The Captain's Forbidden Cure

No one knew I was an addict.

Not to alcohol, not to drugs, but to the rawest, dirtiest kind of union.

To keep up the facade of this respectable job, to stop myself from turning into some desperate, heat-crazed stray begging for a man's touch on the street, I had to swallow those little blue pills every day.

Until that damn blizzard trapped me with thirty hockey players reeking of sweat and testosterone, and my pills—gone.

The blizzard howled like a rabid beast, clawing at the windows of the team bus. Outside, the world was swallowed by a white terror, but inside, the air was thick, suffocating.

It was the scent of thirty grown men—deodorant, worn leather gear, and that dizzying, raw male heat.

I'm Olivia Reed, manager of the North Wolves. I sat rigid in the front row of the bus, spine straight as a rod, just like when I deliver my icy lectures in the locker room.

Clad in my signature black turtleneck sweater, buttons fastened to the top, and a camel coat over it, knees pressed tight together.

But beneath the layers of expensive fabric, my body was screaming.

It was burning. Every inch of skin felt gnawed by a thousand ants, blood boiling in my veins, pooling toward that shameful center.

The insides of my thighs were already slick, the sticky sensation forcing me to clench them tighter, desperate for friction to ease the maddening emptiness.

This damn blizzard.

Four hours ago, we were en route to an away game when the freak weather hit. The bus broke down on a desolate stretch of interstate, and my handbag—along with the bottle of blue pills that kept me sane—slipped somewhere in the chaos of the emergency stop.

I searched under every seat. Nothing.

The drug's effect was fading. That familiar, terrifying hunger surged like a tidal wave, drowning every shred of my reason.

"Manager?" A low, gravelly voice cut through my haze, right above me.

I flinched uncontrollably, that voice like an electric lash against my frayed nerves. Slowly, I lifted my head. Standing over me was Rek Harrison, our captain.

He was a mountain of a man, filling the narrow aisle with his sheer presence.

Dressed in a gray team hoodie, sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny, muscled forearms, his eyes were deep and still, like a frozen lake hiding dangerous currents beneath.

Normally, I keep a strict professional distance with Rek. He's the locker room leader; I'm the management's face. But now, as he loomed close, I caught his scent—crisp aftershave mixed with faint tobacco and the heat of male skin.

"Coach got in touch with a nearby motel. Everyone's getting off," he said, his voice as steady as his glide on the ice.

"Alright," I managed, trying to stand, but my knees buckled. I nearly collapsed before a strong hand gripped my elbow, steadying me.

The heat of his palm seared through my wool coat, scorching my skin. I sucked in a sharp breath, not just from surprise, but because that fleeting touch sent a spasm through my lower abdomen.

"Careful," he said curtly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze.

Half an hour later, things got worse.

The lobby of this dump called "Roadside Rest" was crammed with hulking hockey players, grumbling about the weather, laughing loudly, the air thick with that suffocating, intoxicating male sweat I both dreaded and craved.

"Listen up," Coach barked over the noise, waving a handful of room keys. "Four to a room, make it work. Olivia…" He turned to me, his face apologetic. "Only one single left, but the heat's busted in it. Doubles have heat, so you'll have to buddy up."

Every pair of eyes snapped to me. Those young, testosterone-fueled players, their gazes loaded with implications. Normally, I'd glare back, shut it down.

But right now, my mind was flooded with filthy images—their sweat-soaked jerseys, the muscle beneath their gear…

"She's with me."

Rek's voice sliced through the clamor. He stood by the counter, holding a key with a plastic tag, his expression as matter-of-fact as if this were obvious.

"It's the only double with a king bed. Rest of you won't fit. Plus, we need to go over tomorrow's tactics."

The lobby erupted in crude hoots, a few younger players whistling. One of them smirked, "Yo, Captain, don't keep her up all night!"

"Shut it," Rek snapped, his captain's authority silencing the jeers into awkward coughs.

I didn't argue. I didn't have the strength to. My body felt like butter tossed into a furnace, melting by the second.

All I wanted was to escape this testosterone-drenched lobby and hide somewhere.

The room was at the end of the second floor, 204.

The door clicked shut, muffling the storm's howl and the team's racket outside. The room stank of cheap air freshener and stale tobacco. One bed. A sagging, king-sized double.

I leaned against the door, the fire inside me raging hotter.

"I'm taking a shower," Rek said, shrugging off his jacket.

Then his hoodie. Then his T-shirt.

Damn it. I shouldn't have looked. But his bare torso was a Greek statue come to life—every muscle carved with explosive power, forged from years of brutal collisions on the ice. An old scar slashed across his abs, stark against the hard lines of muscle.

I wanted to look away, but my eyes betrayed me. My throat went dry as heat pulsed through me, pooling where it shouldn't.

The sound of running water started in the bathroom. I slid to the floor, trembling, my hand slipping under my skirt. No, not here. Rek was just on the other side of that wall.

But I couldn't stop. When my fingers brushed that slick heat, a broken whimper escaped my lips.

And just then, the water shut off.