I told myself it was closure.
That I needed to remind him who we were. Whohewas with me.
? ? ?
The next weekend, the Wolves are supposed to have a rest stretch before a home practice. I’m scrolling through league updates when I spot it: the Titans are playing an away game an hour out of Frost Haven. Close enough that the idea starts to crawl under my skin before I can stop it.
The rink feels different when you’re not supposed to be there.
Colder. Quieter. Meaner.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity. Scouting. A professional interest. But as I step into the stands and the roar of the crowd hits like a body-check, I know that’s a lie. It’s him. It’s always him.
The arena lights are brutal, flooding everything in sterile white. The crowd noise is a living thing — shrieks, whistles, the rhythmic slap of plastic clappers. Titans blue bleeds into every corner. The Wolves are hated here, which meansI’mhated here, if they only knew I was in their midst.
I keep my head down and slide into a seat high up near center ice. It’s safer that way.
The Titans are warming up. I spot him immediately.
Alaric Hale. Number 14.
He’s skating lazy circles near the blue line, flipping the puck from his stick to his glove, then back again, all effortless grace. His silver-blond hair catches the light like it’s been dusted with frost. His stride — god, his stride — it’s poetry in physics. Fluid and disciplined. No wasted motion. It’s the way you move when you were born with balance in your bones.
I’ve seen him play before. Too many times to count. Usually, I’m the one across from him, looking for weakness. Watching him now from the stands, it’s different. Detached from rivalry, from noise. I see how he reads the ice like it’s a language he wasraised on. His eyes track every puck like a predator, sharp and calculating.
The fans scream his name when he skates by.
Hale. The Ice Prince.
There are posters scattered throughout the stands — caricatures of him and Kyle Thorn mid-laugh or celebrating a goal. I spot one in particular:“WE LOVE AYLE!”in glitter paint.
Ayle.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
The game starts fast—Titans versus the Ferals. I can’t take my eyes off Alaric. His posture is perfect. Wide stance, knees bent, shoulders low. He commands the blue line with that surgical calm I used to call arrogance. Now I see it for what it really is: control.
When the Ferals’ forward comes barreling down the wing, Alaric pivots so sharply it should be illegal. He meets the guy shoulder-first, absorbs the hit, and keeps the puck. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t even glance at the guy he just folded in half. Just resets, ready for the next play.
That’s the thing about Alaric, he doesn’t showboat. He doesn’t need to. He’s gravity. Everything just bends toward him eventually.
I’ve played against plenty of talented men, but nobody else plays like this. Like he’s trying to earn something that can’t be measured in goals. When he skates backward, calling out to Thorn, his voice cuts clear over the crowd noise. Kyle nods, falling into rhythm beside him. The two of them move like one creature. The chemistry’s undeniable. They make a clean breakout, and the fans lose their minds.
My jaw tightens.
I should leave. I really should.
Instead, I keep watching. He’s a machine out there, all precision and poise. Every time he glances toward Thorn, a weird pang hits me right between the ribs. It’s not jealousy of Thorn’s game but of hisaccess.He gets to see this version of Alaric every day. The warm-up jokes, the quiet pre-game focus, the way his mouth tugs downward when he’s annoyed but trying not to show it. He gets to touch the world I’m locked out of.
And worse, the fanswantthem together.
During the intermission, I scroll through social media on my phone. My explore feed is full of clips and photos: Kyle laughing with Alaric on the bench, Alaric shoving him after a goal, both of them grinning like idiots.
I stare at a picture of them mid-hug, sweat slicked and smiling, their faces close enough that if you squint, it looks intimate. Something ugly coils in my gut.
By the second, I’m not watching the puck anymore. I’m watchinghim.
Every shift feels like a study in contradiction. Alaric’s movements are aggressive but precise, passion built on discipline. When he scores—a blistering slapshot from the blue line that kisses the post before sinking in—the whole arena detonates.
