At the next light, my phone buzzes once in the cup holder. My pulse spikes.
I grab it.
Nothing from him—just another team update. Mandatory meeting tomorrow. Great.
I toss it back, too hard, and the screen lights up again with my own reflection. Eyes too sharp. Mouth set in something that isn’t quite a smirk anymore.
When I get back to my apartment, the first thing I do is drop my gear bag and head straight for the freezer. The icepack hits the back of my neck like forgiveness. I lean there a minute, counting breaths, before pacing to the window.
Outside, the world looks deceptively normal. Kids in jerseys on the corner, a couple walking a dog, the faint pulse of traffic. I could be anyone. No one would guess that half my head is occupied by a man I’m supposed to hate and a message I can’t take back.
My phone buzzes again. For a moment, hope flares hard enough to hurt.
Not him. Elena.
Elena:You still alive, superstar? My agent says your team’s in town next month. We should do dinner.
I stare at it, the irony not lost on me. Johnny and Jax’s voices echo in my head—You still with Elena?and my automaticYeah.
A lie that just became useful again.
Magnus:Sure. Text me details later.
It’s a clean reply, easy, meaningless. But it gives me cover. It gives me something to throw at the world if anyone starts to notice the way I flinch when Alaric’s name comes up.
Because the locker room rumor won’t die fast. It’ll circle for weeks, mutate, spread. That’s how this sport works—everything becomes mythology before it’s even finished happening. And if someone asks, if the tabloids start poking, I’ll say,No, he’s not with Thorn, and no, I’m not with him.
I’ll smile for cameras, skate hard, kiss Elena in public if I have to. The lies are easy. The body isn’t.
I peel my shirt off and catch sight of myself in the mirror—bruises blooming on my collarbone from practice, faint marks Ialmost wish were from him. My chest tightens. I grab my phone again, scrolling to his name, the message I sent sitting there unanswered. For a second, I imagine what he’s doing. Maybe at practice himself, jaw set, pretending he didn’t see it. Maybe checking his phone when no one’s looking. Maybe showing Thorn and laughing, calling me pathetic.
That last thought stings, which means it’s probably the true one.
I toss the phone on the couch and drag both hands through my hair until it stands on end. I need a shower. I need sleep. I need anything that isn’tthis.
Hours later, when the sun starts to set and my apartment’s gone blue with twilight, the phone buzzes again. A single message lights up the screen.
Alaric:You don’t get to tell me who I see, Flint.
The words hit like a punch and a kiss at once.
I stare at them, heart hammering, thumb trembling over the keyboard. A dozen answers form at once—sarcastic, cruel, tender, needy—and I delete each before it’s half written.
Finally, I type:Yes, I do.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then nothing.
I laugh under my breath, drag a hand down my face, and collapse onto the couch.
The headache’s back, but so is the rush, the same high I get chasing a puck into traffic, daring the world to hit me harder. Because now we’re not pretending anymore. He read it. He answered. He pushed back.
And if he’s pushing back, he’s still playing.
7
Alaric
