And I realize something else—That blankness? That emptiness? He was waiting for this. For someone to slam him back into his skin.
He smirks like he’s already won, and something about that — the cocky tilt of his mouth, the way his fingers twitch like he’s ready to claw back, the fact that he thinks he can survive me like this — it tears right through whatever leash I’ve been holding since the second he got here. I snap. I slam him harder into the wall and crush my mouth against his like it’s not a kiss, it’s a fucking punishment. My teeth hit his lip so hard I taste blood in the first second and that’s what does it — that little gasp, the sharp inhale, the way his body jerks like he wasn’t ready and still wanted it. His hands go to my hoodie, bunching in the fabric, but I don't give him a second to think. I grab a fistful of his hair, wrench his head back just enough to deepen the kiss, drag my teeth across his tongue until I feel him flinch and groan and fucking melt into it like he’s been waiting to be devoured since the moment he got here.
But then he growls — low, guttural, mouth still crushed to mine — and bites me back hard. It’s not a kiss anymore. It’s a fucking fight.
Julian grabs my jaw like he wants to break it and yanks me forward, smashing his mouth to mine again with enough force that our teeth knock, that blood spills — I don’t know whose. Doesn’t matter. It’s hot, wet, copper-slick between our tongues. I push him into the wall so hard I hear a pipe creak behind him and he moans like that’s exactly what he wanted. He fists my hoodie tighter, dragging me closer like he’s trying to crawl into my skin, and I slam a thigh between his legs, feel the way his hips jerk up without him meaning to, desperate, greedy little bastard — but even now he doesn’t stop. He fights the kiss like he’s trying to win, like he thinks he can take control, like he’s got anything I won’t rip from him with my fucking teeth. His nails dig into my shoulders hard enough I know I’ll bruise, and I let him, because he’s finally here again. Finally back in his body, finally snarling and wild and burning like I need him to be.
I grab both his wrists, shove them up above his head, pin him to the wall with my body so he can’t fucking move, and kiss him again, deeper, harder, until he’s gasping against my tongue and bucking against my thigh like he can’t stop himself. He’s panting into my mouth now, teeth clacking, blood running down his chin — his or mine, I don’t know — and when I pull back just an inch, his eyes are wide and blown and alive.
“Say it,” I growl, voice wrecked, breath hot against his jaw, fingers tightening on his wrists.
“I’m here…” Julian breathes.
It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s not one of his usual snarl-laced jabs. It’s quiet and raw. Honest in a way that doesn’t belong in a place like this. But it hits me like a fucking detonator anyway. I stare at him for half a second longer — at the blown pupils, the slick mouth, the blood on his lip, the way his chest rises like he just surfaced from a three-week dive into hell — and something settles deep in my gut like a knife finally sliding into the right wound. Mine. He’s mine again. Body, mouth, fury, blood. Mine. So I don’t answer with words. I don’t ask if he’s okay. I don’t give him anything soft. I just wrap my fingers around his throat and drag him off the wall with a grip that says you don’t get to fucking disappear again.
He stumbles forward, caught on his own feet, still riding the aftershock of whatever that kiss pulled out of him, but he doesn’t resist. He goes with it. Lets me pull him like a leash made of bone-deep hunger, and every step makes the smirk on his blood-slick mouth curl higher. The hallway’s cold, the locker room door swings open like it knows what’s coming, and there—Kai.
Sitting on the bench like the fucking angel of death in skates and black thermals, taping a blade like he’s assembling a weapon.
Julian’s still grinning. The little shit’s glowing, actually. Cheeks flushed, throat red, wrists raw from where I pinned him, mouth split in two places — and proud of it. Arrogant little bastard like he just won a prize fight. Like he finally got what he wanted and he’s not even pretending to be ashamed about it.
Kai looks up. Eyes track from Julian’s face to mine and then to where my hand is still at Julian’s neck. He doesn’t say anything. Then he smirks that fucking surgeon’s smirk. Cold and knowing, and shakes his head — just once, slow and amused. Like he knew this was going to happen. Like he’s not even surprised anymore.
