Page 16 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 1

“Not even to save the species?” Beckett murmured, his smirk stretching.

“We can’t fucking reproduce, Partridge,” I snapped, tempted to pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh.

Beckett shrugged. “You can try.”

Cameron snorted in amusement, but I glared at them both. “Enough.”

“Not to be crass,” Beckett said while setting his shoulder pads in place and picking up his helmet a heartbeat later. He was fully dressed while Cameron and I still stood in our underwear. “But you two look like you should hash it out somewhere private.”

“Partridge, I swear to God,” I huffed, wincing at my choice of words. It was a remnant from my home and not using His name in vain.

“Sorry, Cap,” Beckett said innocently, his shrug accepted with the pads on his broad shoulders. “We’re all dressed and you two look like you’re not even done undressing.”

“Dude,” Cameron sighed at Beckett, but got a slap on the shoulder and a friendly shake. Beckett made his way out of the locker room, madly proud of himself by the way his shoulders swayed.

“See what you did?” I asked quietly.

Cameron’s expression turned to hurt quicker than I’d expected. “I didn’t do anything.”

“No. Of course. You just spilled our entire story like it’s got nothing to do with you.” The words spilled fast and I yanked my jersey out of the locker, pulled it over my head, and continued gearing up with quick, vicious moves.

Cameron stood still, looking at me without his signature look of superiority. His muscles bunched as he bent down to put his socks on, but I directed my gaze elsewhere. Looking at him hurt way too fucking much. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Underneath all the contempt I had for my high school fling, this runaway guy had been my entire world once. And watching him treat our history like it had been nothing stung more than I wished to admit.

“Riley, I didn’t…” he began in a whisper.

I rounded on him, fully dressed against his bare torso, and pinned him against the locker. “Don’t talk to me, Cameron. Whenever you open your mouth, you make it worse.”

He winced and looked away, which I considered my victory for once. As I stepped back, he rasped, “You’re wrong.”

I snorted and marched out of the locker room with my skates in my hands, unwilling to spend another minute alone with him. And as I did, I decided not to wonder what it was I was wrong about. That he didn’t make things worse by talking? That he hadn’t spilled our story carelessly? That he wasn’t treating us like acquaintances? Take a guess. I was right about all of them.

I put my skates on and joined the rest of my team out on the ice. Coach Murray was already checking the time and I made a point of apologizing for my tardiness. Then, we waited for Cam, who took an extra few minutes to get ready.

When we all lined up, Coach Murray scanned us with his steely eyes and nodded impatiently. “Let’s keep it punctual, guys, or we’ll have locker room drills next week.”

A ripple of low laughter passed through most of the team, but Coach was too busy outlining strategies to let it settle. Today, we were scrimmaging and sparing no quarters. And of course Cameron and I played center for the opposing teams.

Coach was slapping his hands impatiently as we spilled around the rink on our skates. “Show me what you’ve got, boys,” Coach chimed.

And show him we did. The ice was a blur beneath my skates as I weaved through the frozen battlefield. The sound of sharp blades scraping against the ice reverberated through the arena, drowning out the cheers of the spectators. I gripped my stick tightly, feeling the familiar weight in my hands as I charged forward, eyes fixed on the goal.

The first twenty minutes of the scrimmage were a whirlwind of speed and intensity. Every stride, every pass, every shot carried the weight of years of competition. As I raced down the ice, the cold air stung my cheeks, igniting a fire within me. I dodged an opposing defenseman, cutting through their line of defense. The puck danced with my stick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. With a flick of my wrist, it soared towards the net, only to be met by the goalie's outstretched pad.

Cameron, relentless as ever, retaliated with a thundering slap shot that sent the puck sailing towards our goal. Sawyer, playing for my team today, was a wall of determination, and deflected the puck with a lightning-fast glove save.

Back and forth we battled, the ice becoming our arena of determination. Bodies crashed against the boards, sticks clashed with a symphony of resounding thuds. Every pass, every check, carried the weight of the game. As the first twenty minutes drew to a close, beads of sweat mingled with the cold air, freezing on my brow. I glanced at the scoreboard, the numbers deadlocked. Neither team willing to surrender an inch.

Cameron gloated for another twenty minutes, but by the last round we were all exhausted. Coach Murray wanted us to battle, so we battled. I gave it my all, partially inspired by the flickering image of the NHL drafting and partially by the desire to wipe the smug smile off Cameron’s face. That he would be so casual about months of intimacy and treat me like nothing more than a long-ago hookup reached deep into my heart and touched the very familiar feeling of worthlessness. Not only was I planning to chase this puck for the rest of my working days and not only was I rendered to the last place on Cameron’s list of people who mattered, but deep within me, like a ball of darkness, the fact that had defined my entire life unraveled. A gay son to people who attended Sunday mass their entire lives. A gay brother to a man who believed in prayer just as much as he believed in the medicine he practiced every day. A gay hockey player with a head full of silly dreams of the NHL.

What a twisted freaking joke.

It filled me with anger as we warred for the final twenty minutes and I wanted to let the fire spread out from inside me. This anger was almost like a blanket of comfort. Since the day Cameron had shown me how tender a human heart was, I knew how to grab this anger and wrap myself in it.

I spotted him as he snatched the puck from Caden and glided toward us. Determination fueled my stride as I tracked him relentlessly, my eyes fixed on his every move. Anger bubbled and welled within me. With a burst of speed, I closed the gap, feeling the adrenaline surge through my veins. Then, with a perfectly timed hit, I delivered a bone-crushing check, sending him crashing into the boards. The impact reverberated through the arena, drowning out all other sound. In that moment, a mix of satisfaction and fierce rivalry coursed through me, fueling my desire to dominate the game.

“What the fuck?” Cameron staggered, his eyes wide with surprise and frustration. A mix of anger and determination flashed across his face as he quickly regained his composure. I could see the fire burning in his eyes, his competitive spirit refusing to be extinguished. With a swift push, he propelled himself back into the game, his resolve unshaken. It was a fleeting moment, but I sensed the simmering intensity, the unspoken vow to retaliate. But there was more to it.

The hurt look on his face had nothing to do with being crushed against the boards. Those eyes were flashing with anger that wasn’t directed at his opponent. I was soon filled with guilt that I bruised him so harshly for so little. And though the instant passed before I could bat my eyelashes, it left a bitter coating in my mouth.