tightened. Fucker.
The second the final whistle blew, you were already moving.
You didn’t wait for the team to clear the ice. Didn’t wait for the knowing glances from Soap, or the way Simon had skated past you one last time with that same infuriating, cocky smirk.
You just walked.
Straight to the locker room.
You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was there.
Simon stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, his skates slung over one shoulder.
You spun to face him, still fuming. "What the hell was that?"
His expression was maddeningly blank. "What was what?"
Oh, you wanted to hit him.
"The hit," you snapped, crossing your arms. "The staring. The smirking. The—"
"The fucking?" he interrupted, tilting his head.
You froze.
Your pulse skipped.
And he knew it.
"Careful, love," he murmured, stepping closer, invading your space like he had every right to be there. "People might start to think you actually enjoyed yourself last night."
Your jaw clenched. "You’re an asshole."
Simon hummed, reaching past you to set his skates down on the bench. The movement brought him so close you had to fight the urge to back up.
Or worse—to close the distance yourself.
"You’re not mad about the hit," he muttered, voice dropping. "You’re mad because this time I got in your head."
He was right.
And he knew it.
You squared your shoulders. "I’m mad because you can’t keep your shit together on the ice."
His gaze darkened.
"Can’t keep my shit together?" he repeated, stepping even closer. "Right. Because you weren’t in the stands, watchin’ me. Because you weren’t picturing my hands on you the whole time."
You hated that he was right.
But you hated even more that your body betrayed you.
Your breath came quicker. Your pulse pounded. And Simon—fucking Simon—just smirked.
"You liked it," he murmured.
You swallowed hard. "Shut up, Simon."
His eyes flickered. Something changed.
"Say it again."
You frowned. "What?"
"My name." His voice was rough. Low. "Say it again." his fingers were flexing at his sides like he was seconds away from grabbing you.
And God help you—you wanted him to.
But not here. Not like this.
So you did the only thing you could.
You took a slow breath, tilted your chin up, and said—
"Try to keep up, Simon."
Then you turned, pushing the door open, leaving him standing there.
