Chapter 9
Alaric
I’m still breathing too fast.
Every step from the lobby up to the third floor has been a fight with my body—heart hammering, throat tight, adrenaline still pulsing under my skin like static. The night air should’ve cooled me down. It didn’t. It just made the heat inside me sharper, meaner.
I can still taste Magnus.
The word itself is a curse and a craving. His name is the pulse that won’t die down, drumming in my head in sync with the rhythm of my racing pulse. God, what the hell did I just do?
I lean against the hallway wall outside my room, rubbing a hand over my face. The hallway’s quiet except for the low hum of the vending machine at the far end. My palms smell faintly of hotel soap and him. My stomach knots tighter.
I shouldn’t have gone down there.
I shouldn’t have let him get that close again.
And I definitely shouldn’t have let him touch me like that—shouldn’t have responded. But my body betrayed me the second I saw him waiting in that lobby, dark hair mussed, eyes lit like he’d been carved out of midnight and sin.
I push off the wall and shove the key card into the lock. The door flashes green. Inside, the air smells like the aftermath of cheap takeout and men’s deodorant. The blackout curtains are drawn tight. The only light is from the muted TV playing some late-night sports recap.
Johnny’s sprawled across his bed, mouth open, snoring softly, dead to the world. Kyle’s sitting up in his own bed, hoodie half zipped, scrolling his phone with that little frown he wears when he’s thinking too hard. His head snaps up when the door shuts.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. “Where were you? You okay?”
My throat dries. “I’m fine. Just went for a walk. Needed air.”
He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. Kyle’s always been good at reading me. Too good.
“It’s past one,” he says. “Coach’ll murder you if you’re dead on the ice tomorrow.”
“I’ll survive.” My voice sounds flat, clipped. It’s the best I can manage.
I head for my duffel, pretending to look for something. If I keep my hands busy, maybe he won’t see the tremor in them. My reflection flashes in the dark TV screen—hair messed up, collar wrinkled, pupils blown too wide. I look wrecked.
Kyle slips out of bed quietly, motioning toward the bathroom. “Come here a sec.”
I hesitate, glancing at Johnny’s sleeping form. He’s out cold, but still—I lower my voice anyway. “Why?”
“Just—come here,” Kyle says again, tone gentler now. There’s something worried in his eyes.
Reluctantly, I follow him into the bathroom. The light flicks on, painfully bright. The tile floor chills my bare feet. Kyle shuts the door behind us, muffling the TV hum. For a moment, we just stand there, facing each other. The air between us feels thick, awkward.
He leans against the sink, arms crossed. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you look like you’re about to snap.”
I meet his eyes briefly, then look away. “I just… needed to clear my head. The game—”
“The game ended four hours ago,” Kyle interrupts, stepping closer. “What’s going on with you, Al?”
The question hits like a slap. If he knew—if he even guessed what I’ve done—he’d never look at me the same. I swallow hard, forcing my voice calm. “It’s nothing. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d walk it off.”
Kyle’s gaze drifts down and pauses. His voice lowers. “You sure it’s just the game?”
I follow his eyes before I can stop myself. He’s staring at the telltale tension in my body, the leftover evidence of Magnus’s touch that is tenting itself in my sweats. The flush creeps up my neck instantly. I cross my arms, defensive.
“Jesus, Kyle—don’t,” I start, but he’s already reaching out, fingertips brushing my wrist.
“Hey,” he says softly, trying for lightness. “It’s okay. I’m not judging. Adrenaline, right?” He chuckles, a sound that’s supposed to ease the tension. It doesn’t. “We’ve all had nights we couldn’t turn it off.”
He moves closer and the small bathroom shrinks around us. His voice dips lower. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”
My chest tightens. “Kyle—”
He doesn’t wait. He just cups my jaw gently, thumb tracing the edge of my lip. His eyes search mine for permission, for something. I don’t give it. I don’t stop him either. When he leans in, his mouth warm and tentative, I freeze.
God, I should stop this. I can’t be hurting him like this.
My cock presses against his, warm and inviting.
I kiss him back.
It starts soft. He tastes like mint gum and the cheap hotel coffee he always drinks before bed. His hands are careful, considerate. My pulse stays erratic, but for all the wrong reasons.
Then he deepens the kiss, pulling me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. His touch is solid and familiar, but all I can think of is how wrong it feels—how light compared to the searing weight of Magnus’s hands earlier.
