Chapter 1 #2
The words hit harder than a shoulder. Heat spikes under my ribs—shame, anger, something I refuse to name. For an instant, control slips. My bottom hand rides up the shaft a hair; my stick flutters.
It’s enough.
The puck skitters past my toe. His stick is already there, thief-clean, and he ghosts through like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He doesn’t even celebrate the pick—just explodes. Two strides and he’s separated, legs piston-fast, edges tearing arcs into the sheet as he carves toward the dot.
“Shit,” I hiss, shoving into pursuit. But he’s already wrong-footed our forward, faked the shot to freeze our goalie, and feathered a pass through a seam that shouldn’t exist. Leander arrives in that seam like he was born to it, stick cocked, eyes wide.
Time slows. The puck leaves his blade, low and mean. Our goalie flares glove—too wide, too late. The net ripples. The horn screams.
The Wolves’ bench erupts. Frost Haven becomes a tidal wave of sound—howls, drums, and something metallic slamming the boards until the glass shivers. Leander rockets to the corner, swallowed by teammates. Phoenix gathers them with a captain’s calm that’s smug only because it’s earned.
I stand frozen, stick heavy in my hands, lungs burning.
One mistake. One second of weakness. That’s all it took.
Magnus arcs past me, slowing just enough that his shoulder brushes mine, deliberate, proprietary. His grin is sharp enough to cut. He doesn’t say anything this time, but he doesn’t need to. His eyes say it all. Got you.
My fists tighten around my stick, tendons creaking.
Kyle glides up, taps my blade with his—a quiet shake it off. His jaw is clenched, but his eyes are soft. He knows me. He knows how I’ll autopsy this moment until dawn. “Next one,” he says, and I nod because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
We push for the equalizer. Coach shortens the bench; my legs turn to hot iron and I welcome it.
I jump on a loose puck and hammer a shot through traffic that whistles just wide.
Kyle threads another impossible pass backdoor that our winger fans on by a hair.
Our last rush dies on a sliding block from Phoenix—the kind of captain’s play that doesn’t make highlight reels but wins games.
The scoreboard glares down at us, numbers burning red like an accusation. Wolves: 3. Titans: 2. Final.
Fucking bullshit.
The whistle blows one last time, sealing our fate. We skate off in a silence that tastes like metal. Our blades carve shallow scars into the ice as we leave. The Wolves bask—Magnus at the center of it like he was born there, Leander grinning, Phoenix anchoring it all with measured pride.
In the tunnel, I roll my neck and fix my face back into the cool shape the cameras expect. But inside, everything is noise—his whisper, the lost puck, the flick of his grin as he brushed my shoulder.
I keep my helmet low as the tunnel swallows us, the cheers dimming into muffled echoes against concrete. Sweat trickles down my spine, cooling too fast in the chill. My heart hasn’t slowed since that moment—since I heard his voice curl around me like smoke.
It wasn’t just trash talk. Was he flirting? I thought he was straight this whole time. I’m pretty sure he has some model girlfriend who worships the ground he walks on. He probably just heard I was gay through the grapevine and wanted to see if his good looks could trip me up.
The worst part? It worked. He made one comment about bending me over, and I felt like putty in his hands.
And that’s the part that terrifies me. Because for all my discipline, for all the walls I’ve built, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I can’t be this bent out of shape for a straight guy.
If anyone found out what he said to me, I would never live it down.
The locker room smells like defeat.
Sweat, damp gear, disinfectant spray that never masks the rot of exhaustion—it all clings to the air, heavy and stale. The door slams behind us, shutting out the roar of the Wolves’ victory. In here, silence hangs thick. No one wants to talk. No one wants to look at anyone else.
I yank at my helmet strap, fingers clumsy with frustration, and throw it onto the bench with more force than necessary. It bounces once, clattering against the tile floor, the sound sharp enough to make a couple heads turn. No one says a word.
The Wolves celebrated like gods on the ice. We slink back here like ghosts.
Kyle drops onto the bench beside me, his gear creaking. He doesn’t strip out of it yet, just leans forward with his elbows on his knees, blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He exhales slow, steady, like he’s blowing out anger one breath at a time.
“Hell of a game,” he mutters.
“Don’t,” I snap before I can stop myself. The word slices out, sharp and bitter. My throat feels raw.
Kyle doesn’t flinch. He never does. Instead, he tilts his head, side-eyeing me with that calm, irritating patience he’s perfected over the years. “I wasn’t gonna say it was your fault, Al.”
