Chapter 8
Magnus
Ishould feel worse about showing up at his place that night.
I don’t.
Okay, maybe a little.
But only because I was drunk enough that the drive home’s a blur, and because I saw the way he looked at me when I cornered him—half furious, half shaking, like I’d peeled something raw open inside him.
He said I needed to leave. He didn’t tell me to never come back.
The part that keeps replaying isn’t what I said, it’s what he didn’t. The silence between us was an answer. The way his breath caught when I stepped close was another. I could still smell his cologne on my hands when I woke up the next morning, head pounding, heart still hammering.
I told myself it was closure.
That I needed to remind him who we were. Who he was with me.
? ? ?
The next weekend, the Wolves are supposed to have a rest stretch before a home practice. I’m scrolling through league updates when I spot it: the Titans are playing an away game an hour out of Frost Haven. Close enough that the idea starts to crawl under my skin before I can stop it.
The rink feels different when you’re not supposed to be there.
Colder. Quieter. Meaner.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity. Scouting. A professional interest. But as I step into the stands and the roar of the crowd hits like a body-check, I know that’s a lie. It’s him. It’s always him.
The arena lights are brutal, flooding everything in sterile white. The crowd noise is a living thing — shrieks, whistles, the rhythmic slap of plastic clappers. Titans blue bleeds into every corner. The Wolves are hated here, which means I’m hated here, if they only knew I was in their midst.
I keep my head down and slide into a seat high up near center ice. It’s safer that way.
The Titans are warming up. I spot him immediately.
Alaric Hale. Number 14.
He’s skating lazy circles near the blue line, flipping the puck from his stick to his glove, then back again, all effortless grace.
His silver-blond hair catches the light like it’s been dusted with frost. His stride — god, his stride — it’s poetry in physics.
Fluid and disciplined. No wasted motion.
It’s the way you move when you were born with balance in your bones.
I’ve seen him play before. Too many times to count.
Usually, I’m the one across from him, looking for weakness.
Watching him now from the stands, it’s different.
Detached from rivalry, from noise. I see how he reads the ice like it’s a language he was raised on.
His eyes track every puck like a predator, sharp and calculating.
The fans scream his name when he skates by.
Hale. The Ice Prince.
There are posters scattered throughout the stands — caricatures of him and Kyle Thorn mid-laugh or celebrating a goal. I spot one in particular: “WE LOVE AYLE!” in glitter paint.
Ayle.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
The game starts fast—Titans versus the Ferals. I can’t take my eyes off Alaric. His posture is perfect. Wide stance, knees bent, shoulders low. He commands the blue line with that surgical calm I used to call arrogance. Now I see it for what it really is: control.
When the Ferals’ forward comes barreling down the wing, Alaric pivots so sharply it should be illegal. He meets the guy shoulder-first, absorbs the hit, and keeps the puck. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t even glance at the guy he just folded in half. Just resets, ready for the next play.
That’s the thing about Alaric, he doesn’t showboat. He doesn’t need to. He’s gravity. Everything just bends toward him eventually.
I’ve played against plenty of talented men, but nobody else plays like this.
Like he’s trying to earn something that can’t be measured in goals.
When he skates backward, calling out to Thorn, his voice cuts clear over the crowd noise.
Kyle nods, falling into rhythm beside him.
The two of them move like one creature. The chemistry’s undeniable.
They make a clean breakout, and the fans lose their minds.
My jaw tightens.
I should leave. I really should.
Instead, I keep watching. He’s a machine out there, all precision and poise.
Every time he glances toward Thorn, a weird pang hits me right between the ribs.
It’s not jealousy of Thorn’s game but of his access.
He gets to see this version of Alaric every day.
The warm-up jokes, the quiet pre-game focus, the way his mouth tugs downward when he’s annoyed but trying not to show it.
He gets to touch the world I’m locked out of.
And worse, the fans want them together.
During the intermission, I scroll through social media on my phone. My explore feed is full of clips and photos: Kyle laughing with Alaric on the bench, Alaric shoving him after a goal, both of them grinning like idiots.
I stare at a picture of them mid-hug, sweat slicked and smiling, their faces close enough that if you squint, it looks intimate. Something ugly coils in my gut.
By the second, I’m not watching the puck anymore. I’m watching him.
