Chapter 2: Steam and Secrets in the Sauna
RHYS
The cedar planks groaned under Ethan’s fist, the sound sharp and final in the thick, wet air. Steam coiled around his knuckles, already reddening against the dark wood. Silence slammed down, heavier than the humidity pressing against my skin. Javi’s infectious grin, moments ago lighting up his face as he recounted some pitch-side banter, froze mid-laugh, twisting into something startled, almost wounded. Across the small, tiled space, Julian leaned back against the slick wall, his usual playful ease evaporating. His dark eyes, usually warm and inviting, narrowed, fixed on Ethan with a simmering intensity I’d only seen him direct at opposing strikers bearing down on goal.
We all want her.
Ethan’s words hung in the steam, brutal, undeniable. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, landing with a soft plink on the wet floor tiles. The distant roar of the departing crowd was a muffled echo, irrelevant now. The scent of pine oil and male sweat, usually just background noise in this post-game ritual, felt suddenly intimate, charged.
Javi was the first to break the suffocating quiet. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, a nervous gesture utterly foreign on him. "Hawk, man…" His voice was rough, lacking its usual effortless charm. "What the hell are you talking about?" But the denial rang hollow. The way his gaze flickered away, towards the closed sauna door – as if picturing her just beyond it – betrayed him.
Julian didn’t look away from Ethan. His voice, when it came, was low, controlled, but edged with something dangerous. "You don’t get to speak for me, Hawke." He pushed off the wall, water sheening his lean torso. "Or for anyone else in here." Yet, the possessive hunger in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened, screamed confirmation louder than any admission.
Ethan finally pulled his fist back, flexing his fingers slowly. He didn’t look at Javi or Julian. His piercing blue eyes, usually focused on some distant point only he could see, locked onto mine. The intensity was unnerving. "Don't pretend, Rhys," he rumbled, the sound vibrating through the humid air. "You see it. You always see the angles." He wiped his knuckles on a towel draped over the bench beside him, a deliberate, almost dismissive motion. "You watch her. Not just the photos. Her."
The accusation landed like a physical blow. Heat flooded my face, unrelated to the sauna’s embrace. He was right. Of course he was right. The careful framing, the way I’d linger sometimes after capturing the perfect shot, observing Maya Rodriguez – Pixie – not just as the lens saw her, but as she was. The fierce concentration that furrowed her brow when she reviewed her shots, the unexpected flash of vulnerability when she thought no one was looking, the quiet strength radiating from her compact frame as she navigated the chaotic sidelines. Her green eyes, catching the stadium lights… I saw the artistry, yes, the raw emotion she captured. But I also saw her. The woman behind the camera, overlooked, underestimated. Fascinating. Compelling.
Denial rose instinctively, a shield honed by years of strategic reserve. "I appreciate her talent," I began, my voice sounding unnaturally calm amidst the tension. "Her dedication to capturing the essence of the game is—"
"Bullshit," Julian cut in, stepping closer. The steam seemed to cling to him, outlining the tension in his shoulders. "Cut the intellectual crap, Maestro. This isn't about her damn photos right now." He jabbed a finger towards Ethan, then swept it to include Javi and me. "He just cracked this wide open. So let's stop pretending we haven't all been orbiting her like moths around a damn flame."
Javi flinched. He sank onto the lower bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the wet tiles between his feet. The heartthrob facade was utterly gone, replaced by a startling rawness. "Orbiting… yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "Always watching, wanting to say something… anything real. But it’s just ‘Great shot, Pixie’ or ‘Need anything?’" He looked up, his expression bleak. "She sees everything through that lens… except me. Not really. Not… like that."
The loneliness in his voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the stadium cheers that usually followed him. It resonated uncomfortably deep within me. We were all performers in our own ways – Javi the charming idol, Julian the charismatic leader, Ethan the impenetrable fortress, me the detached strategist. And Pixie… she saw through it all, instinctively, with her artist’s eye. Yet, she remained frustratingly, beautifully oblivious to the effect she had.
Ethan grunted, a low sound of agreement or frustration, maybe both. He remained standing, a solid, brooding presence amidst the steam. "She doesn't see it," he stated flatly. "Doesn't see us. Not like this." His gaze swept the cramped space, taking in Javi’s slumped form, Julian’s simmering intensity, my own carefully maintained composure cracking at the edges. "So what now? We just… keep circling? Pretend Hawk didn't just punch a hole in the wall?"
Julian crossed his arms, the movement causing droplets to cascade down his skin. His dark eyes were calculating now, shifting from possessiveness to the tactical assessment I recognized from the pitch. "Pretending’s off the table," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual command, though laced with a new, gritty undertone. "That ship sailed when Ethan decided redecorating was necessary." He looked pointedly at the faint indentation in the cedar. "So we acknowledge it. We all… feel something. For Pixie." Saying her name in this context, in this humid confessional, felt illicit.
The word hung there. Feel. Too vague, too immense. Desire? Obsession? Protectiveness? A dangerous cocktail of all three, simmering in the heat. Javi looked sick. Ethan’s jaw tightened. My own mind raced, analyzing permutations, consequences, the sheer impossibility of it.
