The air in Room 302 was thick with the hum of the air conditioning and the restless energy of its occupant. Henry hadn't even bothered to turn off the lights. He was pacing the length bed, his shadow stretching long and distorted against the beige wallpaper. Every few minutes, his eyes would flick toward the heavy oak door, then toward the digital clock.
1:30 AM.
He had been waiting. He wouldn't admit it to himself—he'd call it "scouting" or "psychological warfare"—but the truth was vibrating in his marrow. He had planted a seed on that rooftop. He had whispered a number and a promise into the ear of the one man who shouldn't want it, and now he was waiting for the harvest.
A sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the room.
Henry moved instantly. There was no hesitation, no checking the peephole. He was across the room in three strides, his hand gripping the handle with a white-knuckled intensity. He swung the door open, the word already halfway up his throat, thick with triumph and dark intent.
"Cor—"
The name died in the air, turning into a jagged silence.
Standing in the hallway wasn't the lean, trembling Toronto captain with the haunted eyes. Instead, it was a woman. She was striking, with long, chestnut hair falling over a leather jacket and a smile that was practiced, confident, and entirely wrong.
"Henry?" she said, her eyebrows arching in amusement. "You looked like you were expecting someone?"
Henry blinked, the adrenaline in his system curdling. He stared at her for a heartbeat too long before his brain finally clicked into gear. Diana. He remembered the name now—a blur of perfume and laughter from a high-end bar three nights ago. He'd been bored, he'd been riding the high of a victory, and he'd scrawled his room number on a coaster.
"Diana," he said, his voice dropping back into its usual, bored baritone. He forced a smirk, though his eyes remained cold, darting once more to the empty hallway behind her before he stepped back. "I wasn't expecting you this late. But I'm not complaining."
"Better late than never," she purred, stepping into the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, Henry's restraint snapped. He wanted to drown out the memory of the rooftop. He wanted to erase the image of Corner's face and the way his own hand had felt against those gray joggers.
He reached out, his hand tangling in Diana's hair as he pulled her toward him. The kiss was jarring—hard, demanding, and devoid of any real tenderness. It was a physical assault on his own thoughts. Diana gasped against his mouth, her hands moving to the hem of his hoodie, but Henry was already guiding her toward the bed with a rough, impatient momentum.
The encounter that followed was a blur of high-friction intensity. Henry moved with the same clinical, overwhelming force he used on the rugby pitch. He was silent, his jaw set in a grim line, his eyes focused on anything but her face. He used her body as a focal point for all the restless, aggressive energy he'd been storing up since the press conference. It was rough, primal, and fast—a desperate attempt to reclaim the "straight, dominant captain" persona that had felt so precarious just an hour ago.
Diana was breathless, caught in the whirlwind of his intensity, her nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed her into the mattress. For a few minutes, the physical exertion worked. The sweat, the heat, and the noise filled the space where Corner's name had been echoing.
When it was over, the silence returned, heavier than before.
Henry lay back against the headboard, his chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. Diana was curled beside him, trying to catch her breath, her hair a wild halo on the pillow. The room felt smaller now, the air smelling of sex and cooling sweat.
Henry turned his head slightly, his gaze dark and distant. A thought—unbidden, intrusive, and sharp—sliced through his mind.
"Diana," he said, his voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
"Hmm?" she murmured, shifting closer.
"Have you ever..." He paused, the words feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. He didn't look at her. "Have you ever had someone fuck your butthole?"
Diana went still for a second, her eyes widening in surprise. She sat up slightly, propping herself on an elbow, scanning his unreadable face. "Oh. Wow. Straight to the point, aren't we?" She let out a soft, nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Honestly? No. I've never tried it. But... with you? I wouldn't mind. I'd be down to try it."
She leaned in, her eyes curious. "What brought that on, Henry? Feeling adventurous tonight?"
Henry just stared at the wall, the image of Corner's trembling frame flashing behind his eyelids.
"Just curious," he muttered, his voice cold and final. "Curious how it would feel. That's all."
"Well," she whispered, her hand sliding across his chest, "we could—"
"Another day," Henry interrupted, his tone shifting into a wall of granite. He pulled the duvet up, effectively closing the space between them. "I'm tired. We have a game tomorrow. I need to sleep."
Diana blinked, the rejection sharp and sudden. She watched him for a moment, sensing the iron shutters closing around him. She realized then that she wasn't really there—she was just a placeholder in a room filled with wondering unspoken thoughts.
"Right," she said softly, her voice tinged with disappointment. "The big game."
Henry didn't answer. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to level out. But as the minutes ticked by and Diana eventually drifted into a light sleep beside him, Henry remained wide awake. The curiosity he'd mentioned felt like a lead weight in his stomach. He lay there in the dark, the only thing he could think about was the man three floors up—and how much he hated that he was still waiting for a knock that was never going to come.