I peeled myself off the bench and skated back onto the ice, getting shoulder-checked by half the team line on my way to the net. And then Perez grabbed the back of my helmet and shook it.
His grin said everything.
On the bus, nobody cracked a beer or blasted music. Instead, Coach Corby stood at the front with a clipboard and read out roommate assignments in a voice that left zero room for negotiation.
The rules were clear: Lights out in thirty. No exceptions. And anyone caught in the hall after curfew could enjoy the final from the parking lot.
The sophomore they’d stuck me in a hotel room was snoring away before I’d even pulled off my shirt.
Thirty minutes later, I lay restlessly on top of the thin hotel blanket and stared at a water stain on the ceiling. I could hear the team’s coaching assistants pacing the corridor outside. Their footsteps patrolled past every ten minutes, making sure nobody broke Coach’s curfew.
Getting to Karter meant getting my timing right. Especially when getting caught meant we would end up watching the final game from the bench.
Still, every muscle from my calves to my shoulders hummed from the game. Ten more minutes passed. Then twenty.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and pulled up Karter’s contact:Stairwell. Now.
Karter’s reply came just twenty seconds later:Give me two minutes.
Timing a room exit would be simple enough. Wait for the footsteps in the hall to fade. Count to five and then crack open the door.
The hallway carpet was thin and stained, but my sneakers made no sound as I slipped out and kept close to the wall.
The stairwell door was heavy steel, cold against my palm. I pushed through and let it swing shut behind me. A single caged bulb threw a pool of dull yellow onto the landing. And the ventilation system droned through the cinderblock, low and steady, at the same frequency as an old refrigerator.
Glancing around, I checked that there were no coaches or teammates hanging around.
After a few minutes, the handle on the floor above clicked. I held my breath as I heard a door groan open, then ease shut with a soft thud. Careful footsteps then started down the concrete stairs.
I released my breath the moment I saw Karter—wearing a faded t-shirt and gray sweatpants—round the corner of the stairwell. Stepping into the light, he scanned the landing, spotted me, and then descended the last few steps without a word.
“Hey—” Karter started.
Before he could get another word out, I grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him off the bottom step. The landing wasbarely wide enough for both of us, but I pressed him against the wall and kissed him hard.
His hands locked behind my neck, and a low sound caught in his throat as he kissed me back like the whole game had been a warmup for this.
It was reckless and stupid. And with Coach and the rest of the team one floor up, I had Karter pinned against a wall and didn’t want to stop.
When I finally pulled back, I kept my forehead pressed against his, our breathing cutting through the drone of the vent.
“You play rough, Zotov,” Karter breathed. The way he said those words made me press my body flush against his.
“And you damn well like it.”
“Did I say that?” He tilted his head, mouth twitching. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” I kept him pinned against the wall, one hand still twisted in his shirt. The fabric was soft, worn thin at the collar. “You took a pretty solid hit out there. How’s the shoulder?”
“It’s fine.” Karter rolled it once, testing. “Mostly fine.”
“Mostly?”
“Yeah,” he said with a firm nod. “Besides, you hit the guy clean.”
“Damn right I did,” I answered.
Karter pressed me back half a step and then pushed off the wall just enough to look at me properly. “And you didn’t drop your gloves. He was right in your face, screaming, and you just stood there and laughed at him.”