I stare back at him. No explanation. Just a dare in the flat of my stare: Say something.
He doesn’t. Because Kai’s not stupid. He knows blood when he sees it. He knows control. He knows claiming. He knows exactly what this is.
Julian shrugs me off after a beat, rubbing his throat like he’s not rubbing at all but taunting me to grab it again. He drags his tongue over the cut on his lip, spits a little blood into the sink, then grins at his own reflection like he’d let me fuck him against the mirror if I told him to.
I don’t say a word, but I watch him. Watch the way he moves now — like he’s fully back in his body, like every part of him is lit up again from the inside out. He’s cocky again.Arrogant. Burning. He pulls his jersey off one shoulder, exposing a line of teeth marks I don’t remember giving him, and tosses it toward the bench like he wants Kai to see.
Kai doesn’t blink. He just tilts his head like he’s cataloguing bruises. And Julian meets my eyes in the mirror, smirk full force, eyes still wide and bright and dangerous. “Guess practice wasn’t so bad after all,” he says.
I don’t smile. But I think about it. God help me, I fucking think about it.
9
JULIAN
That kiss should’ve been illegal. No, really. I’ve done lines off hotel safes and sucked champagne off marble and wrapped myself in silk and sweat and enough dopamine to drown a priest, and nothing—nothing—has ever hit like the way Rafe Scalzi slammed his mouth into mine like he was trying to cauterize the wound from the inside. Like he could make it all fucking stop. The ghosts, the ache, the loop. Nathan’s voice. The shaking in my hands. The part of me that keeps floating just an inch out of phase with my body. That kiss dragged me back in.
It’s still buzzing under my skin now. A slow, low throb. Electric in the base of my spine. Like I’ve been branded and the nerve endings haven’t decided whether they want to scream or come.
The locker room is chaos. Not NHL chaos. Not the clean, plastic-smiled, camera-friendly, suit-and-tie bullshit I used to live in. No pregame speeches. No national anthem. No glossy hydration plans. Just blood and tape and cracked concrete. Luca’s sitting cross-legged on the bench sharpening the wrong end of his stick, glaring at Finn like he’s considering murder. Finn’s in just his compression shorts and socks, yelling across the room about some “glorious Viking strategy” while smearing black across his cheekbones like war paint.
Misha’s doing pull-ups on a pipe that’s definitely not weight-rated. Bishop’s setting fire to his laces again. Tank hasn’t said a word. He never does. He just sits there, a fucking monolith in skates, drinking a protein shake like it’s the blood of his enemies.
And Kai’s leaned against the lockers like a goddamn executioner, sharpening his blades with the slow rhythm of someone who knows exactly how deep they want to cut. Luca throws a jab at him—some half-serious, half-flirtatious hiss about "cold fingers and no bedside manner"—but Kai doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t look up. Just keeps sharpening. Luca watches him like a cat staring down a snake.
No one's high, but we all look like we are. Everyone’s feral in their own way tonight. Everyone’s wound up, vibrating, brutal. It's the air. The way the bets are placed. The way Leonardo's watching from up top like he's already counting how many stitches we’ll need before this is over.
I take a breath. Close my eyes. And then I make the mistake of looking at my cubby again. Just for a second. It’s nothing now. Just gear. Pads. Tape. Same as everyone else’s. But it still says traitor if you look close enough. Someone scratched it into the wood and then someone else—probably Finn—scribbled dicks and wings and blood halos around it like a mural for a fallen saint. I remember the first time I opened it. The shake in my hands. The way my stomach turned inside out like I expected to find more than gear. Like I thought maybe Nathan would be hiding in there, smiling like a loaded gun.
He wasn’t. He never fucking is.
I shove it down. That looping thought, that acid memory. Then I rip the jersey off its hook and start getting dressed.
Tape first. Right wrist, then left. Blades check. Shin pads. Socks. Elbows. Laces. I go through it like a ritual, like muscle memory can keep the ghosts out. But even as I’m lacing up, I can still taste Rafe. Blood and smoke and fury. The way he grabbed my wrists. The way he pinned me like he didn’t want to let go.
