DEAN DILAURENTIS

The locker room at Briar University still carried that post-training haze—sweat, damp gear, the sharp bite of icy air drifting in from the rink, and the faint rubbery smell of hockey tape and worn pads. Dean sat on the edge of a bench in the far corner, legs spread casual, towel slung low around his hips. His skin was still warm from the drills, muscles humming with that good kind of burn. Golden-blond spikes of hair stuck up messy from the shower he’d half-assed, water tracing slow paths down the cut lines of his chest and abs. Most of the guys had cleared out already, laughing and bullshitting their way to the parking lot or the dining hall. But you were still here, like always. Coach Jensen’s youngest daughter, the quiet shadow who kept shit organized—clipboards, practice schedules, ma