Chapter 6 #2
But every time I catch a glimpse of him, every time he moves past me without stopping, every time there’s a moment where we could say something and don’t…I feel it. That pause. That magnetic force.
I let it sit in silence.
Game day comes fast.
The locker room feels different when I walk in, tighter somehow, as our energy has nowhere to go but forward. Everyone is quieter than usual, focused in their own way, running through routines that have been drilled into us for years.
I sit down at my stall and start taping my stick, letting the repetition steady me. That’s when I notice Damien.
He’s across the room, already halfway through getting dressed, moving with the same efficiency he always does. Nothing about him looks off at first glance—that is, nothing that would stand out to anyone who isn’t paying attention.
His phone keeps lighting up.
Again and again.
He ignores it the first few times, but it doesn’t stop. The screen flashes against the bench, the vibration just loud enough to cut through the quiet rhythm of the room. I catch a glimpse of the caller ID when it lights up again.
Your Father.
It sits there for a second before the screen goes dark. Then it lights up again.
Your Father.
I watch him for a moment longer before I say anything.
“You good?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up right away. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”
It sounds automatic at first. Then he glances over at me, and for a second, something shifts.
He smiles.
Not the sharp, controlled version I’ve seen before; not the dry, almost sarcastic one he uses when he’s deflecting. This one is smaller.
Quieter.
Real.
It hits me harder than it should.
“Okay,” I say, because I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
He nods once and looks away, picking his phone up and silencing it before setting it face down on the bench.
The moment passes.
But it doesn’t leave my mind.
The walk to the ice feels loud, with voices echoing off of concrete and plastic, chanting our names. The crowd is already building, the noise spilling through the arena before we even step out. It hits all at once when we walk through the tunnel, the sound rising and settling over us like a wave.
I glance up without thinking. I spot several signs with my name on them. There are more than usual. Then I see the ones saying “We Love Amien!” and “Datlas 4Ever.” Holy shit, we have a ship name.
Some of them are supportive, some of them are joking, and some of them are clearly meant to be taken seriously in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I feel Damien beside me shift slightly, just enough to notice.
I lift my hand and give a quick wave to the crowd, playing into it without thinking too much.
But when I hit the ice, I forget about the crowd. I focus on the game.
Because once the puck drops, nothing else matters.
There’s no slow build, no testing the pace. Both teams come out aggressive, pushing hard from the first second, and it takes everything I have to keep up.
Damien and I fall into rhythm almost immediately. It’s not something we talked about or planned for. It just happens.
Every pass lines up, every movement connects, and every shift feels sharper than it should.
It’s like the past two weeks being hyperaware of him have made me understand how he plays the game, and how can I play off of him.
The puck hits my stick, and I don’t hesitate. I shift, draw the defense in, and send it back across to Damien without looking. He’s there.
The play continues, fluid and controlled, and the crowd reacts to every move like they can feel it building. We don’t score on that run, but it sets the tone.
By the second period, it’s obvious. We’re playing like we’ve done this for years.
Not just as teammates. Something more connected than that.
The third period is tighter. It has the kind of pressure that forces mistakes if you let it get to you.
I don’t. Neither does he.
We hold it together, pushing when we need to, pulling back when it matters. Then the opening comes. It’s small. Almost nothing, but it’s enough.
I catch the puck near the boards and shift it quickly, drawing attention just long enough to open space. Damien moves; I see it before it happens. He takes the pass cleanly, carries it just long enough to pull the defense with him.
Then he sends it to Carter.
Carter doesn’t hesitate.
The shot is clean, fast, and exactly where it needs to be.
The net ripples.
The arena explodes.
For a second, everything blurs together—noise, movement, adrenaline. I don’t think.
I grab Damien and lift him off the ice without hesitation, the momentum carrying us both as I shout over the noise of the crowd.
He stiffens immediately.
“Put me down,” he says, his voice sharp even through the chaos.
There’s a hint of something under it, something that sounds more like surprise than anger.
I laugh and set him back on his skates. “Relax,” I say.
“I am relaxed,” he replies.
