Chapter 3
Nash
The next day, I head to the arena for practice again.
“Did you really fight him?” Talia asks.
Her voice carries through my Jeep as I pull into my parking spot.
“He’s a jackass,” I mumble.
She laughs. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just trying to prove himself,” she offers.
“Yeah, well, I wish he would prove himself on another team,” I jest.
I end the call and get out of my Jeep. Leo is hot. Too hot.
It would be easier if he played for another team. That way, I could ogle him privately and jerk off to his image in the privacy of my own home.
The moment I step onto the ice, the chill seeps into my bones, each exhale crystallizing in the air.
Around me, laughter erupts, and teammates slip into warm-ups, but my heart pounds a different rhythm.
It's the kind that hitches every time I catch a glimpse of him—the cocky forward who seems to thrive on chaos and taunts me like I’m nothing more than a goal to score against.
As I skate a few laps to get warmed up, the sharp scrape of blades on ice cuts through the din, amplifying my growing anxiety.
I keep my gaze locked ahead, focused on the puck, but the tension coiling in my gut pulls my attention back to Leo.
He's weaving through the others with that smug grin, brown hair tousled, a shadow of arrogance trailing in his wake, a magnet pulling at my resolve.
Each flick of his wrist sends adrenaline coursing through me—agitation rising to a point I can't ignore.
“Think you can actually stop me this time, Nash?” he calls out, voice loud enough for everyone to hear, cutting through the banter of our teammates.
I can feel every set of eyes snapping towards us, a pause hanging over the ice like the breath before a storm.
I skate a little closer, my heart beating in rhythm with the sharp beat of my pulse.
“Stop the goals or stop the bullshit?” I reply, matching his challenge as my irritation simmers beneath the surface. Laughter bubbles up from our teammates, and I catch a glimpse of approval and amusement flashing in their eyes, adding fuel to the fire licking at my insides.
“Boys, I don’t want a repeat from yesterday,” Coach roars out from the bench.
“I wouldn’t have gotten upset yesterday if you had done your job,” Leo jabs.
“I don’t want to fight you,” I retort. I can’t deny that part of me craves this connection, the chaos weaving around us. It’s raw, alive, and as exhilarating as it is reckless.
“Fuck, Nash and Leo are about to fight again,” Sean yells.
I feel a few of the guys try to intervene, but we are too far gone.
My heart pounds in protest, and my protests are drowned by the raucous laughter from my teammates, who continue to cheer us on.
“Alright, that’s enough!” One of them shouts as they pull Leo to one side while another holds me back, the fun of the moment dissolving into something serious.
Sean skates up to me, looking at me with a strange glance. “I’ve never seen you fight before, and now two fights?”
He’s right, and I have no words for him.
Marcus, our team captain, stops in front of me. “This is not how our team will run,” he roars out. His dark eyes look like storm clouds.
The rest of the practice continues without any further issues. We allow the PR team to capture a few pictures of the new team, we run some more drills, and then the coach calls it for the day.
We all head to the locker room and Coach follows us.
“We need to have a talk,” he orders. Everyone quiets down, but their eyes are locked on Leo and me.
I hold my breath, anger mingling with embarrassment.
I don’t want to be called out like this.
I glance sideways at Leo, who narrows his eyes, clearly seething.
His defiance isn’t just for show; it lingers, crackling between us.
There’s a part of me that wants to call him out for his arrogance, but the coach’s anger keeps my focus sharpened on the repercussions ahead.
“Look, I get that there’s heat between you two,” the coach says, softening slightly, but the gravity remains. “But it needs to stay on the ice. You’ll have to find a way to coexist if you expect to be part of this team. And if you can’t—”
The pause that follows hangs in the air like a suspended puck, heavy with unspoken consequences. “If you can’t, then I’ll have no choice but to bench you both,” he continues, laying out the stakes that ripple through me like a sudden chill.
I can see it now—the inevitable scenario where we become liabilities instead of teammates, separated from the action.
In contrast, the others rise to meet our shared goal of the championship.
“I won’t let that happen,” I say, determination igniting a fire within me, my voice a steady counterpoint to the tension wrapping around us.
The coach’s eyes narrow, searching my expression. “Good, then you two need to get your heads out of your asses and work together. Otherwise, I’ll take matters into my own hands, and believe me, you don’t want that.”
There’s a hum of silent agreement, a shift that binds the room together momentarily—a pact forged in the heat of our folly. Yet, the undercurrent of conflict between Leo and me still lingers, unresolved, pulsating beneath the surface.
“Understood?” The coach raises an eyebrow, and we both nod, but there’s a challenge between Leo and me, a glimmer in his eye that tells me this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I manage to smile toward Leo, a bitter twist forming on my lips as I exhale slowly. “Just keep your fists away from me next time, Leo,” I mutter under my breath, the irony laced in every syllable.
He flashes a grin, that same smug confidence surfacing again, the familiar feeling both aggravating and enticing. “You'd better be ready to keep up, Nash,” he replies, cockiness laced through his voice.
“Alright, everyone, gather up,” he calls, his voice a blend of authority and enthusiasm. A silence falls over the room, murmurs dissipating into a breath of curiosity. “We’ve got our first away game of the season coming up, and I want to go over some plans.”
I glance around; the other guys lean in, faces alive with eagerness and camaraderie, but a low thrum of dread starts building within me. There’s a nagging sense of uncertainty settling at the back of my mind, something that hints at the gravity of our previous confrontation lingering in the air.
“Before we dive into strategies and logistics,” the coach continues, pausing dramatically, “I’m laying out the roommate arrangements for our travels.” The air grows thick with anticipation, and a ripple of intrigue passes through the team.
I’m braced for the worst, my heart racing, but nothing can prepare me for what he says next. “Nash and Leo—” he looks directly at us, his voice firm—“you two will be roommates during our away games.”
A stunned silence descends, a collective gasp that feels like a punch in the gut.
I stare at Leo, and the horror reflected in his eyes mirrors my own disbelief.
My stomach knots; the reality of being thrust into a space with my rival feels overwhelmingly intense.
The guys around us burst into laughter and teasing banter, their reactions echoing the whirlwind of conflict brewing beneath my skin.
“Good luck, Nash!” someone shouts, laughter rippling through the locker room as teammates slap me on the back, joining in the playful ribbing. My face burns, frustration boiling just beneath the surface as I shoot a glare in Leo’s direction.
“Looks like you’ll get to keep an eye on me, huh?
” Leo tosses out, and the jabs land like well-aimed shots.
The laughter around us intensifies, but every smile only grates at the edges of my temper.
I want to scoff, to rip him apart verbally.
Still, I can’t deny the flutter in my chest at the prospect of sharing a room with him—my mind racing between the ridiculousness of the situation and the conflicting heat bubbling beneath my skin.
“Can’t wait,” I reply dryly, sarcasm woven tightly into my words as I fight against the way my heart races with irritation and attraction. I’m acutely aware of how our dynamic shifts in these moments—how he ignites something in me that is as thrilling as it is maddening.