The training room buzzed with energy—metal clanks, thudding weights, the occasional grunt of effort echoing off the walls. It smelled like heat and testosterone, like every athlete in the building was trying to outlift his own shadow. Fluorescent lights beat down, harsh and unforgiving, making sweat gleam on shoulders and backs like war paint.
Christian moved through it like a ghost—quiet, focused, and just a little too aware of his body.
He was athletic, no doubt. Quick on the ice, nimble with the puck, lean in the way that made every motion efficient. But under the harsh lighting and surrounded by broader, bulkier players, something looked... off. His collarbones peeked out more sharply than before. His compression shirt hugged the definition of muscle, sure—but not bulk. Not fuel.
"Evans."
The voice that called him out was low, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
Christian turned to face Coach Morrison— "The Beast" himself. Six-foot-something of solid muscle and pure intensity, arms crossed over his chest, posture like a human wall.
Morrison's eyes scanned him. Not his face—his frame. Shoulders. Collarbones. Arms.
"You lose weight?"
Christian's jaw tensed. "No. I don't think so."
"You don't think? "Morrison raised a brow. "I track all your stats. You came in at 172. You're sitting at 167 today."
Christian's stomach clenched. "Could be water weight. We've been training hard."
Morrison grunted. "Yeah. And we've also been feeding you like you're prepping for playoffs. Everyone else is putting on muscle, and you're out here disappearing? You've been skipping meals? "
"No." The lie hit fast. Reflexive. "Not on purpose."
Morrison stepped closer, lowering his voice but not his intensity.
"Listen, you're lean. You're fast. You're a left wing—we want you quick. But this?" He gestured down at Christian's torso. "This isn't maintenance. This is decline. And that's not just performance—it's safety. You keep this up, you're risking injury."
Christian's throat felt tight. He nodded, barely managing, "I'll work on it."
Morrison squinted at him like he didn't believe a damn word. "If you need a nutrition plan, say it. If you've got a medical issue, tell me. But don't feed me bullshit. You're skilled. You've got raw potential. This isn't just about performance. It's about your health."
Christian didn't answer. Just stood there, fists curling at his sides.
"Grab a damn protein shake. Then get under the bar. Light set. I'm watching. You wanna talk about something, you come find me. I'm not here to punish anyone—I'm here to keep you standing. Got it?"
Christian nodded, barely. "Yeah. Got it, sir."
Morrison walked away with the same quiet force he arrived with.
Christian stared down at the floor for a beat too long. He hadn't even noticed he'd started holding his breath. He clenched his jaw. His palms itched. The room suddenly felt too loud, too crowded, and at the same time—way too empty.
He didn't notice the eyes locked on him from across the room. Caleb had been mid-set, but the second Morrison's voice cut through the noise, his attention snapped toward Christian. Silent. Focused. Frowning.
When Christian finally moved, it was toward the back of the room—toward the squat racks, away from the spotlight. He sat on the bench press, fuming quietly. Not at Morrison. Not even at the numbers.
Just... everything.
His body, his appetite—or lack thereof. This wasn't new. But he didn't know how to explain that his stomach just shuts down when his brain starts to spiral.
A voice broke into his thoughts.
"Rough one?"
Christian turned his head.
Alec Riley stood nearby, grinning. Blond, sun-kissed, broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking in that effortless, carefree way, like he belonged in a Gatorade ad. He had on a compression tank top, a backwards cap and a pair of shorts. He held a shaker bottle like it was just another part of his hand.
A towel hung around his neck, and he had the softest smirk like he was always five seconds away from saying something inappropriate.
And somehow—it didn't feel threatening.
Alec's smirk did not affect Christian like someone he was trying not to think about.
Christian gave a tired shrug. "Something like that."
Alec sat on the bench next to him, legs spread, elbows on his knees. "You look like you just got chewed out by Morrison."
"I did."
Alec let out a long whistle. "Oof. Condolences. That man once made me do thirty burpees for yawning."
Christian snorted before he could stop it. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious. Said I was disrespecting the grind."
Christian shook his head. "He's intense."
"He's a walking protein bar," Alec replied. "You wanna lift together? I'll spot."
Christian hesitated, but... it beat sitting here drowning in his own thoughts. "Yeah. Sure."
