Chapter 21
So Many Stick Boys
The noise hits first. Loud, sharp, constant.
Everything inside the arena feels aggressive somehow.
The crowd. The music. The impact of bodies against the boards during warmups.
Even the air feels heavier. I understand almost none of it — not the way people around me seem to — and I understand all of it the second I step inside.
I stand near the friends-and-family section gripping my coffee while players skate onto the ice below. And suddenly Calder doesn't feel entirely like mine anymore. Not because he's distant. Because this version of him belongs to something bigger.
One of the teammates I've met before spots me first while skating warmup laps.
His grin turns sharp and knowing. "Vale!
" he shouts through the glass. Heat climbs into my face.
Another player I vaguely recognize waves as he passes.
Then someone else nudges a teammate beside him and glances toward me too.
The difference in how they react to me now feels impossible to miss.
Before Nationals, I was Calder's figure skater friend. Now I'm clearly something else.
The awareness leaves me oddly nervous. Not bad nervous.
Just exposed in a way I suddenly understand far better than I used to.
Because Calder sat through endless skating practices and then Nationals for me.
Interviews. Media chaos. Crowds screaming every time I stepped onto the ice.
He learned scoring systems he absolutely did not care about before meeting me simply because they mattered to me.
Now I'm standing inside his version of that world. And maybe for the first time, I understand why visibility feels heavier to him than it ever did to me.
My eyes catch on Calder the second he skates out. And God. The effect is unfair.
Hockey Calder feels physically overwhelming.
Not because he changes completely, but because everything already intense about him sharpens under the arena lights.
The focus. The aggression. The sheer physical confidence.
Calder skates like violence dragged into control at the last possible second.
Fast. Precise. Controlled enough to stay dangerous.
Sweat already darkens slightly at the base of his neck beneath his gear.
His jaw looks tighter than usual. Every movement sharper.
And suddenly I understand something else too.
It isn't just pressure.
Thousands of people watching every shift. Every mistake. Every hit. Every second he spends off his game.
I finally recognize the exact look Calder had at Nationals when he watched me skate.
Not admiration.
Understanding.
Calder glances toward the stands while skating another warmup lap. His eyes find mine. Something in his expression shifts. Not softer exactly. Just less sharp for half a second. Something tugs low in my chest.
He was looking for me.
He taps his stick once lightly against the glass while skating past. Instinctive. Subtle. Still intimate enough that my pulse stutters anyway. Then he's gone again, back into motion before I can even properly react. Back into speed. Back into intensity.
This is what Calder's world feels like.
Pressure. Violence. Noise.
The game starts violently. Not metaphorically. Actually violently. Bodies slam into the boards hard enough that the glass rattles beside me. Skates carve brutal lines across the ice. The crowd erupts every time somebody gets hit hard enough to fold.
And somehow Calder becomes even more overwhelming once the puck drops.
Warmup intensity disappears completely. This is something sharper.
Meaner. Focused aggression wrapped so tightly inside discipline it almost stops looking human.
Calder moves across the ice like collision doesn't scare him.
Like impact barely registers anymore. A player from the opposing team slams him into the boards during the second shift hard enough that the entire arena reacts around me.
I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
Calder barely flinches.
He shoves back instantly, one sharp movement that sends the other player stumbling off balance before Calder is already moving again with the puck. Something low and visceral twists through my chest. Not fear. Definitely not fear.
Because all I can think about is the contrast. Those same hands gripping another player's jersey hard enough to bruise are the hands that slide carefully along my waist like he's frightened of holding me too roughly.
The tenderness matters more once I've seen exactly how dangerous he could choose to be instead.
Calder fights for possession like losing personally offends him.
Every movement explosive. Controlled violence.
Sweat darkens the collar of his jersey. His mouthguard flashes briefly between clenched teeth.
A fresh scrape appears along one cheekbone midway through the second period.
