Chapter 6 #2
There are practicalities I haven’t let myself examine.
Team politics. Cameras. Gossip. The part where the league doesn’t care who you sleep with until someone points a camera at it and makes it a story bigger than hockey.
The part where my own locker room might decide I’m a distraction if I stop pretending I only want ice and blood and points.
The part where Alaric carries not just his name but the dead weight of a family that likes to buy outcomes.
I dry my hands and go back to the couch. The bottle waits like a dare. I leave it there and grab water instead. If I’m going to send that message, I want to be sober enough to own it.
My phone lights with a different notification: Alaric Hale posted to stories.
My thumb moves before the rest of me can object.
It’s nothing revealing, just a quick pan across his balcony, the skyline blurred with rain.
I recognize the area. The last frame catches a corner of his hand on the rail.
Clean lines. Strong fingers. The story is seven seconds long, and somehow I feel like I’ve been standing next to him for an hour, shoulder to shoulder, watching the same rain.
I type under the story: Nice view.
And hit send.
? ? ?
The rink lights burn like judgment.
They always do, but this morning they’re particularly cruel—white-hot and endless, spearing right through the thin layer of sunglasses and Advil I call “coping.” My skull is still echoing with whiskey and bad decisions.
Sleep didn’t happen. I don’t remember trying.
I just lay there staring at my phone, waiting for Alaric to answer the message I sent at three a.m.
He didn’t.
Typical.
So now I’m here, half-dead, lacing skates in an empty stretch of the Wolves’ locker room, pretending my body isn’t screaming for water and quiet. The cold air helps. The smell of rubber and disinfectant and sweat helps. Ice always forgives me faster than people do.
Phoenix strolls past, tossing me a water bottle that I almost drop.
“You look like hell, Flint,” he says cheerfully. “You drink the river dry last night?”
“Didn’t touch a drop,” I lie, twisting the cap. My voice scrapes like sandpaper.
He snorts. “Sure. Try not to puke on my drills.”
By the time the whistle blows, I’m on autopilot. Legs moving. Hands quick. The hangover sweats out fast when you push hard enough. I need the sting, the burn, the punishment. It keeps my head from wandering back to the phone in my duffel.
We run zone scrimmages for an hour straight.
Locke’s relentless. Every turnover earns a lap.
Every sloppy pass earns a barked curse. I welcome it.
The ice sings under me, the blades biting clean lines that slice through the dull ache in my chest. Every muscle screams, but I don’t slow down.
If I stop, I’ll start thinking again, and thinking always leads to him.
By the time practice ends, steam’s rising from everyone like ghosts. I strip my gloves off, flex my sore fingers, and let the adrenaline fade just enough to make space for the headache again. That’s when Johnny slides onto the bench beside me, grinning like a man with gossip to burn.
“Yo, Flint,” he says, voice pitched low. “You see the feed this morning?”
“No,” I grunt, reaching for tape.
He’s vibrating with energy. “Rumor mill’s wild today. Word is the Ice Prince finally thawed.”
I don’t even look up. “You’re gonna have to speak in complete sentences, Johnny.”
He elbows me. “Hale. Apparently he’s dating Thorn. You know—Mr. Perfect-Teeth Defenseman? Someone spotted them leaving some place the other night. Looked cozy.”
My hand goes still on the roll of tape.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. It’s sharp, ugly. “You actually believe that crap?”
Johnny shrugs, eyes bright. “Photos looked legit. Unless Thorn’s got a twin with the same jawline and stupid hair.”
“Not true.” I force a smirk. “Trust me, he’s seeing someone else.”
That earns me a look—one of those slow, calculating ones that teammates trade when they smell blood in the water. “Oh yeah? And how the hell would you know that, Magnus?”
“Because I know,” I snap, too fast.
Now Jax, half-dressed and grinning, leans over from across the row. “Wait. You know? That sound suspiciously like insider information, my man.”
Johnny whistles. “Oh shit—don’t tell me you’re the someone else.”
The words hit like a puck to the ribs. For half a second, the truth almost jumps out of my mouth.
Instead I snort. “Dream on. Still with Elena, remember?”
Johnny laughs so loud Locke turns his head. “You and Elena are still a thing? I thought she moved to LA.”
“She did,” I say smoothly, tugging on my hoodie. “Long-distance. Complicated. None of your business.”
Jax stretches, all golden skin and tattoos. “Too bad. Would’ve been hot, you and Hale. Rivals to lovers shit. Fans would eat it up.”
I freeze mid-movement.
Johnny snickers. “Yeah, Ice Prince melts for the Flame. Netflix would buy that in a heartbeat.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, but it comes out too low and tight. They laugh harder, because that’s what guys do—they poke the bear to see if it bites.
Jax grins, unfazed. “Come on, man. Don’t get pissy. Hale’s not even my type, but I can admit he’s fine as hell. Those eyes? The hair? He’s like a vampire that owns a yacht.”
Johnny barks out a laugh. “Right? Dude’s hands look like he could strangle you or paint your portrait.”
“Too bad he’s with Thorn,” Jax adds with a smirk.
I don’t realize how hard my jaw is clenched until it aches. I shove my gear into my bag with enough force to make the zipper protest.
“He’s not with Thorn,” I say finally.
Both of them blink.