They loaded the bar—light enough to avoid Morrison's wrath, but not pathetic. Alec stepped into position behind Christian as he lay on the bench.
"Ready?" Alec asked.
Christian nodded. "Ready."
Alec's voice stayed calm and close as Christian pushed through the reps. "Steady... yep, good form... don't lock your elbows. There you go."
Christian focused on the rhythm. On Alec's voice. On the warmth of being supported, just for a moment.
After the final rep, Alec racked the bar for him and handed over a water bottle.
Christian sat up, breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his neck.
"Thanks."
"No problem," Alec said, sitting back down next to him, legs bumping Christian's just a little. "You know... I've been watching you on the ice."
Christian blinked. "Yeah?"
Alec stepped closer, a little more serious now. "You're one of the cleanest skaters. Fastest edgework I've seen from a wing in a while. It's not just skill. It's instinct. So maybe ease up on the self-hate, yeah?"
Christian looked down, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "Didn't realize you were watching. Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Alec paused, then added, "You don't talk much."
Christian looked back. "Neither do you. Not to me, at least."
"That's because I've been building up to this moment," Alec said dramatically. "I've decided something very important."
"Oh?"
"I think we should be friends."
Christian blinked. "What?"
"I'm being serious." Alec held out a hand like a little kid. "C'mon. Friends?"
Christian stared at it. His heart ached in a weird, tender way. No one had asked him that in years. And now he had the free will to accept.
He reached out and shook. "Yeah. Friends."
Alec grinned like he'd just won the lottery. "Hell yes."
Christian didn't know how long they trained together after that. Sets blurred together—lunges, squats, curls—every rep cushioned by Alec's easy humor and warmth. He still felt sore, still felt out of place in his own skin, but... less so.
Until a new presence cut through the air.
Hakeem "Kimmy" Davis. Team captain. Six-foot-five, built like a bear, and radiating Big Brother Energy. Everyone called him Mama Bear—because if anyone messed with his boys, he'd end them.
He walked over with calm authority, arms folded, eyes scanning Christian from head to toe.
"Christian."
Christian straightened instinctively. "Yeah?"
"Morrison told me to check in on you. Said you're looking a little too lean for comfort."
Christian flushed. "I'm working on it."
"Good." Kimmy's voice softened. "You need anything, you come to me. We don't leave anyone behind."
Christian nodded. "Thanks, Kimmy."
Then Kimmy's gaze slid to Alec.
"And you," he said with a smirk. "You're trouble."
Alec feigned innocence. "Moi?"
"Don't give me those puppy eyes." Kimmy said with a laugh. "I've seen you flirt with half this damn building. Sweet mouth, smooth talker... Don't go wrapping Christian up in all that sugar."
Christian turned bright red.
Alec, unfazed, leaned in with a smirk. "Have you tried my mouth?"
Kimmy didn't miss a beat. "Oh, I know what your mouth is capable of."
Alec raised his brows. "Maybe Christian should decide for himself."
Silence. Pin-drop silence.
Christian blinked, mouth slightly open, unsure whether to laugh or crawl under the squat rack.
From across the room, a weight hit the floor with a thunderous clang. Everybody turned in that direction.
Caleb, jaw clenched, stood by the dumbbell rack like a statue ready to explode. He didn't say a word. Just picked up the weight again—way too heavy—and started lifting like he needed to exorcise something. Christian wondered what pissed him of this time.
"Damn. Someone's in a mood." Kimmy gave Christian one more pat on the back. "Just remember. If he gets annoying, you tell me. I'll put Alec on skate drills 'til his legs fall off."
"I'm literally right here," Alec muttered.
Kimmy ignored him and walked away.
Christian stayed seated. Alec was still grinning beside him, like the whole thing was the highlight of his week.
But Christian's eyes had drifted. To Caleb. Across the room. Muscles flexed, shirt damp, focused like a blade.
Only—his eyes kept flicking back. Watching. Measuring. Burning. And not saying a word.
Christian swallowed. The air felt thicker now. Tighter.
Coach Morrison's whistle broke through the tension.
"Partner stretches! Ten minutes—grab someone who won't break you!"
Alec immediately turned to Christian. "That's me, by the way. I don't break people. Unless they like it."
