I can tell Aurora is annoyed—more annoyed than I’ve seen her in a while.
It’s the end of the second period and they’re up by two. Boston College fans who made the short trip to our arena are very loud in their grumbling, but Waterfell is louder. We’ve been shouting sieve chants all night, singing songs and listening to some more intoxicated fans call out players by name and bang on the glass.
And then, there’s watching Rhys.
He skates like he was born with blades attached to his feet, like he’s got more coordination there than running or walking on land. His ability to read every single other player—in maroon and in blue—is borderline magical.
He’s just as I imagined, the boy with the blues turns gold under the arena lights and the cheers of adoring fans. His face-offs are at 100% tonight, and he might as well be glowing. And I can see him years from now, playing professionally and lighting up the jumbotron and the screens of phones everywhere with his dimpled smile beneath his visor.
Rhys scored twice, once during the first on the other end, skating through his team to high five and humbly angling his stick in the air as celebration. Then, again in the second period, on our side of the ice—the same celebration, only he pointed his stick right at me.
And I turned into a gooey mess.
Overall, it’s been an incredible night.
Though, watching Aurora fight the trio of girls in front of us would also be incredible.
Freddy scored just before the buzzer ending the second period, skating in a lunge and playing his stick like an air guitar which got several laughs out of both Rora and me—only after she finished screaming like a banshee for him.
But then, the pretty black-haired girl in a Waterfell jersey in front of us says, “God, he’s so hot.”
“Have you seen his OnlyFans?” the blonde next to her asks. If she thinks she is whispering, it’s not even close. “If you think he’s drool worthy now…”
“Oh my god, Ericka.” The boy on her left with strawberry curls, also decked in a jersey—and a pair of black leather lugged Converse that I’ve been drooling over since I spotted them—sighs. “That was a rumor. The guy doesn’t even show his face.”
Ericka rolls her eyes and flecks a piece of popcorn at his face. “Oh my god, Ron, his ex was the one who told everyone. It has to be him.”
The other girl pipes up with, “I don’t think so. He denied it—and, I mean, he has a reputation on campus, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s selling sex.”
“He could if he wanted to. I mean, good god, he’s mouthwatering. And I’ve heard he’s not only generous, but hu—”
“Oh my god!” Rora squeals, jerking forward between their seats, head level with them, a mop of curls cascading like water around them all. “He’s not a fucking object. Shut the hell up and stop gossiping about rumors you know nothing about.”
She stands then, grumbling about getting something to drink and takes off before I can ask if she wants company.
Rora looks a little worse for wear when she comes back, but it melts away as the third period starts up again.
The boys are dominating, the clock is dwindling and I’m…
I’m very aroused.
Rhys is clearly one of their best players, and I can see many of the hits hammered towards him—but his teammates on every line do a good job of protecting him.
It’s actually Kane who they continue to target. Whether from knowing his skill and size give an advantage to Waterfell, or from some sort of bad blood between the teams, it’s surprising, considering he used to play for Boston College.
They seem to hate him.
His own team now doesn’t seem to like him either, but I don’t blame them. Part of me wants to confront him, but the other part just hopes he leaves the team before the year is up.
I haven’t told Rhys about our standoff at practice, not because I’m hiding it, but more because every small piece of time I have with Rhys I want to use for other things.
“Have you seen where they sat the boys?” Rora asks, gulping down another hard cider.
“Yeah.” I nod, pointing across towards where the home and away benches are. Just beyond the end, pressed right up against the glass, sit Oliver and Liam, with Rhys’ mom and Bennett’s father to their right. Considering the wealth of attention most of the players have given them, I’d say it’s a win for them. Even this far away, Liam is beaming.
And Oliver looks refreshed and happy.
A loud crash sounds, followed by the roar of the crowd as everyone shoots up to stand over a fight.
I try to decipher what happened, at first only able to spot Toren Kane locked in a brawl with one of the larger BC players.
But then I see Rhys, sprawled on his back, not moving—his chest or his head.
I’m on the stairs before I can blink, heart in my throat as I press my hands to the glass and bang on it. He’s nowhere close enough, but Bennett hears, turning to look over at me through his cage—I can’t see his expression, but he turns away and skates towards his captain.
God, it doesn’t look like he’s even breathing.
There are trainers already around him, quicker than I’ve seen in most games and I know it’s because of his history. Because he’s likely already on their watch list.
Bennett is skating back towards his net, slow and graceful for all his hulking size. But he passes right by the net and stops next to me.
I feel like a child staring up at him through the glass, he’s so massive. He pulls his helmet off and shakes out the sweat wet curls, brow furrowing.
“He’s okay,” he says. “Sit down.”
“Ben—”
“If he sees you panicking, it’s gonna make him feel worse. Sit. Down.”
I do as he says, nearly tripping up the stairs while I try to walk with my head on a swivel.
He does get up, met with a round of cheers from everyone in the arena, both teams slapping their sticks against the ice. Still, they force him off and through the tunnel.
Considering I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe properly until I lay my eyes on him, I tell Rora where I’ll meet her afterwards, and thank my figure skating competition knowledge to know the paths of the arena like the back of my hand. I don’t care if they won’t let me see him, I just want to be close enough.
I pace the alcove near the locker room hallway for a moment, before a hand on my shoulder makes me jolt.
I glance up, seeing a disheveled looking man towering over me. It’s only after I flinch backwards into the wall before I realize exactly who I’m looking at.
They are copies of one another, Rhys and his father. And though I’ve met the man in passing, I’ve never seen him up close. Rhys has the same chocolate eyes that give a boyish hint, even to his father’s slightly aged face. He looks young, but disarming in a way I know Rhys looks too. Strong jaw, plush lips, same dark hair.
“Sorry,” he says, followed by a word I don’t recognize but sounds like a harsh language—Russian or Polish? “Are you here for my son?”
“Yeah, I—” I clear my stuck throat, my heart still racing. “I just want to know he’s okay.”
The smile he gives me is gentle and warm, and achingly familiar, except he only has one dimple.
“Come, dochka,” he beckons with that same word, putting a firm hand between my shoulders and guiding me around the loop and through the pungent locker rooms to a smaller room fitted with a medical table and supplies.
Rhys is there, shirtless and sweating, with his thick hockey pants still on. The trainer has his hands on his head, running a small flashlight in his pupils, while Rhys repeats the months of the year in reverse order.
“One moment,” his father whispers, stepping in front of me towards his son.
He gets stuck on June for a moment, which seems to alarm the trainer just slightly, before he peeks at Mr. Koteskiy hovering over his shoulder, spotting his player’s distraction.
“Rhys.” His father sighs. “Alright?”
“Fine.” He sighs back and they sound just as much alike as they look, minus the slight hint of an accent from his father. “You just got back?”
“Yeah—walked into the rink to see my son on his back on the ice. What the hell kind of welcome back is that, eh?”
Rhys chuckles, just a light huff. “Just got the breath knocked from me. Is Mom freaked out?”
“Nyet, but there is someone I found a little flustered out there.” He steps back, immediately placing me in view where I’m hovering in the doorway.
“Gray.” He sighs, a giant smile across his face. The trainers go back to their duties now that their center is cleared, so it’s just the three of us. “Come here.”
Two words are all it takes for me to rush him, letting his arms wrap around me and his sweaty head to press against my chest.
“You smell awful,” I say snarkily, a little huff of anger while my heart still won’t stop racing.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” his father says, before he leaves us in the training room alone.
