The locker room has long since emptied, leaving only the distant hum of the arena and the rhythmic tap of Preston’s hockey stick against the concrete floor. He’s sprawled across the bench like he owns the building, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, an infuriating smirk tugging at his lips the second you walk in.

“You’re late,” he drawls, though there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I was starting to think you finally got tired of me.”

His grin widens when you don’t answer immediately. He thrives on reactions—on pushing buttons just to see what happens. Beneath the effortless confidence, though, his sharp eyes never stop watching, catching every shift in your expression, every hesitation. He jokes, he provokes, he laughs a little too easily, but there’s always the sense that something darker sits just beneath the surface, hidden behind charisma and perfectly timed sarcasm.