And that’s all I need.
5
Alaric
The cold hits sharper in the mornings, even inside the rink. I tell myself that’s why my lungs ache, why my muscles burn. Not because I’ve been pushing too hard, staying late, skating drill after drill until my vision blurs.
But the truth is—I’m running.
Every pass, every check, every slapshot is another attempt to scrub the memory of him from my skin. Magnus Flint. His laugh curling against my mouth. His weight pinning me to the conference table like I was nothing but glass to be shattered.
I hear him when I close my eyes. I feel him when I try to sleep. And worst of all, I see him when I touch myself.
It started as an accident. One night, restless in bed, I thought about his voice, the way it sank into me like hooks. My hand moved before I could stop it. I told myself it would be the only time. That if I let it happen, maybe I’d get it out of my system.
That was obviously a lie.
Now I’m obsessed. Every time I jerk off, it’s him. The scrape of his stubble against my neck. The smug look in his eyes whenhe told me not to come. The way his mouth stretched around me like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment.
I even searched his name on socials. Found grainy clips of him fighting, scoring, grinning at cameras like he owned the world. I watch them on repeat, headphones in, dick in my fist, hating myself with every stroke. And yet, when I come, it’s not relief I feel. It’s emptiness. Like chasing a high I’ll never touch again.
So I throw myself into practice. Harder, longer, until sweat drips into my eyes and my arms tremble with exhaustion. Kyle keeps asking if I’m okay, and I keep brushing him off. He doesn’t need to know that the reason I’m skating myself into the ground isn’t discipline; it’s desperation.
Because if I stop, if I let myself think, I’ll spiral.
On the ice, I can pretend I’m clean. I can be the Alaric Hale people expect me to be: controlled, efficient, unshakable. Not some weak bastard who let Magnus Flint crawl under his skin and take up residence.
I think I need an exorcism.
No, seriously. A priest. Holy water. Latin chanting. Something strong enough to drag him out of my head and burn whatever he left behind. Because every time I think I’ve finally locked the door, he kicks it open again. One look, one smirk, one filthy whisper, and I’m gone.
And the worst part? A piece of me doesn’t want to let him go.
? ? ?
Kyle’s truck smells faintly of pine air freshener and old takeout, and the heater hums against the night chill. His playlist is classic rock mixed with some questionable pop, and he drums on the steering wheel like he doesn’t care who knows it. I findmyself smiling despite the storm in my head. Kyle’s like that—he cuts through noise without even trying.
The diner he takes me to is all chrome trim and neon glow. Inside, the jukebox hums, the waitresses wear paper hats, and the smell of frying oil sticks to your clothes. It shouldn’t feel romantic, but somehow it does.
We slide into a booth, Kyle across from me. He waves at the waitress like he’s a regular. “Two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and two chocolate shakes. Extra whipped cream.”
“How’d you know that’s what I wanted? Maybe I was feeling a grilled cheese,” I mutter.
He snorts. “You’d have ordered the same thing anyway.”
He’s right, and I can’t help laughing.
The food’s greasy, the shakes are thick, and the fries are perfectly salted. Kyle tells stories while we eat, about a prank war in juniors that escalated to shaving cream bombs, about a teammate who once skated onto the ice with his helmet on backward. I laugh until my ribs hurt. For once, I don’t feel like I’m being measured or tested.
When we leave, the air is crisp, damp with the promise of rain. Kyle slings his arm over my shoulders as we walk to his truck, and it’s casual. Except it isn’t. My stomach flips when his fingers drag down my spine.
Inside the cab, the world goes quiet. He turns to me, eyes serious now. “Al… I’ve wanted this for a while.”
I blink at him, thrown. “Fried food? I know your diet’s strict but you can sneak a shake every once in a while.”
“No, idiot. You.” His voice is steady. “Not just as my D-partner on the ice. Not just as my best friend. I like you.”
Before I can answer, his hand slides behind my neck, warm and gentle, and his mouth meets mine.