I should be here. I should want this.
Instead, my brain betrays me again. I see blue eyes, not brown. I hear that low voice, teasing, cruel, whispering my name like it belongs to him.
The thought is poison. It floods every nerve. I kiss Kyle harder, desperate, trying to erase it. Trying to feel something else. He responds instantly, surprised by the heat, pulling me flush against him. He rubs the bulge in my pants, pulling a groan from me.
Magnus would tell me how well I was doing. Stop.
Kyle picks me up, puts me on the counter so he can stand between my legs, and kisses my jaw with featherlight kisses.
Magnus would bite me until his mark was branded on my skin.
Kyle rubs me through my pants, his large hands feeling surprisingly good. I press my face into his neck as he whispers in my ear. “Don’t stress. I know you don’t want to sleep together yet. I’m just helping you out.”
Magnus would have fucked me with no hesitation. He would use me until he was satisfied. He’d make sure I was drenched in my tears and his come. He would tear me in half and put me back together so he could break me again. And he would tell me I’m pretty all the while.
I come hard in my pants, pressing my face into Magnus’s shoulder. “Fuck.”
Wait, Kyle. I’m with Kyle.
Shit, I’m chasing a ghost.
Kyle’s breath hitches.
He groans, smiling against my mouth, “You were pent up, huh?”
I force a weak laugh, breathing heavily. “Yes. Guess I… needed it.”
“Then maybe we should do it again,” he says against my neck, his hands dragging up my thighs.
I shake my head, halfheartedly. “Not tonight. We’ve got an early morning, but soon.”
He smirks. “Whatever you say, Ice Prince.”
My nickname sounds wrong in his voice.
Kyle kisses my mouth before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with the hum of the light and the pounding in my chest.
I stare at myself in the mirror again. My lips are red, my hair mussed. I look like a liar. Like someone caught between two storms.
Kyle deserves better than this half-version of me—the one pretending he’s not thinking about someone else’s mouth. I press both hands against the sink, bow my head, and let out a shaky breath. The tile’s cold beneath my palms. My reflection blurs when I blink.
What am I doing?
I tell myself I’m not that guy. The kind who lies. The kind who sneaks out to meet his rival and then kisses his teammate like nothing’s wrong. But the proof’s all here—in the tremor in my hands, in the ache in my chest that still carries Magnus’s shadow.
I peel off my ruined clothes and jump in the shower to wash the evidence of Magnus away, then slip back into the dark hotel room. Kyle’s already in bed, half asleep, a small smile still on his face.
Johnny snores softly in the other bed. I crawl into mine, careful not to wake either of them. But sleep doesn’t come.
The sheets are cool and unfamiliar. The air smells faintly of cologne and detergent.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the dim city light bleed through the gap in the curtains.
My heartbeat won’t slow down. Every time I close my eyes, I see Magnus’s face in that hotel bathroom—smug, hungry, desperate.
I think of the way he looked at me afterward, eyes dark and unguarded. The way my knees nearly gave out when he whispered my name. The way I hated that I liked it.
I turn onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow to smother a groan of frustration. My body’s tense all over again, craving what I shouldn’t want. My mind replays it in flashes: the feel of his breath against my ear, the rasp of his laugh, the way his gaze branded me.
No amount of self-discipline can fix this. No cold shower, no practice drill, no perfect game. He’s in my head now.
I reach for my phone without thinking. Notifications glare up at me in the dark—team group chat, a few fan tags, nothing unusual. Then, buried between them, one new message.
Magnus: Sleep tight, Ice Prince.
My stomach flips. He’s awake. Still thinking about me.
I shouldn’t respond.
But my thumb hovers over the keyboard anyway. I type out Don’t call me that… then delete it. Type again. Delete.
Eventually, I set the phone face down on my chest and stare into the dark. My pulse won’t stop hammering. Kyle shifts in his sleep, murmuring something incoherent, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
He’s the good one. The safe one. The one I could build something normal with if I just let myself.
So why does every version of normal feel like a cage right now?
Because Magnus Flint is everything I’m supposed to hate—and every time I get near him, I stop remembering why.
? ? ?
The Hale estate sits on the edge of Silver City like it’s guarding the skyline.
Marble driveway. Three-car garage. Perfect hedges trimmed to unnatural precision. Every window glows golden against the late-afternoon snow, like a magazine spread titled Old Money, New Power.