Every shift feels like a study in contradiction. Alaric’s movements are aggressive but precise, passion built on discipline. When he scores—a blistering slapshot from the blue line that kisses the post before sinking in—the whole arena detonates.
I stand up before I realize it, a low, involuntary sound escaping my throat. “Let’s go!”
The crowd surges to its feet, roaring, chanting his name. His teammates mob him, Thorn right at the center of it, wrapping an arm around Alaric’s neck, shouting something in his ear.
Alaric grins. Something honest and unguarded that I’ve never seen directed at me. It does something strange to my chest. I sit down again, heartbeat too loud in my ears. It’s pathetic, I know. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
I can’t stop picturing the way he looked last time we spoke — flushed, furious, shaking between wanting to hit me and wanting me closer. That look doesn’t belong to anyone else. Not Thorn. Not the fans. Mine. The word surfaces unbidden, hot and possessive. I shove it down, but it stays, burning.
By the third period, the Titans are up by two. They’re in sync, the crowd is euphoric, and I’m suffocating.
When the final buzzer sounds, the whole building shakes. Confetti cannons fire. Someone behind me screams, “Marry me, Alaric!” and another girl replies, “He’s already taken!”
That’s it. I can’t.
I slip out of my seat before the players start their victory lap. My hood goes up. The crowd parts around me like I’m smoke. The sound of their cheers follows me down the concourse, muffled by concrete walls, and it makes my teeth ache.
I don’t want to see him smiling beside Thorn during post-game interviews. I don’t want to see fans pressing against the glass with their handmade signs and hearts in their eyes.
Because I know, deep down, that I’d never let him be that public with me.
He’s too bright for my kind of dark.
Outside, the night air cuts sharply against my face. I keep my head down, walking fast through the parking lot until I find a corner where the floodlights don’t reach. The adrenaline crashes all at once, leaving me hollow and wired.
My phone buzzes with a message from Phoenix, just a question mark, because he probably noticed I skipped team dinner again. I type back, not hungry, and shove the phone in my pocket.
But that’s a lie too.
I’m starving. For something I don’t have a right to want.
Through the distant glass of the arena doors, I see the Titans filing out, heading toward the buses.
For a moment, Alaric appears — helmet off, hair damp, cheeks flushed, laughing at something Thorn says.
The camera lights flash around them like fireworks.
He looks happy. He looks alive.
I hate that I love watching it.
Then I’m already opening my phone. My thumbs move before my better judgment kicks in.
Magnus: Good game.
His message is immediate, making something soften in my chest.
Alaric: You were watching?
Magnus: I find myself always catching your games now.
Magnus: You are a true force.
Alaric: That was actually sweet. I didn’t know that was possible.
A smile warms my face as I shut my car door.
Magnus: I can be more than just sweet, prince.
Magnus: You on the road?
Alaric: Why?
Magnus: Because I’m nearby.
Magnus: Maybe I miss a certain someone and want to see them.
Alaric: Stalker.
Magnus: Don’t tell me you’re not flattered.
Magnus: You miss me yet?
Long pause.
Alaric: Magnus, we can’t keep doing this.
Magnus: Didn’t ask if we could. Asked if you missed me.
Another pause. He’s probably hiding his phone, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s trying not to say something true.
Magnus: Tell me what hotel you’re at.
The dots blink. Stop. Blink again.
Alaric: Should I?
Magnus: You afraid Kyle will find out?
I wait, phone heavy in my hand. Then the message drops—just the name of a hotel downtown. No room number. No emoji. Nothing else. That’s all I need.
The city fades behind me in a smear of light. The world narrows to the hum of tires and the rhythm of the wipers cutting through drizzle. Every mile feels like diving deeper into something I should’ve left buried.
The hotel’s quiet when I get there. Fancy, sterile, the kind of place that smells like polished marble and air-freshener trying too hard. I park a block away, hood up, hands stuffed in my pockets.
When I message him I’m here, the reply comes after a long five minutes.
Alaric: Give me a second.
So I wait.
The lobby is nearly empty when the elevator doors open and he appears. He’s dressed down—gray sweatpants, Titans hoodie, hood pulled halfway up—but even like this, he looks like money and control. No one else is with him.
For a second, I think he’s going to tell me to leave. Instead, he grabs my wrist and drags me toward a side hallway.
“Come on,” he mutters.