Johnny leans forward, grinning. “Uh-huh. You sure sound like you’d know.”
I give him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You think Hale would date someone from his own team? Please. Guy’s allergic to fun. And Thorn’s basically a priest.”
Jax laughs. “So what, you’re jealous?”
My laugh is pure venom. “Of Thorn? Please. He couldn’t keep up if he tried.”
They hoot like it’s a victory. The noise bounces off the tile, filling the room. I’m already halfway to the exit before Locke yells at us to stretch before we tear something. I ignore him. I need air.
The corridor outside the locker room is empty, echoing with the hum of refrigeration units. The air smells like cold metal and victory banners. I lean against the wall, dig my phone out of my pocket, and stare at the screen.
Nothing from Alaric.
No response to my message, no half-asleep text, not even a seen-notification. But when I open his page, I notice the faint green dot next to his name. He’s online. He’s there.
And apparently, according to the Wolves’ gossip mill, out dating Thorn.
Something hot and ugly coils low in my gut.
I tell myself it’s pride. That it’s about the rivalry, the headlines, the game.
But the lie tastes sour even before it hits my tongue.
It’s not pride. It’s possession. He shouldn’t be out with Thorn.
He shouldn’t be smiling at anyone else. He shouldn’t be giving that part of himself to some golden retriever of a man who thinks a goodnight kiss is the same thing as desire.
I open our thread.
I type: Don’t go out with Thorn again.
My thumb hovers. I delete it. Type again. You can do better than him.
Delete. He’s not your type.
Delete.
The silence of the corridor presses close. From the rink, I hear the muffled sound of pucks hitting boards, of Locke yelling drills, of life continuing like it’s not currently grinding my nerves to dust.
Screw it. I type it clean this time, no preamble, no smiley faces, no soften-the-edges charm.
Magnus: Don’t go out with Thorn again.
I stare at it for a long second before I hit send. It looks too bare. Too controlling. Too real.
I don’t add anything else.
I pocket the phone before I can change my mind.
The drive home is short, but it feels endless.
The city blurs past in streaks of gray and blue.
Every red light is a test of patience I fail.
My body’s a mess of contradictions—aching, wired, empty.
The hangover’s fading, replaced by something worse: awareness.
Every flicker of thought circles the same orbit.
The taste of whiskey. The sound of his voice.
The text I just sent sitting in his inbox like a fuse.
At the next light, my phone buzzes once in the cup holder. My pulse spikes.
I grab it.
Nothing from him—just another team update. Mandatory meeting tomorrow. Great.
I toss it back, too hard, and the screen lights up again with my own reflection. Eyes too sharp. Mouth set in something that isn’t quite a smirk anymore.
When I get back to my apartment, the first thing I do is drop my gear bag and head straight for the freezer. The icepack hits the back of my neck like forgiveness. I lean there a minute, counting breaths, before pacing to the window.
Outside, the world looks deceptively normal. Kids in jerseys on the corner, a couple walking a dog, the faint pulse of traffic. I could be anyone. No one would guess that half my head is occupied by a man I’m supposed to hate and a message I can’t take back.
My phone buzzes again. For a moment, hope flares hard enough to hurt.
Not him. Elena.
Elena: You still alive, superstar? My agent says your team’s in town next month. We should do dinner.
I stare at it, the irony not lost on me. Johnny and Jax’s voices echo in my head—You still with Elena? and my automatic Yeah.
A lie that just became useful again.
Magnus: Sure. Text me details later.
It’s a clean reply, easy, meaningless. But it gives me cover. It gives me something to throw at the world if anyone starts to notice the way I flinch when Alaric’s name comes up.
Because the locker room rumor won’t die fast. It’ll circle for weeks, mutate, spread. That’s how this sport works—everything becomes mythology before it’s even finished happening. And if someone asks, if the tabloids start poking, I’ll say, No, he’s not with Thorn, and no, I’m not with him.
I’ll smile for cameras, skate hard, kiss Elena in public if I have to. The lies are easy. The body isn’t.
I peel my shirt off and catch sight of myself in the mirror—bruises blooming on my collarbone from practice, faint marks I almost wish were from him.
My chest tightens. I grab my phone again, scrolling to his name, the message I sent sitting there unanswered.
For a second, I imagine what he’s doing.
Maybe at practice himself, jaw set, pretending he didn’t see it.
Maybe checking his phone when no one’s looking.
Maybe showing Thorn and laughing, calling me pathetic.
That last thought stings, which means it’s probably the true one.
I toss the phone on the couch and drag both hands through my hair until it stands on end. I need a shower. I need sleep. I need anything that isn’t this.
Hours later, when the sun starts to set and my apartment’s gone blue with twilight, the phone buzzes again. A single message lights up the screen.
Alaric: You don’t get to tell me who I see, Flint.
The words hit like a punch and a kiss at once.
I stare at them, heart hammering, thumb trembling over the keyboard. A dozen answers form at once—sarcastic, cruel, tender, needy—and I delete each before it’s half written.
Finally, I type: Yes, I do.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then nothing.
I laugh under my breath, drag a hand down my face, and collapse onto the couch.
The headache’s back, but so is the rush, the same high I get chasing a puck into traffic, daring the world to hit me harder. Because now we’re not pretending anymore. He read it. He answered. He pushed back.
And if he’s pushing back, he’s still playing.