He isn’t. He looks annoyed, his expression tightening in that way I’ve started to recognize, but there’s something else there, too. Something softer.
It makes me smile.
Because for all the walls he keeps up, for all the distance he puts between himself and everything else…moments like this break through anyway.
The buzzer sounds a few seconds later, sealing it.
We win.
The team surges forward, energy spilling over as we celebrate, and I stay close to Damien without thinking about it.
The energy of the win follows us out of the arena, loud and electric, spilling over into the parking lot and carrying straight into the car.
I drive because it makes the most sense for our image, because we’re supposed to arrive at and leave games together, so he doesn’t question it when I take the keys.
Damien slides into the passenger seat beside me, still riding the high from the game in a way that’s impossible to miss. He’s talking. Like…a lot.
Full fucking sentences full of excited jabber that I’ve never witnessed from him.
He’s not just answering questions or throwing out short responses, but actually talking, the words coming easier than I’ve ever heard from him.
There’s an edge of adrenaline in it, something loose and unfiltered that makes him feel different.
“Did you see that pass in the third?” he says, turning slightly toward me. “You pulled two defenders before sending it over. That’s why Carter had the lane.”
“I saw it,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“You make it look easy!” he says, shaking his head slightly.
There’s something lighter in his tone tonight, something almost playful, and I find myself glancing at him more than I should while keeping one hand on the wheel.
“Carter also hit the shot,” I point out.
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been there without you,” he says. “Or without—” He cuts himself off for a second, then gestures vaguely between us. “That thing we’ve got going on.”
I know exactly what he means.
The way we played tonight didn’t feel normal.
“Yeah,” I say, quieter now. “I noticed.”
He leans back in his seat, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “Good.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, “Also, Carter got me to take a shot in the locker room.”
I glance at him. “I won’t tell Coach. Why didn’t anyone offer me one?”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head again, and I can see the beginning of a buzz settling in. It’s not overwhelming yet, but it’s there, loosening him in a way that’s becoming increasingly noticeable.
By the time we pull up to the bar, the rest of the team is already filtering in, the noise spilling out onto the street.
I park and step out, and Damien stays close to me as we head inside. He doesn’t reach for my hand, but he doesn’t drift away, either.
Inside, the atmosphere is immediate—music, shouting, laughter—the kind of chaotic celebration that only happens after a win. People are already drinking, already loud, already leaning into the night like it has no limits.
I head to the bar and order two drinks without asking.
Damien takes his drink when I hand it to him, like we’ve been doing this for years.
The night builds quickly.
Those first drinks turn into more drinks, conversations get louder, and the energy keeps climbing instead of settling.
Carter is already on his third round of questionable beverages, Alex is trying to start a chant that no one fully commits to, and Patrick is loudly taking credit for a goal he had nothing to do with.
Damien stays next to me through all of it.
Connor orders a round of shots, pushing one to each of us.
Damien downs his, biting a lime with a cute, scrunched-up expression. His hand is on my shoulder as he stands over my chair.
I sniff at the rim. “Dude, is this tequila? I’m not drinking that shit.”
Carter smooths his blonde hair out of his eyes. “Oh, come on, Connors!”
“He hates tequila,” Damien mutters, like he knows me better than he does.
He grabs my shot out of my hand and takes it. He turns slightly, stepping closer, and before I can ask what he’s doing, he leans in.
The kiss catches me off guard. It’s quick at first, unexpected enough that I don’t react immediately, and then I realize what he’s doing. The burn of tequila hits my tongue a second later.
I swallow it automatically, barely registering the taste before my hand moves to his jaw, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, less controlled than anything we’ve done before, driven more by momentum than intention.
The noise around us fades into something distant as I focus on him, on the way he responds, on the way he leans into it without hesitation.
Someone groans loudly nearby.
“Ew, dads, not at the dinner table!” Carter says.
Damien laughs against my mouth, and I pull away. “That was a mean trick.”
He exhales quietly, wiping the corner of his lips. “You missed some,” he says.
I laugh, shaking my head. “I definitely did not.”
The teasing continues, but it fades into the background as the night goes on. By the time I check my phone, it’s past midnight.