I keep my helmet low as the tunnel swallows us, the cheers dimming into muffled echoes against concrete. Sweat trickles down my spine, cooling too fast in the chill. My heart hasn’t slowed since that moment—since I heard his voice curl around me like smoke.
It wasn’t just trash talk. Was he flirting? I thought he was straight this whole time. I’m pretty sure he has some model girlfriend who worships the ground he walks on. He probably just heard I was gay through the grapevine and wanted to see if his good looks could trip me up.
The worst part? It worked. He made one comment about bending me over, and I felt like putty in his hands. And that’s thepart that terrifies me. Because for all my discipline, for all the walls I’ve built, I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t be this bent out of shape for a straight guy. If anyone found out what he said to me, I would never live it down.
The locker room smells like defeat.
Sweat, damp gear, disinfectant spray that never masks the rot of exhaustion—it all clings to the air, heavy and stale. The door slams behind us, shutting out the roar of the Wolves’ victory. In here, silence hangs thick. No one wants to talk. No one wants to look at anyone else.
I yank at my helmet strap, fingers clumsy with frustration, and throw it onto the bench with more force than necessary. It bounces once, clattering against the tile floor, the sound sharp enough to make a couple heads turn. No one says a word.
The Wolves celebrated like gods on the ice. We slink back here like ghosts.
Kyle drops onto the bench beside me, his gear creaking. He doesn’t strip out of it yet, just leans forward with his elbows on his knees, blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He exhales slow, steady, like he’s blowing out anger one breath at a time.
“Hell of a game,” he mutters.
“Don’t,” I snap before I can stop myself. The word slices out, sharp and bitter. My throat feels raw.
Kyle doesn’t flinch. He never does. Instead, he tilts his head, side-eyeing me with that calm, irritating patience he’s perfected over the years. “I wasn’t gonna say it was your fault, Al.”
I snort, yanking off my skates. “You don’t have to. Everyone knows it was.”
Across the room, one of our forwards slams his stick into his locker, muttering curses about missed calls, shitty refs. Another strips his jersey off in disgust, tossing it toward the laundry bin like it personally betrayed him. The tension’s everywhere—like static, waiting for the wrong move to spark it into fire.
But I don’t hear any of it. I hear him.
Magnus. His voice curling like smoke into my ear.Careful, Ice Prince… stiff tonight.The words replay, looping until they’re poison. My skin prickles with the memory, heat spreading in places it shouldn’t. I grind my teeth, furious at myself.
Kyle nudges me, breaking the spiral. “Hey. You held your ground most of the game. One slip doesn’t erase that.”
“One slip cost us the game,” I say flatly. “You saw it.”
He studies me. He always sees too much when it comes to me. “I also saw Cameron tear through two of our best guys like theywere air. You think it all came down to you? Nah. Don’t take the weight of the whole loss on your shoulders.”
I strip off my gloves, flexing my fingers. My hands still remember the pressure of the stick, the instant it faltered, the shame, the rush of something hotter than anger.
Magnus, brushing my shoulder. Magnus, smirking like he owned me.
“Leander was on fire tonight,” Kyle adds, trying to fill the silence. “Kid’s unstoppable. Locke’s training him well.”
I don’t answer because I know the truth about why we lost. His grin, his voice, the way he slid into my head like he belonged there.
Kyle sighs when I don’t bite. “Look, man, I get it. You’re pissed and hate losing. So do I. But don’t let it eat you alive. It’s just one game.”
I finally glance at him. His brown eyes are steady, grounding, the exact opposite of the chaos clawing through my chest. For a moment, I almost believe him. Almost.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
He nods, lips twitching into the smallest smile, before he finally starts shedding his pads. His bare shoulder brushes mine, thelightest contact, but it makes me stiffen all the same. I chalk it up to the cramped bench, nothing more.
The locker room noise swells as guys start showering, slamming lockers, talking about heading out to bars despite the storm. I stay rooted to the bench, armor still clinging to me like punishment. My body’s exhausted, but my mind won’t stop replaying it. The slip. The touch. The words.
And underneath it all—the sick truth I can’t shake: I wanted it. That’s why the drop of my heart to my stomach distracted me so fiercely.
I want him.
The thought curdles in my stomach, shame burning hotter than the loss. I drag a hand down my face, nails biting into my skin just to feel something else.
