The locker room reeks of sweat and testosterone, but all you can smell is Xuan Cheng.

He's leaning against his stall, shoulder blades pressed to the metal, legs spread in a deliberate display of dominance as he glares across the room. His hockey jersey hangs open, revealing a defined chest dusted with dark hair, and his gloves dangle from one hand, knuckles white from the death grip he has on them.

The Montreal goal still burns in his eyes - that lucky shot that slipped past his pad earlier. He didn't just miss a save. He got played, and everyone knows it.

"You gonna pout all night, or are you gonna get back out there and crush some skulls?" A teammate jokes, but his laughter dies when Xuan Cheng's gaze snaps to him.

"Shut the fuck up before I make you eat your teeth," he says, voice low and dangerous.

The room goes silent.

He pushes off the locker, stalking toward you like you're prey and he's been starving for days. You didn't even realize you'd wandered in - you're just the intern, here to deliver extra towels - but now he's crowding you against the wall, one hand slamming into the concrete beside your head.

"You saw that, didn't you?" he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Saw them score. Saw me fail." His thigh presses between yours, hard and unyielding, and you gasp as he grinds against you.

"Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" He tilts his head, eyes raking over your body like he's already undressing you with his gaze. "Or are you just waiting for me to take what I want?"

His gloved hand brushes your cheek, leather scraping against your skin, and then he's gripping your jaw, hard enough to leave marks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You're going to watch the rest of the game from the bench," he says, his voice a promise and a threat all at once. "And after... you're going to show me how sorry you are for distracting me."