Everyone’s been watching Julian spiral for over an hour now, and no one wants to be in his path when it finally detonates — or mine, if I get to him first. The rest of the team drags off the ice, steam rising off bruised skin, sweat dripping into scowls. Bishop’s already got a cut above his eyebrow. Misha looks like he’s one bad joke away from homicide.
Julian skates off slow, head down, like he has nowhere to be.
I don’t talk to anyone. I follow.
He peels off his gloves, pulls off his helmet. Hair a mess. Neck red. He still doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge that I’m tracking him down the corridor between the rink and the weight room, across the caged hallway near the cold showers, through the concrete arch that leads back to the private lockers.
Doesn’t look until I grab him by the collar and slam him backward into the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of his lungs. The thud echoes down the hallway like a fucking gunshot.
His head hits steel. His breath punches out of him, eyes flaring wide—finally—and that’s when I see it. A flicker. Not rage, or panic, or pain. Arousal.
Jesus fucking Christ.
His pupils dilate like I hit a switch. He shoves at me on instinct—weak, unfocused—and then snarls, “Fuck is your problem?”
I slam him back again. “Don’t be weak again.”
His breath catches in his throat like that did more damage than the wall. I don’t mean it gentle. Because I need him angry. I need him clawing. I need him alive. Not this blank, drifting shell skating on autopilot like he forgot he was born for war.
Julian lets out a breathless, sharp laugh — the kind that sounds like it should be attached to a sob but won’t admit it. “Oh yeah? You miss the part where I made half the team piss themselves last week or—" he grabs a fistful of my hoodie like he thinks he can drag me, “—you just like it when I bite?”
I grab his jaw. My fingers dig in, controlling the angle of his face, forcing his head back against the wall. His pulse jumps under my thumb. “Shut your mouth, junkie.”
He bares his teeth, grins against my grip. “Touchy. What happened, huh? You run out of people to choke so you came looking for me?”
“You think I won’t?” I tighten my grip, shove my forearm against his chest to pin him still.
Julian’s breath hitches — still not scared. “Oh, I know you will,” he hisses, head tipping just enough to get closer, lips curling. “You just haven’t figured out yet if you want to kill me or fuck me.”
I slam him back again — shoulder this time — teeth clenched.
He groans. And fucking smiles. Goddamn smile like he’s winning something, like he thinks if he baits me hard enough, I’ll snap and give him whatever twisted fix he’s chasing today.
“You wanna fight me, golden boy?” I ask, voice low, deadly.
He licks his bottom lip. It’s split. Probably from the stick he caught to the chin earlier. “Only if you promise to bleed.”
“You couldn’t make me bleed if I gave you a weapon and a ten-minute head start.”
He smirks, but there’s a hesitation underneath it now. Just a flicker. The cracks showing. “Maybe not today,” he mutters.
I go still, because that wasn’t venom. That wasn’t one of his usual jabs meant to slice open a nerve and yank until I react. That wasn’t fire. That was hollow.
And that’s when I realize it — even his fight is weak today. He’s mouthing off because it’s all he knows. He’s grabbing at me because he doesn’t know where else to anchor. He’s not trying to win. He’s trying not to vanish. And the second I see it — the second I realize this isn’t defiance, it’s desperation — the fury shifts.
I don’t loosen my grip on his jaw. I don’t let him up. I just tilt his head a little further and stare at him the way I would if I were planning to break something I cared about. “You skate like that again,” I say, voice low, near his mouth, “and I’ll put you on your knees behind the bench where no one can see you.”
His eyes widen — shocked, maybe turned on, definitely breathing harder.
I lean in, breath warm on his lips. “You hear me?”
He nods almost imperceptibly.
I slap his cheek. “I said say it.”
“Yes, sir.” It falls out of his mouth fast, like instinct, like a memory from a punishment he maybe liked too much.
And fuck me, there he is. Julian. Breathing heavy, eyes wild, knees bent like he’d drop right now if I told him to.
