Kyle’s hand comes down on my knee. A quick touch, nothing inappropriate, but enough to jolt me. He leaves it there only a moment before pulling away, clearing his throat like he hadn’t done anything. His ears are red.
“Forget it tonight,” he says, softer now. “Reset tomorrow.”
He’s shirtless, smiling at me with that warmth he always has. His back is solid, scarred from years of collisions, muscles seemingly carved by an artist’s hand. Reliable, handsome, safe. The kind of man I should be thinking about.
I pull my gaze away, staring down at the scuffed floor, the puddles forming under our gear. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t drown the heat coiled in my chest. It pulses with every breath, every heartbeat, every memory of his smirk.
Kyle clears his throat again, almost hesitant. “Hey, when we get back to Silver City… we should hit a bar. Blow off some steam.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “What, like a guys’ night?”
He shrugs, grinning, but there’s a flush still lingering high on his cheeks. “Yeah. Sure. You could use a distraction.”
I take it at face value. Kyle’s always been the steady one, the one who pulls me back from the edge.
“Yeah,” I say, managing a weak smile. “That’d be good. Thanks.”
His grin widens, softer now, like I’ve given him something more than I realize. “Cool. We’ll figure it out.”
He leans back against the bench, close enough that our shoulders brush again, and this time he doesn’t shift away. I tell myself it’s just comfort, just the bond of teammates after a brutal loss.
Nothing else.
All I can think about—stupid, reckless, dangerous—is Magnus.
The locker room bleeds silence after the last voices fade, leaving only the drip-drip of water from the showers and the faint hum of the vents. I’m still sitting half-dressed, like I can’t quite figure out whether to shed the game or stay trapped in it. My gloves sit abandoned at my feet, damp and curling at the edges. My helmet is dented where I threw it. My body aches from the hits I took, but it’s nothing compared to the ache clawing at me from the inside.
I peel the rest of my gear off slowly, dragging it out. Every motion feels heavy, deliberate, like maybe if I move carefully enough, I won’t have to face what’s really gnawing at me. But of course, it doesn’t work.
The second my chest is bare, the second I stretch my sore muscles and breathe deep—the thought crashes back. That bastard is in my veins tonight, crawling through me like fire under the skin.
I picture him grinning at me across the ice, his mouth curving like he knows a secret, his eyes sparkling with cruel delight. He didn’t just want to win—he wanted to unravel me.
And he succeeded.
I slam my locker shut with a metallic bang. The sound ricochets off tile and concrete, sharp enough to startle me in the emptiness. For a moment, I stand frozen, jaw clenched, fists tight, trying to breathe. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I shouldn’t be seeing his face every time I blink, or replaying that stupid brush of contact, the taunt that slipped straight under my armor.
I’ve always noticed him, always watched the way he moves. Even before tonight, even before this latest humiliation. There’s something magnetic about him, something raw. Where I am all angles and discipline, he is fire and chaos, and part of me has been drawn to that from the start. And I hate myself for it.
Would it help if I bent you over later?
My body betrays me. My cock stirs in my compression shorts as if to remind me of the nights I’ve lain awake after games, fists clenched, images of Magnus storming into my head uninvited.
Dark images. Shameful ones.
Him finding me here, when the team is gone, when no one could ever know. His voice in my ear, mocking, taunting, telling me how pathetic I am while pinning me against the lockers.
I imagine his breath hot against my throat. His hands rough, greedy, holding me down. The scrape of stubble, the press of teeth.
I’ve replayed it in my head too many times. Magnus shoving me down to my knees, fingers curling in my hair, forcing me to look up at him with those ice-blue eyes while I choke on his cock. Him whisperingThat’s right, Ice Prince, melt for me.Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes I picture him bending me over the bench, his laugh curling dark in my ear as he drives into me, relentless, brutal, until I forget who I am and what I’m supposed to stand for.
I jerk back to the present with a growl, dragging my hands over my face hard enough to sting.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m supposed to be in control. That’s who I am—Alaric Hale, steady as stone, cold as ice, unshakable no matter the pressure. That’s what my family drilled into me. What the Titans expect from me. What I built my reputation on.
But one smirk from fucking Flint, and I’m undone.
