Chapter 13
Rhys
Morning practice has a different energy.
Not bad different.
Worse.
The kind that lives under the skin. That makes the air feel like it's been charged overnight and left that way. Like both of you showed up covered in gasoline and are standing around pretending you don't smell it on each other—like you’re both not about to light the match and ignite.
Jamie is already on the ice when I get there. Obviously. He’s always already there. I’m starting to think he sleeps in the rafters like some kind of emotionally repressed homeless guy.
But this morning, he looks up when I come through the tunnel. That’s new. He usually makes a point not to. Pretends he doesn’t hear me until I’m already stepping onto the ice, like acknowledging my existence before absolutely necessary will somehow weaken him.
Today his eyes find me immediately and stay.
I slow down without meaning to. Stare at him without meaning to.
He’s at center ice, helmet tucked under one arm, stick in his other hand, wearing that grey practice hoodie under his pads.
It pulls across his shoulders in a way that makes them look broader, makes his eyes look greener, makes me want to say something to bother him just to break whatever this is.
“Nash,” I call when I get close enough.
“Callahan.”
Same words. Different air around them. Something has changed in our dynamic, something we’re both helpless to, but don’t know how to navigate.
Everything with him feels like pushing too hard on a bruise just to see if it still hurts.
I step onto the ice and skate toward him, letting the cold hit my lungs, trying to settle something that doesn’t want to settle. The rink is quiet this early, boards still, stands empty, lights humming overhead. It feels separate from everything else.
Like the kind of place where something could happen and then disappear before anyone else ever knew it existed.
Dangerous thought.
Bad thought.
Naturally, I keep having it.
Jamie passes me a puck without a word. I take it and we start moving.
At first it’s just hockey.
Thank god.
Hockey I can do. Hockey is clean. Puck, stick, ice, body.
Read, react, adjust. Jamie sets the drill and I follow because I’m trying—really actively trying—not to be a dick, and because he’s annoyingly, consistently right about what works.
We run shooting sequences, then two-man rushes, then passing drills tight enough that we have to read each other without speaking.
It should be harder than it is, but it isn’t.
That’s the weird part. With Jamie, on the ice like this, when we’re not trying to murder each other?
It just clicks.
Fast.
Too fast.
He cuts left and I know where to send it before he calls for it. I drop back and he fills the lane without looking. We move around each other like we’ve done this for years instead of a handful of mornings and one very confusing dinner.
I hate how good it feels.
I love how good it feels.
“Again,” he says after I put one wide.
“Bossy.”
“Sloppy.”
“Flirting with me before seven is crazy, Captain.”
His head turns.
There it is.
That flush. High on his cheekbones. Tension visible in his jaw from how tight he has it shut. The look I've been learning the difference between — used to mean he was about to yell. Doesn't mean that now. Something I’m starting to understand and absolutely should not be enjoying this much.
“Skate,” he deflects.
I grin. “Yes, sir.”
I’ve gotten very good at pretending I’m unaffected by him. Fortunately, he’s not good at that. At all.
I send it his way and he misses the puck.
Jamie Nash—perfect captain, hyper-controlled, borderline obsessive freak—misses an easy pass because I said yes, sir.
Oh, that’s fun.
He recovers immediately, unease pulled sharp across his face, chasing it down like he can erase it with speed. I follow, laughing under my breath. I think part of him likes that I push back. I think part of me likes that he keeps trying to hide it.
“You good?” I call.
“Fine,” he mutters.
“Because that was kinda rough.”
“Shut up.”
“Did something throw you off?”
“You don’t know anything,” he says, exasperated.
“I know a lot of things.”
He looks back over his shoulder at me.
The look hits harder than it should.
Not angry.
Warning.
And underneath it, something hot enough that my stride stutters for half a second before I correct it. I don’t think I’m imagining this anymore.
Thank god and also fuck.
The team starts filtering in twenty minutes later and the private quality of the morning disappears into the noise of everyone arriving. Bennett comes in first, loud, mid-sentence before he's even through the tunnel door.
"—literally did not go off, I'm telling you, something is wrong with my phone—"
"Your alarm definitely went off," I say.
"That's impossible."
"Ben."
"I'm just saying it didn't feel like it went off."
Cooper follows half a minute later, half-dressed, helmet under one arm, looking like a man who made several decisions after midnight and is only now beginning to understand the consequences.
"Okay so," he says, to nobody in particular, "I had this dream."
