So I’m pushing everyone harder and harder, trying to make up for this rift somehow. Trying to find literally any other solution than working closer with Rhys. Because everything is a joke to him.
Like I’m a joke to him.
I skate to the boards and step off the ice.
No good coming out here wound up like this. I’m just burning energy I don’t have. I sit on the bench and start pulling off my gear, and my brain keeps going even though I’m telling it tostop.
He transferred here at the start of the fall semester and within weeks everyone loved him. Coach, Kowalski, most of the roster — they all gravitate toward him like it’s effortless. And for him it probably is.
What people don’t expect — until they’re standing close enough to realize their mistake — is the rest of him. Six foot two. Built the way that comes from years of actual work, the kind of body that has a history written into it — broad shoulders, the cut of muscle through his chest and arms and stomach that only comes from discipline and repetition. Dark hair that curls slightly only when it's wet. Dark eyes — not black, not brown, something in between that shifts depending on the light and his mood — that miss absolutely nothing.
And the tattoos. Too many to even count.
The snake that moves across his abs when he breathes, scales disappearing beneath his waistband like it's going somewhere. A hockey stick running the length of his forearm. A spaceship sitting below his left pec. And across his knuckles, in clean block letters:
PUCK FACE.
Like a warning and a joke at the same time.
Everything seems effortless for Rhys. Including the thing that costs me the most just to think about.
He’s openly gay.
Just like that. Just — out. Unbothered. Takes up exactly as much space as he wants and dares anyone to say something about it, and nobody does, because everyone loves him and it’s fine, it’s all completely fine for Rhys Callahan.
I’ve been squashing that same part of myself down for so long I’m not sure I remember what it felt like before I started. Not because I’m embarrassed — I stopped letting myself think about it in those terms a long time ago. But because I’m morerealistic. I would only ever admit it to myself. Who I really am. Just like my father taught me, I shove that shit way deep down and don’t let anyone ever see it. Especially no one this close to me.
I know what I have and what I don’t. School has never been my thing, was never going to be my thing — if hockey disappeared tomorrow I’d have nothing to fall back on, no plan B, no safety net. This scholarship, this team, being captain — that’s the whole of my future.
A gay captain in college hockey. In a locker room. In this sport. That shit follows you. But I guess some people don’t really care about that.
I pull off my skates and set them down carefully.
Rhys probably isn’t thinking about the NHL. Rhys probably has options — a degree he’s actually good at, a family with money who supports him, some kind of life outside the ice that he could fall back on. Good for him. I mean that. But I don’t have that luxury and I never have. I have one dream. One shot. And I have worked too hard and given up too much to let anyone get between me and it.
Even someone who makes it look so easy to just be.
Especially him.
Chapter 5
Jamie
“Alright, listen up!”
My voice cuts through the locker room noise and everyone stops whatever they’re doing, fast. They know that tone by now.
“I know we’re all hurting after last night and I know nobody wanted to come in today. But if we stop whining and actually put the work in, we can all get out of here at a decent hour and enjoy what’s left of the day. So shut the fuck up and let’s move.”
A beat of silence — then whoops, a few cheers, the sound of guys getting to their feet, the clattering of gear moving around.
Good. Channel it. Use it.
We flood out onto the ice and I get to work. Moving between players, watching, adjusting. The more I see us in motion the clearer the problem becomes. It's not talent — we have talent. It's not conditioning, it's not the plays. It's trust. The breakdown that happens when a group of good players haven’t figured out how to rely on each other yet. And I know exactly where that breakdown starts. Rhys wasn’t completely wrong last night. We are playing like shit.
I hate that he wasn’t wrong. I also hate that I can pinpoint exactly what our problem is. I wonder how long before anyone else notices — it’s been four months with the same issue, slowly festering and infecting our game, a wound we keeppretending isn’t there while it gets deeper.
I’m helping Bryce work through his shooting stance when I hear the tunnel doors bang open behind me. I don’t even have to look. I skate to the boards and wait for him.
