Dante is on my line for practice. We run the drills the way we always do. Pass. Receive. Shoot. His stick meets mine without looking. The puck moves clean between us. My blade meets his tape before the defender can close the lane, the timing so perfect it feels like breathing. Six years of learning where the other one will be.
After practice, the locker room drains slowly. The noise fades, the steam thins, and by the time the last guy leaves, the room is quiet, the only sound the drip of a showerhead and the hum of the ventilation. The door shuts with a soft click, and suddenly it's just us.
"You were late on the backcheck in the third drill," Dante says, pulling a clean shirt over his head. His voice is low.
"I was setting up the—"
"You were thinking."
"I was playing hockey."
"You were thinking about something that wasn't hockey." He smooths the shirt down, his eyes locked on mine, dark and unreadable. "It cost you a half-step."
He's right. He can read my half-steps the way he reads the ice. He doesn't know what he felt me give away.
"Won't happen again."
"It'll happen again." He turns back to his bag, zipping it with a quick, efficient motion. "You've been distracted all week."
"I'm fine."
"Sure." The word is flat, dismissive, and it lands like a slap.
Film review with Addison. Dinner. The house going quiet. We sit in the living room with the lights off and the scouting reports open on our laptops, the blue glow of the screens the only illumination in the room. We've been doing this since freshman year, the dark between practice and bed, the hours where the house belongs to us and the silence is comfortable.
I wait twenty minutes after the house goes quiet. His room. Midnight.
Usually I step inside and wait. Wait for his hand on the back of my neck, the grip that saysmine.Wait for the command, the surrender.
Tonight, I step in, turn, shove the door closed with my heel, then move on him. I cross the few feet between the door and where he's standing in the center of the room, and I slam my hand flat against his chest. The muscle under my palm coils instantly, and I drive him back until his shoulders hit the wall opposite the bed with a solid thud. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, surprise, then calculation.
"Cole—"
"Don't talk."
I kiss him before he can say another goddamn word. Hard. My teeth catch his lower lip, and I bite down just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. My hand slides to the back of his neck and locks into the same possessive grip he always uses on me, claiming him right back.
His breath catches. He goes rigid against the wall, testing my hold. Then his hand comes up fast, gripping my jaw, trying to turn my face, trying to reclaim the angle. I press closer instead, my hips pinning his to the wall. My free hand catches his wristand drives it against the plaster above his shoulder, holding him there.
He tests the hold. Once. Twice. Measuring the strength, the intent. His mouth opens under mine. His jaw relaxes. His body gives.
"You're fighting me," I say against his mouth, my voice rough.
"I'm deciding."
"Decide faster."
"Make me."
I give him the angle, tilting his head just so, but everything else stays mine.
I let go of his wrist first. Then, a beat later, I release his neck. In the same motion my hands go to the hem of his shirt and strip it off in one quick pull. My mouth lands on his throat. Teeth. Tongue. The scrape of stubble along his collarbone. His head tips back against the wall, a low groan vibrating in his chest. His hand clamps onto the back of my neck. He could stop this anytime he wants. He's choosing to let it run.
I trail my mouth down his chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos with my tongue. His breathing breaks rhythm, coming in ragged gusts. My teeth graze his ribs, and his hips jerk forward, a helpless thrust against mine.
"Careful," he says, the word rough, strained.
"Since when am I careful?"
