Finn’s practically buzzing beside him, talking a mile a minute, grinning as he points to the open locker with Julian’s name stenciled above it—crude, rushed, already scuffed like it’s been there years instead of hours. I’m only half-listening to the introduction, already stripping off the rest of my pads, sweat cold against my spine as I pull the damp base layer over my head.
Julian hasn’t moved a fucking inch. He’s standing in front of the cubby like it’s a loaded gun pointed at his skull. Shoulders locked, breathing shallow, sweat sliding down his temple. His hands tremble at his sides, twitchy and clenched, fingers flexing like he’s getting ready to punch something or bolt.
And he’s staring. Not at Finn. Not at the guys throwing casual glances his way. Not at me. Just at his locker. There’s something scrawled across the top in thick black marker.TRAITOR.
I saw it earlier. I didn’t stop it. Not my job to save him. He threw a game and burned a league—far as anyone here’s concerned, he’s a disgrace with a pretty face and a price tag. No one cares what the real story is. All they know is what it cost them, what it costus.
But that’s not why he’s frozen. There’s something else happening behind his eyes. Something deeper than shame or embarrassment. This isn’t ego. It’sfear.Real, bone-deep, breath-hitching fear. He’s not blinking. Not breathing right.
I tilt my head, towel slung around my neck, and study him like a problem I haven’t solved yet. The room moves around us—Finn still talking, someone slamming a locker shut, boots thudding against concrete—but Julian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hear any of it.
Just stares at the locker like it’s about to reach out and fuckingruinhim.
Finn bounces over like he’s the fucking welcome committee and not a chaos addict in goalie gear. He struts right up to Reaver, who’s still locked in place like someone hit pause on his nervous system, and smacks him on the ass with a sharpwhapthat echoes way too loud in the quiet. “Get dressed, rookie.”
Julian jolts like a live wire just touched skin. His head snaps toward Finn, shoulders jerking, and it takes him a second—one full heartbeat—for the fog in his eyes to crack. And then, like nothing happened, like his body hadn’t been braced for an execution, he turns back toward the cubby.
I watch closely. He lifts his hand—slow, still shaking—and reaches for the door. His fingers pause an inch from the handle. I can see the sweat beading at his temple, the way his jaw locks tight behind the tape still stretched over his mouth. Then hecloses his eyes like he’s bracing for impact.
And he opens it just a little. Inside, it’s just gear. Jersey. Pads. Gloves. Lined up exactly how it’s supposed to be.
I know becauseIput it there last night. After watching him pace his box like a feral animal. After deciding he wasn’t going to die in there, not yet. After realizing he’d been dragged to my doorstep with nothing—no gear, no bag, no prep.
So I gave him mine. It's enough to function until he earns the right to call anything his own. And still… he opens it like it might explode. Like he’s terrified of what hemightfind.
But there’s nothing. Just gear and the ghosts in his head.
He keeps his eyes shut as his fingers brush the edge of the jersey. Doesn’t even look at it. Like he’s hoping—begging—that if he doesn’t see it, it can’t hurt him.
It’s not shame or hesitation. It’s dread. The kind that lives in the spine. And I don’t know why. I just know that when a man opens a locker like it’s a fucking coffin, he’s not afraid of gear. He’s afraid of what hethinkshe’s going to find.
I step past him slowly. I don’t stop, don’t reach for him, but I murmur, low enough only he can hear—“Next time, open your eyes.”
His spine snaps straight like I hit a nerve, and I keep walking. Out of the room. Toward the rink.
I don’t need to look back to know he’s staring after me.
The ice is already calling by the time I step into the rink, breath sharp in my throat, gear minimal as always—no leg pads, no blocker, just chest protection and the mask hanging off my fingers. I don’t need armor. Not for this. Not in this place. The cold cuts across my bare forearms, the tape on my wrists sticky with sweat, but I like it that way. I like the sting. The edge. The honesty of it. There’s no bullshit on this ice. No cameras. No press. No shields. Just blood frozen into the surface and whatever rage we choose to bleed out of ourselves.
I cross to the net, drop my mask to the post, and stretch slow, letting the tension unwind from my back, my shoulders, one vertebra at a time. My body’s already humming, not from exertion, but anticipation. The others aren’t far behind—skates scraping the concrete, laughter too sharp to be friendly, that charged silence that comes before every session.
And then I hear it. The pause. The one set of steps that doesn’t join the others and I glance up. Julian’s standing at the edge of the ice, one foot up, but not on. Hands clenched at his sides. Body stiff. He’s geared up—jersey, pads, gloves, skates laced—but he hasn’t stepped onto the ice yet. He’s juststaringat it like it’s foreign. Like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
Which is bullshit. I’ve watched the tapes. NHL golden boy, fast as sin, instinctive, dangerous. He belongs on the ice. He was born for it. But now he looks like it’s going to swallow him whole.
I tilt my head from the crease, narrowing my eyes as I study him. Something about his posture is wrong. Not just the hesitation. It’s the silence inside him. The stillness. Like something’s cracked open and filled with static.
Then—unsurprisingly—Luca barrels straight into frame. Luca being Luca, cocky and sharp and perpetually in motion. He doesn’t even slow down—just nudges Julian frombehind with one shoulder like the kid’s standing in his way and Julian stumbles forward onto the ice.
His blades catch, not cleanly, not with confidence. He doesn’t fall, but it’s close. And then he’s standing frozen in the middle of the sheet like he’s never seen it before.
I watch his chest rise and fall like he’s trying to find air.
Kai skates up beside me without a word. Doesn’t look at me right away. Just follows my gaze. We both watch Julian like a problem that doesn’t want to solve itself. “He’s in withdrawal,” Kai says quietly, arms crossed, calm and clinical. “You know that, right?”
I nod once. My eyes don’t leave the kid. “That’s not the only thing he’s in right now.”
Kai huffs a breath, low and unreadable.