I snort, yanking off my skates. “You don’t have to. Everyone knows it was.”
Across the room, one of our forwards slams his stick into his locker, muttering curses about missed calls, shitty refs.
Another strips his jersey off in disgust, tossing it toward the laundry bin like it personally betrayed him.
The tension’s everywhere—like static, waiting for the wrong move to spark it into fire.
But I don’t hear any of it. I hear him.
Magnus. His voice curling like smoke into my ear. Careful, Ice Prince… stiff tonight. The words replay, looping until they’re poison. My skin prickles with the memory, heat spreading in places it shouldn’t. I grind my teeth, furious at myself.
Kyle nudges me, breaking the spiral. “Hey. You held your ground most of the game. One slip doesn’t erase that.”
“One slip cost us the game,” I say flatly. “You saw it.”
He studies me. He always sees too much when it comes to me. “I also saw Cameron tear through two of our best guys like they were air. You think it all came down to you? Nah. Don’t take the weight of the whole loss on your shoulders.”
I strip off my gloves, flexing my fingers. My hands still remember the pressure of the stick, the instant it faltered, the shame, the rush of something hotter than anger.
Magnus, brushing my shoulder. Magnus, smirking like he owned me.
“Leander was on fire tonight,” Kyle adds, trying to fill the silence. “Kid’s unstoppable. Locke’s training him well.”
I don’t answer because I know the truth about why we lost. His grin, his voice, the way he slid into my head like he belonged there.
Kyle sighs when I don’t bite. “Look, man, I get it. You’re pissed and hate losing. So do I. But don’t let it eat you alive. It’s just one game.”
I finally glance at him. His brown eyes are steady, grounding, the exact opposite of the chaos clawing through my chest. For a moment, I almost believe him. Almost.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
He nods, lips twitching into the smallest smile, before he finally starts shedding his pads. His bare shoulder brushes mine, the lightest contact, but it makes me stiffen all the same. I chalk it up to the cramped bench, nothing more.
The locker room noise swells as guys start showering, slamming lockers, talking about heading out to bars despite the storm. I stay rooted to the bench, armor still clinging to me like punishment. My body’s exhausted, but my mind won’t stop replaying it. The slip. The touch. The words.
And underneath it all—the sick truth I can’t shake: I wanted it. That’s why the drop of my heart to my stomach distracted me so fiercely.
I want him.
The thought curdles in my stomach, shame burning hotter than the loss. I drag a hand down my face, nails biting into my skin just to feel something else.
Kyle’s hand comes down on my knee. A quick touch, nothing inappropriate, but enough to jolt me. He leaves it there only a moment before pulling away, clearing his throat like he hadn’t done anything. His ears are red.
“Forget it tonight,” he says, softer now. “Reset tomorrow.”
He’s shirtless, smiling at me with that warmth he always has. His back is solid, scarred from years of collisions, muscles seemingly carved by an artist’s hand. Reliable, handsome, safe. The kind of man I should be thinking about.
I pull my gaze away, staring down at the scuffed floor, the puddles forming under our gear. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t drown the heat coiled in my chest. It pulses with every breath, every heartbeat, every memory of his smirk.
Kyle clears his throat again, almost hesitant. “Hey, when we get back to Silver City… we should hit a bar. Blow off some steam.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “What, like a guys’ night?”
He shrugs, grinning, but there’s a flush still lingering high on his cheeks. “Yeah. Sure. You could use a distraction.”
I take it at face value. Kyle’s always been the steady one, the one who pulls me back from the edge.
“Yeah,” I say, managing a weak smile. “That’d be good. Thanks.”
His grin widens, softer now, like I’ve given him something more than I realize. “Cool. We’ll figure it out.”
He leans back against the bench, close enough that our shoulders brush again, and this time he doesn’t shift away. I tell myself it’s just comfort, just the bond of teammates after a brutal loss.
Nothing else.
All I can think about—stupid, reckless, dangerous—is Magnus.
The locker room bleeds silence after the last voices fade, leaving only the drip-drip of water from the showers and the faint hum of the vents.
I’m still sitting half-dressed, like I can’t quite figure out whether to shed the game or stay trapped in it.
My gloves sit abandoned at my feet, damp and curling at the edges.
My helmet is dented where I threw it. My body aches from the hits I took, but it’s nothing compared to the ache clawing at me from the inside.