"What does acknowledging it even mean?" Javi asked, his voice strained. He looked genuinely lost. "We can't… we can't all…" He trailed off, unable to voice the chaotic implication.
Julian’s gaze hardened. "It means figuring out what the hell we do next before she gets caught in the crossfire." He looked at each of us in turn. "Because make no mistake, gentlemen. This," he gestured sharply around the steamy enclosure, "changes everything. And if we’re not careful, the only thing Pixie captures next is a goddamn mess."
The dripping water sounded like a ticking clock. Julian’s warning – a goddamn mess – hung in the thick air, heavier than the steam itself. My throat tightened, the humid heat suddenly suffocating instead of soothing.
"Alright, Flash," I said, my voice cutting through the wet silence, sharper than I intended. Rhys Evans, the strategist, snapping into focus amidst the emotional carnage. "You’re the captain. What’s the play?" I needed to anchor this chaos, channel it into something less destructive than Ethan’s fist. "Because circling ends now. We clear?"
Javi flinched, staring at the dent in the cedar paneling where a small splinter now protruded. Ethan just held Julian’s gaze, his blue eyes like chips of ice in the heat, unreadable except for the rigid set of his jaw. Julian ran a hand over his face, wiping away condensation or frustration. "Play? This isn't a set piece, Maestro. There’s no diagram for this shit." He exhaled, a harsh sound. "We lay it out. All of it.Here. Now. No more pretending we don't see each other looking at her."
"Lay what out?" Javi’s voice cracked, the effortless charm replaced by raw panic. He looked genuinely lost, adrift without his usual script. "That we all… want her? Okay! Fine! Hawk blew the whistle. But what does that mean? We can’t all just… date her!" The word 'date' sounded absurdly small, childish, in the charged atmosphere.
"Nobody said date, Javi." Ethan’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the tiles. He hadn’t moved from his spot, a brooding monolith. "She’s not a prize. Not something to be divided." He fixed each of us with that unnerving stare. "We protect her. From… this." He gestured vaguely at the tension coiling between us. "From us."
"Protect her?" Julian scoffed, but there was less heat in it now. He leaned back against the slick wall again, the fight momentarily draining. "How, Hawk? By pretending we don’t feel anything? That ship sank." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She’s sharp, Pixie. She sees. Maybe not the specifics yet, but she feels the shift. The tension." He looked pointedly at me. "Rhys knows. He sees the angles."
They all turned to me. The strategist. The observer. The pressure was immense, sticky like the air. I focused on the condensation beading on the cedar above Ethan's head, tracing its slow path. "Protection is part of it," I conceded, choosing my words with care, like threading a needle in the dark. "But Ethan’s right. She’s the focal point, not a trophy." The memory of her earlier, flustered in the service corridor, flashed in my mind – Julian’s hands on her shoulders, Rhys’s calculated proximity. Vulnerable. "Our current approach – orbiting, watching, these… charged moments – it’s unsustainable. It chips away at the professionalism, the trust she’s built."
"So what?" Javi pressed, desperation edging his tone. "We all just… back off? Pretend it never happened? Go back to ‘Great shot, Pixie’?" The loneliness in his eyes was stark, a reflection of the hollowness his public persona usually masked.
"No," I said, the plan crystallizing even as I spoke, cold logic wrestling with the heat in the room. "We stop orbiting. We stop the unintentional collisions." I met Julian’s intense gaze, then Ethan’s guarded one, finally Javi’s pleading look. "We engage. Honestly. Individually. But carefully." The word tasted like caution, like restraint I wasn't sure any of us truly possessed. "No more team ambushes in service tunnels. No loaded comments she can’t decipher. We treat her with the respect her talent deserves… and see where genuine connection leads. Each on our own path."
"Paths?" Ethan grunted, skeptical. "Paths cross, Evans. Collide."
"They will," I acknowledged. The potential for disaster was vast, a minefield. "That’s unavoidable. But we manage it. With communication." Saying it felt naive even to me. "Between us. Brutal honesty. Here. Not around her. Never around her." I looked at each man in turn, forcing them to hold my gaze. "If one of us steps over a line with her… if she seems hurt, confused, pressured… we call it out. Immediately. Among ourselves. We protect her from our own… intensity."
Julian was quiet for a long moment, studying me. The playful leader was gone, replaced by someone assessing a risky tactical shift. "So… a pact? A truce?" He sounded unconvinced. "To what end? Just… see who wins?"
"There are no winners if she loses," Ethan stated flatly, his voice cutting through Julian’s cynicism. "She chooses. Or chooses none. That’s the only win." His words landed with blunt finality. Protecting her autonomy was the unspoken core.
Javi swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet. "I’m… terrified," he admitted, the confession raw and startlingly honest, stripping away the last vestiges of his persona. "Terrified of screwing it up. Terrified of her looking at me and just seeing… the brand. The smile." He looked down at his hands. "Not… me."