I’m not fine. My ribs are throbbing like a war drum, purple already bruising deep, but I’d skate through hell if it meant I got to stay on the ice. And he knows it. Hehasto know it.
But those mismatched eyes don’t budge. One glacier, one void. Carving me open.
“Fine?” he repeats, slow. Dangerous.
“Yes, sir.” The words squeak out, half-defiant, half-pleading. I brace, waiting for the snap, for the hand on my throat, for the humiliation that’ll scorch me alive in front of the whole team.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, his thumb presses harder into the bruise.
White-hot pain sparks down my side, rips a hiss through my teeth. My knees jerk like I might fold right there on the rubber mats, but I don’t move. Can’t. Not with his hand steady at my ribs, pinning me upright, not with the weight of his stare slicing me down the middle.
I can hear it—Cole sucking in a breath like he’s watching a car crash happen in slow motion. Every other man in the room has gone silent, waiting, watching.
Captain leans down, close enough that his breath brushes the shell of my ear.
“You’re off the ice tomorrow,” he says again. No growl. No shout. Just final.
And I know—Iknow—I can’t fight him on this. Not here. Not with the whole team watching, not with his hand already on my body like I belong to him in front of everyone.
So I nod, quick, words torn raw out of my throat. “Yes, sir.”
The silence after is deafening.
Captain drops my jersey back into place, calm as if he didn’t just strip me bare in front of the Reapers, then turns toward his own stall like the conversation never happened.
The boys scatter their gazes fast, helmets suddenly fascinating, tape tearing louder than necessary. Nobody wants to be caught staring.
Except Cole.
The second Captain pushes off the stall and stalks toward the showers, I’m on my feet.
My jersey sticks damp to my skin, ribs screaming when I peel it over my head. The hiss slips out before I can bite it back, sharp and raw. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t stop me. My body feels wrecked, bruises blooming every time I breathe, but it doesn’t matter. Not compared to this.
Because I can’t let him sideline me. Not for one day.
Not when it’ll look like he’s giving me special treatment. Like I get to skip drills and suicides and hell just because I’m letting him put me on my knees after lights out.
I shove my gear down, pads clattering into my stall, and follow him into the showers.
Steam curls up immediately, hot and wet, fogging the tile. He’s already under the spray, water beating down his shoulders, dark hair plastered slick to his jaw. He doesn’t look at me when I slip in—doesn’t even twitch—but I can feel it. The weight of him filling the whole room.
“Sir—” The word cracks out of me before I can breathe it back.
His head tilts. Just barely.
I’m already moving. Pushing closer, water soaking my curls flat, chest heaving like I’m still on the ice. “Please. Don’t bench me tomorrow. It’s just practice. I’m fine. I can skate. Ineedto skate.”
He doesn’t answer. Not right away. His shoulders stay turned, water sluicing down his back, muscles flexing slow as stone.
My throat closes. My pulse slams. And I hear myself keep going, the words tumbling out frantic, shameless, begging like it’s gospel.
“I swear I’m fine. Yeah, it hurts, but it’s nothing. I’ve played through worse. Iwantto play through worse. If you take me off the ice, they’ll think it’s because—because of us. Because you’re—” My voice cracks, ribs pulling when I suck in a breath. “Because you’re giving me special treatment.”
That gets him.
His head turns slow, water dripping off the scar at his mouth, mismatched eyes cutting straight into me. My knees almost buckle under it.