The sight of it sends a sharp pull through me that has nothing to do with concern.
I remember those same rough hands retaping my wrist carefully after practice. The way Calder touches my face like he's holding something he still doesn't fully trust himself with. And now I'm watching him drive another player into the boards hard enough to make the entire crowd erupt around us.
Calder skates past the bench after a brutal shift breathing hard, hair damp with sweat beneath his helmet, shoulders rising heavily with exertion. His jersey sticks slightly across his back. His pulse jumps visibly in his throat when he tears his mouthguard free for a second.
A fight nearly breaks out near the goal late in the second period. Players shoving. Gloves dropping. The crowd screaming loud enough that the sound vibrates through the arena floor beneath my shoes.
Calder gets involved immediately.
Not calming things down. Making them worse. His face looks sharper than I've ever seen it. Focused. Adrenaline-bright. One hand gripping another player's jersey while teammates start dragging bodies apart before things escalate fully.
And absurdly, devastatingly, all I can think about is what it feels like when he touches me afterward still warm from games.
Bruised knuckles against my skin. Sweat-damp hair beneath my fingers.
That rough low voice turning quiet only for me.
Watching Calder play hockey doesn't make me afraid of him.
It makes me understand exactly how much restraint exists inside every gentle touch instead.
Calder scores midway through the second period. The arena explodes. People around me leap to their feet screaming while Calder slams hard into the boards beside his teammates during the celebration.
And even in the middle of all that chaos, his helmet turns sharply toward the stands.
Eyes scanning. The second he finds me, something changes.
Tiny. Fast. He points once briefly toward the glass with his glove before another teammate shoves into him hard enough to nearly knock him sideways again.
The gesture is subtle. Small enough that most people probably miss it completely.
I don't.
Neither do his teammates. One of them glances toward me afterward with a grin sharp enough to send heat climbing into my face.
Calder notices. And just like that, the expression disappears again.
Not fully cold. Just controlled too quickly.
Guarded. His shoulders tighten slightly beneath the celebration pile before he turns away and skates off toward the bench before the attention can settle too heavily in one place.
Something aches softly beneath my ribs.
Late in the third period Calder takes another hard hit near centre ice. I tense immediately. He gets up fast, already angry, already moving again before the other player has fully recovered from the collision. Then his eyes flick briefly toward the stands. Toward me.
I understand the look he gets sometimes after difficult practices. The tiny shift that happens when he finds me again afterward. Not softer. Steadier.
Calder uses me to ground himself now. Standing there while twenty thousand people scream around us, I'm already doing the exact same thing with him.
The game ends in chaos. The Blades win by one goal. The final buzzer disappears beneath the noise of the arena exploding around us while players slam into each other across the ice in celebration.
And somehow I'm almost as shaky afterward as Calder looks.
I wait near the restricted hallway outside the locker rooms while players disappear off the ice.
The entire arena smells like sweat and cold air and melted ice.
Equipment crashes somewhere behind the doors.
Voices echo. Music pounds faintly through concrete walls.
Everything feels rough around the edges.
Then Calder appears.
And the sight of him nearly knocks the breath out of me.
His hair is damp with sweat and curling slightly at the edges beneath the mess of half-removed gear.
One glove still hangs loose from his hand.
His jersey is shoved halfway up where he dragged shoulder pads loose underneath.
A fresh bruise is already darkening along his jaw.
His knuckles look scraped raw. The physicality of hockey still clings to him completely.
Raw. Adrenaline-bright. Violent in a way that should probably intimidate me.
Instead something drops low and warm through my stomach and I feel briefly ridiculous about it.
Calder spots me instantly. His entire body shifts.
Not calmer. Focused. Like all that adrenaline suddenly has somewhere to go now.
He walks toward me fast, still carrying all that intensity with him.
Broad shoulders. Heavy steps. Energy practically vibrating beneath his skin.
People move around him automatically without slowing him down at all.
Then he reaches me.