"No," Jamie says.
"Just hear me out—"
"I already know where this is going."
"I scored a hat trick." He holds up a hand. "Three goals. Back to back to back. In the dream I was incredible."
"Only in your dreams, Cooper."
"So I've already contributed today." He gestures at the ice. "I feel like practice for me should be optional."
"It's not optional."
"For spiritual reasons—"
Jamie doesn’t even look at him. “Gear on. Five minutes.”
Cooper salutes. “Yes, sir.”
I bite my tongue, barely suppressing my laugh.
Jamie hears me anyway and scowls at me.
I smile innocently at him.
He narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what I’m not saying.
Good.
Progress.
Practice starts and for once, it’s actually good.
Better than good. The team feels looser, less rigid.
Whatever happened this week, whatever delicate little peace treaty Jamie and I accidentally signed in the blood of our mutual stubbornness, it’s doing something.
Guys are passing cleaner. Talking more. Trusting the next man to be where he’s supposed to be.
Even Fitch notices.
He stands at the boards with his whistle hanging from two fingers and watches Jamie and me run a drill together, eyes moving between us like he’s seeing the answer to a problem he’s been trying to solve all season.
So maybe we really were the problem.
“Again,” Fitch calls. “Nash, Callahan, reset. Same play.”
Jamie skates past me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. On purpose. Absolutely on purpose. My smile drops. Not because I’m mad. Because for once, I don’t have a joke ready. No smart remark to piss him off. Nothing to hide behind. He doesn’t look back and I missed my moment anyway.
Fuck.
We reset.
This time when he passes me the puck, our timing is perfect. I take it up the right, pull the defender in, send it back across at the last second. Jamie is already there and buries it clean.
The puck snaps into the net so hard the sound echoes.
For a second, nobody says anything.
Then Bennett yells, “Fuck yeah!” Cooper bangs his stick against the ice. Kowalski nods once, which is basically him screaming with joy.
Jamie turns toward me. He’s breathing hard, face flushed, eyes bright in a way I haven’t seen before.
Something closer to happy. It hits me in the chest in a way I don’t like.
I skate toward him before I can think better of it and bump his shoulder with mine.
“Look at us,” I say. “Teamwork. Growth. Very moving.”
His mouth twitches.
There it is. The almost smile.
I want to see it again and again and again.
What the fuck is wrong with me.
Practice keeps going and Jamie keeps opening up in these tiny, barely-there ways that I’m probably the only person stupid enough to notice.
A dry comment under his breath when Cooper overskates a drill.
A look at Bennett that’s almost fond when Bennett celebrates not falling during a run.
A quiet good job to me after a clean pass that lands somewhere under my ribs and stays there.
By the end, I’m buzzing. Not from the workout. From him. Which is insane. I know that. I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m being an idiot.
The locker room after practice is chaos. Steam, voices, gear hitting the floor, the sharp stink of sweat and ice and tape. The guys are loud because practice went well and Coach didn’t get the urge to murder us. Successfully completing a drill apparently restores the male spirit or whatever.
I’m at my stall, peeling off my jersey, when it lands.
Jamie’s looking.
I know before I turn.
It’s becoming a thing now, this awareness. Like my body has developed a separate sense just for him. I pull my undershirt over my head slowly. Not performing it. Just not rushing. If he's going to look he can look. But I'm done making it easy for him to pretend he isn't.
When my face clears the fabric, Jamie is across the room at his locker, one hand frozen on the strap of his shoulder pads.
Staring.
Not accidentally.
Not politely.
Hungry.
His eyes drag once, measured, across my chest, my stomach, my tattoos, like he forgot how to stop himself. We’ve never been like this in the locker room. Not without anger acting as cover. Not without getting dressed as quickly as possible to avoid each other.
Heat hits my skin hard and fast.
It’s everywhere.
Then he realizes what he’s doing and his eyes snap back up.
Caught. For maybe the fourth time.
I should let him off easy.
But I won’t. Not anymore.
He’s been caught looking too many times to let it slide.
I tilt my head, curiously.
His hand flexes nervously.
I’m trying hard to remember that Jamie is maybe not into guys and I hate him, and I’m also not sure which one is true anymore.
I turn back to my locker, forcing my hands to work, lacing my shoes like I need to concentrate really hard to do it.
Around us, the room empties in pieces—Bennett and Cooper arguing, Kowalski disappearing, voices fading.