Chapter 5
Alaric
The cold hits sharper in the mornings, even inside the rink. I tell myself that’s why my lungs ache, why my muscles burn. Not because I’ve been pushing too hard, staying late, skating drill after drill until my vision blurs.
But the truth is—I’m running.
Every pass, every check, every slapshot is another attempt to scrub the memory of him from my skin. Magnus Flint. His laugh curling against my mouth. His weight pinning me to the conference table like I was nothing but glass to be shattered.
I hear him when I close my eyes. I feel him when I try to sleep. And worst of all, I see him when I touch myself.
It started as an accident. One night, restless in bed, I thought about his voice, the way it sank into me like hooks. My hand moved before I could stop it. I told myself it would be the only time. That if I let it happen, maybe I’d get it out of my system.
That was obviously a lie.
Now I’m obsessed. Every time I jerk off, it’s him. The scrape of his stubble against my neck. The smug look in his eyes when he told me not to come. The way his mouth stretched around me like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment.
I even searched his name on socials. Found grainy clips of him fighting, scoring, grinning at cameras like he owned the world.
I watch them on repeat, headphones in, dick in my fist, hating myself with every stroke.
And yet, when I come, it’s not relief I feel.
It’s emptiness. Like chasing a high I’ll never touch again.
So I throw myself into practice. Harder, longer, until sweat drips into my eyes and my arms tremble with exhaustion. Kyle keeps asking if I’m okay, and I keep brushing him off. He doesn’t need to know that the reason I’m skating myself into the ground isn’t discipline; it’s desperation.
Because if I stop, if I let myself think, I’ll spiral.
On the ice, I can pretend I’m clean. I can be the Alaric Hale people expect me to be: controlled, efficient, unshakable. Not some weak bastard who let Magnus Flint crawl under his skin and take up residence.
I think I need an exorcism.
No, seriously. A priest. Holy water. Latin chanting. Something strong enough to drag him out of my head and burn whatever he left behind. Because every time I think I’ve finally locked the door, he kicks it open again. One look, one smirk, one filthy whisper, and I’m gone.
And the worst part? A piece of me doesn’t want to let him go.
? ? ?
Kyle’s truck smells faintly of pine air freshener and old takeout, and the heater hums against the night chill.
His playlist is classic rock mixed with some questionable pop, and he drums on the steering wheel like he doesn’t care who knows it.
I find myself smiling despite the storm in my head.
Kyle’s like that—he cuts through noise without even trying.
The diner he takes me to is all chrome trim and neon glow. Inside, the jukebox hums, the waitresses wear paper hats, and the smell of frying oil sticks to your clothes. It shouldn’t feel romantic, but somehow it does.
We slide into a booth, Kyle across from me. He waves at the waitress like he’s a regular. “Two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and two chocolate shakes. Extra whipped cream.”
“How’d you know that’s what I wanted? Maybe I was feeling a grilled cheese,” I mutter.
He snorts. “You’d have ordered the same thing anyway.”
He’s right, and I can’t help laughing.
The food’s greasy, the shakes are thick, and the fries are perfectly salted.
Kyle tells stories while we eat, about a prank war in juniors that escalated to shaving cream bombs, about a teammate who once skated onto the ice with his helmet on backward.
I laugh until my ribs hurt. For once, I don’t feel like I’m being measured or tested.
When we leave, the air is crisp, damp with the promise of rain. Kyle slings his arm over my shoulders as we walk to his truck, and it’s casual. Except it isn’t. My stomach flips when his fingers drag down my spine.
Inside the cab, the world goes quiet. He turns to me, eyes serious now. “Al… I’ve wanted this for a while.”
I blink at him, thrown. “Fried food? I know your diet’s strict but you can sneak a shake every once in a while.”
“No, idiot. You.” His voice is steady. “Not just as my D-partner on the ice. Not just as my best friend. I like you.”
Before I can answer, his hand slides behind my neck, warm and gentle, and his mouth meets mine.
The first brush of lips is soft, tentative. I let him. His lips are warm, the kiss careful, like he’s afraid I’ll spook. He tastes of chocolate shake and salt. It’s a sweet first kiss. Something teenage pop stars could write about.
But then something in me tips.
I close my eyes, and suddenly it’s not Kyle anymore. It’s Magnus. Whiskey and teeth. Rough hands instead of careful ones. Hunger instead of patience.
Kyle deepens the kiss, pressing closer, and I let him. His tongue slides against mine, tentative at first, then firmer when I don’t pull away. My hands find his shoulders, gripping flannel. My body leans into him, answering instinctively.