Christian opened his mouth to argue—too slow. Alec was already guiding him to the open mats near the mirrors.
They dropped to the floor, legs sprawled, laughter still lingering between them. Alec adjusted his backwards cap, pulled his towel around his shoulders, and flashed that stupidly relaxed grin.
"You ever do assisted hamstring before?"
Christian smirked. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Not when I'm working with someone cute."
Christian rolled his eyes, but there was no bite behind it.
They moved through stretches easily—Alec guiding him gently, offering playful corrections, tapping his foot or shoulder, telling him to breathe. Christian let himself lean into it. Into the calm. Into being touched without pressure. Seen without expectations.
"Okay, your turn to stretch me," Alec said, laying back and lifting a leg with mock dramatics. "Be gentle. I'm fragile."
"You're built like a linebacker."
Alec gasped. "You noticed."
Christian shook his head, fighting a smile, and took hold of Alec's leg.
Across the room, Caleb bent over in a forward fold. His form was perfect. His focus? Not so much.
He wasn't looking at his partner. He was watching them.
Each time Alec adjusted closer, each time Christian smiled, each time their knees bumped—Caleb's eyes tracked the movement. Quiet. Calculating. That unreadable expression carved into his face like stone.
He stretched, sure. But his gaze didn't leave them.
When the timer buzzed, Alec was still grinning. He rolled up off the mat, tossing his towel over his shoulder like he was ready for a beach day.
"Alright," he said, nudging Christian's arm. "We survived stretching, I'd say that calls for a reward."
Christian gave him a side glance. "What kind of reward?"
"Smoothies. Off campus. My treat. Consider it a celebration."
Christian hesitated. "A celebration of... what?"
Alec shrugged, light and easy. "Becoming friends. Unless that handshake earlier didn't count."
Christian blinked.
Across the gym, Caleb had paused mid-sip from his water bottle. He hadn't moved—but his eyes flicked to Christian again. Quiet. Piercing.
"Yeah. Sure. Smoothie sounds good."
Alec lit up. "Peanut butter banana it is. You're gonna love it."
They left together, trading lazy jokes and half-tired groans as they walked out into the late afternoon sun.
Behind them, Caleb finally looked away. But only after they were gone.
The smoothie place was cool and colorful, indie music humming softly overhead, air thick with pineapple, coconut, and frozen fruit.
Alec ordered without hesitation—two peanut butter banana smoothies.
They sat at a table in the corner, drinks in hand.
"So," Alec said, leaning back, "scale of one to ten—how bad was that stretch? And be honest. I'm trying to get better."
Christian took a sip. "Seven. You talk too much."
Alec grinned. "Then I'll keep doing it. Can't ruin my brand."
Christian let out a quiet laugh.
"You're smiling more today," Alec said casually. "I like it."
Christian shrugged. "You're easier to talk to than most."
"Including Weston?"
Christian blinked, caught off-guard. "I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to."
Christian looked down into his smoothie. It tasted different now. Still good. Still sweet. But...
Caleb's stare burned at the back of his thoughts.
That stillness. That tension. That way he watched without saying a single thing—like Christian was some kind of riddle only he was allowed to solve.
And he didn't know why it lingered. Why it stuck like a thorn in the moment.
"Earth to Evans," Alec said, snapping lightly. "You okay?"
Christian shook it off. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Then this was a good idea." Alec clinked his cup lightly against Christian's. "To friends. And post-workout sugar."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're not denying the 'friends' part, though."
Christian gave him a sideways glance. "No. I'm not."
Christian pushed the dorm door open, half-finished smoothie in hand. The room was quiet.
Caleb was inside—shirtless, towel slung around his neck, scrolling through something on his phone like he hadn't been waiting. But the second Christian stepped in, Caleb's eyes rose.
No greeting. No sarcasm. He walked over, calm. Slow. And took the smoothie right out of Christian's hand.
Christian blinked. "Seriously?"
Caleb sipped. Just one long, deliberate sip. Then handed it back.
"I thought you were more of a blueberry ginger guy than peanut butter banana."
He didn't wait for a reaction. Didn't ask. Didn't explain.
Just turned, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.
Christian stood there, frozen in place. Still holding the smoothie. Not sure what the hell just happened.