And for a moment, it feels good. Better than good. The kiss heats, turns messy, urgent. Kyle’s hand drifts to my thigh, squeezing gently. I groan into his mouth—low, helpless—because the fantasy bleeds through. In my head, it’s Magnus’s hand. Magnus’s mouth. Magnus’s laugh curling against my lips.
My pulse spikes. Heat rushes low in my gut. I kiss Kyle harder, almost desperately, trying to chase something I shouldn’t want. Our teeth clash, breaths tangling. He makes a sound—soft, surprised—and I know he’s thrilled.
He pulls back at last, panting, eyes shining. “Wow,” he says, grinning like he’s just scored in overtime. “I’ve been wanting to do that forever.”
I force a smile, my chest heavy. Because Kyle’s kiss is sweet. Safe. He’s attractive—handsome, strong, the kind of guy anyone would be lucky to have.
But the whole time, all I saw was Magnus.
Kyle beams at me, cheeks flushed. I look away, staring out the windshield into the dark. My lips are swollen, my heart racing, and my conscience is already chewing me alive.
Kyle is the safe option. The right option.
So why do I feel like I’m cheating on him with someone who isn’t even mine?
The ride home with Kyle is quiet in the best way. He drops me off in front of my building, leaning across the console with that easy smile that always makes him look like sunlight in human form.
“I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says, brushing his hand over my shoulder.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Thanks for tonight.”
He beams, like I’ve just handed him a win. Then he pulls away, taillights glowing red in the damp night.
I stand there a moment, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, watching the truck vanish down the street. For a second, guilt digs in my heart. Kyle deserves someone who can meet his smile with the same light. Someone who isn’t haunted.
Upstairs, my condo feels too big, too quiet. I kick my shoes off, hang my keys on their ring, and flop onto the couch. My phone buzzes before I can even think about turning on the TV.
A notification. Instagram.
I swipe the screen—and my stomach drops.
Magnus Flint: New Message.
My thumb hovers, every muscle tightening. I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.
Magnus: How was your date?
Alaric: Now, how did you know that was tonight?
Magnus: Thorn tagged you on his story.
Alaric: You’re stalking him, too?
Magnus: No. I’m stalking you, remember?
I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
Alaric: Freak.
Magnus: Yes, daddy. Keep talking dirty to me lmao
I laugh at how ridiculous this all is.
Alaric: Being treated like shit is your kink, huh?
Magnus: No, I’m more into being roughed up a little.
Magnus: Don’t you remember?
My memory flashes to my arm choking the breath from him. His cheeks flushed, pupils blown. His huge cock hardening against my hip.
Magnus: I liked seeing you lose your cool, Prince.
I rub my hand over my face. I need to stop responding or change the subject before this gets too out of hand. Before I can decide what to do, another notification springs up on my screen.
It’s a picture of his dick hard and long in his sweatpants. Captioned: I’m replaying the memory right now.
The message is short, reckless, and hungry. The kind of thing that should make me roll my eyes, block him, laugh it off. Instead, heat crawls low in my stomach.
I tell myself not to answer. I tell myself to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I type something sharp, something meant to put him in his place. Something like: Do you want me to block you?
But that just invites him in.
Magnus: Did lover boy impress you tonight?
His replies come fast and are magnetic. He teases, pushes, and taunts. The words coil around me, pulling me back into the memory of his hands on me and his voice in my ear.
Alaric: What do you care?
Magnus: Just wondering if he finally made a move.
Magnus: It’s kind of obvious he has a crush on you.
Alaric: He did.
I don’t know why I’m telling him this, but I feel like he would just pull it out of me anyway.
Magnus: Did you like it?
Alaric: I’m gonna block you.
Magnus: lol I see. You were thinking about me, huh?
I don’t respond. I can’t be doing this.
Magnus: Whatcha doing now, prince? Twiddling your thumbs, or are you pretending your hand is mine?
Alaric: I’m not doing this with you.
Magnus: Why not? Don’t you miss me?
A short video pops up in our feed. I know I shouldn’t press play, but my fingers move without meaning to.
His large, veiny hand drags his sweatpants down slowly. Like, this is a dirty show just for me. The head of his cock peeps out.
“You see what you do to me?” His voice is rough through the mic.
His hands stop teasing me, shoving his pants fully down so I can see the length of him.
I shift uncomfortably, adjusting myself in my pants.
Now his fingers are slick with lube. His long digits slide over himself. A groan rumbles my phone.
“You should be here.”