The air inside the rink was cold enough to bite, but Christian barely felt it. The nerves kept him warm.
He was already laced up, helmet strapped tight, waiting at the edge of the bench as the sound of skates echoed off the boards and sticks tapped in anticipation. The assistant coach blew the first whistle, and the players surged onto the ice like a school of sharks.
Christian joined them, falling into the warm-up routine.
Laps.
Forward, backward, tight turns, full-speed sprints along the boards. Each stride burned, but he pushed harder—he had to.
Edge drills.
Crossovers around cones, figure eights, wide arcs, and sharp stops that sent up sprays of ice. Coach Tanner barked corrections across the rink like cannon fire.
Stickhandling.
Puck on his blade, weaving through cones, shifting weight, eyes scanning. Don't look down. Don't fumble.
The team transitioned into passing drills, moving in pairs across the neutral zone. That's when Christian noticed Kai Ren Matsuda gliding beside him, perfect posture, blade control like he was dancing.
Kai passed the puck with a crisp snap, then spoke without looking.
"Protein bar for breakfast?"
"What?"
"You're sluggish. You need carbs. Glycogen depletion kills acceleration."
Christian blinked, barely catching the return pass.
"Thanks for the TED Talk."
Kai just hummed, unbothered. "You'll thank me when your quads stop cramping by lunch."
The whistle blew again.
Coach Tanner skated into the center of the ice, clipboard in hand, his voice cutting through the rink with authority.
"Alright, listen up! We're rotating lines today. I want chemistry, clean transitions, and smart play. I don't care if you've never looked at each other before—you will move like a unit."
He started calling out trios.
Christian inhaled slowly, waiting.
"Weston. Matsuda."
Then a pause.
"Evans."
Christian barely reacted, but something jolted in his chest like someone had yanked a string too tight. Of course. Of course Coach Tanner would throw him on a line with Caleb. He should've seen it coming.
He didn't look at him.
Kai Matsuda passed first—silent, blade control sharp and effortless. "Try not to fall behind," he said without turning. It wasn't a dig. It was a fact. Cold, precise. The same way he moved on the ice.
Christian locked his jaw, skated to his spot on the left.
Caleb was already at center, helmet low, chin tilted like he was reading the ice, not the people on it. Christian took his place and braced himself.
The first puck dropped.
Christian flew down the left, body humming, eyes sharp. "Open!" he called out as he broke through the lane.
Caleb passed it—hard. Way too hard.
The puck slammed against Christian's stick and bounced, rattling down the ice like a warning shot. His gloves stung from the force.
He glanced toward Caleb.
Nothing. No apology. Just a flicker of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.
They reset. Second rep. Christian cut through the center, open again. This time the pass came late—too slow, too soft. He had to slow down and twist awkwardly to catch it.
Again, a hint of a smirk from Caleb. Like he was keeping score.
On the third rush, Caleb bumped him. Barely. Just shoulder to shoulder as they crossed during transition, not enough for a whistle but plenty enough to throw him off.
Christian recovered, jaw tight.
"You good?" Caleb asked, almost gently.
Christian didn't answer. But his chest felt like it was on fire.
They lined up for the next drill—puck cycling behind the net. Tight passes, split-second decisions, reading your teammates.
Caleb passed to Kai. Kai passed back.
Christian moved into space—open, ready.
The puck didn't come.
When it did, it was late again. Or too sharp. Or bouncing. Just enough to slow the play.
Every touch was a signal. Every missed connection a nudge. A game.
"Your center's antagonizing you," Kai said without emotion, his stride cutting effortlessly past them. "If you're not going to adapt, I suggest fighting back."
Christian didn't reply. The frustration bloomed under his ribs.
The puck cycling drill wasn't better. Christian cut tight around the net, trying to sync with the rhythm, but it didn't matter—Caleb only passed to Kai. When Christian did get the puck, it came half a second too early or late, just enough to throw everything off.
Christian gritted his teeth.
Caleb skated past and murmured, just loud enough: "If you can't take the heat, Evans… maybe you're not cut out for this line."
Christian kept his head down, his stick tight, and his jaw clenched. Caleb was punishing him. Not loudly. Not obviously. Just enough to make him feel it in every pass, every blade that skimmed too close, every time he looked open and got ignored.
He could see the smirk starting to pull at Caleb's mouth behind his cage, and it made his blood boil.
Coach Tanner clapped his gloves and called for a full-ice scrimmage.
"Weston's line—you're up."
Christian skated to the faceoff circle, heart pounding hard enough to echo in his ears.
The puck dropped.
Caleb snatched it with practiced ease. Christian was already moving, carving through space, wide open on the wing. He raised his stick, called for it—but Caleb held on too long, forcing him to drift offside, then sent the puck behind him. Not enough to ruin the shift, just enough to piss him off.
They cycled through again. Then again.
Every pass was a tease. Every shift, a slow burn. Caleb was either giving him too much or not enough, like this was some twisted test he hadn't agreed to take.
When they coasted toward the bench for the next line change, Christian skated right up to him.
"You gonna keep playing games," he snapped, "or are you gonna let me play hockey?"
Caleb didn't even blink. "If you can't handle pressure, you're not ready for the team."
Christian cut in closer, eyes sharp. "You're the one who's scared to play with me."
Caleb's mouth tugged—just slightly.
"Fine," he said in a relaxed way. "You want the puck? Let's make it interesting."
He held up a gloved finger between them.
"I give you the puck and let you show off, and you owe me one."
Christian's breath hitched. "What kind of favor?"
"My choice. My timing."
He shouldn't say yes. He shouldn't. But he needed the chance to prove himself more than he needed air to breathe.
"Deal."
When the puck dropped again, everything changed.
Caleb looked up and passed—fast, clean, no mind games. Christian caught it mid-stride and exploded down the left side, dancing past a defenseman, body coiled tight with momentum. Kai cut across the crease at the perfect second, and Christian flicked the puck across ice without hesitation.
Bar down. Goal.
They didn't celebrate. There was no time.
They lined up again. And again. And this time, they moved like something alive.
Christian started anticipating Caleb's cuts. Caleb started reading Christian's speed. The puck moved like it belonged to all of them, passing between sticks like electricity. Kai filled every gap with surgical precision, always where he needed to be, always ready to finish what they started.
Another shot. Another goal.
Coach's whistle rang out after their fourth shift in a row.
"That's a line," he shouted from the bench. "You three keep that up!"
Christian exhaled hard, chest tight—not from exertion, but from the burn of being seen. He turned to skate toward the boards when Caleb veered just close enough to speak.
"You looked good. You owe me."
Christian didn't look at him. "I know."
Behind them, Kai followed in his usual quiet way, voice flat and cool.
"Your posture's still crooked on transitions."
Christian huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a growl. "You're the worst."
Kai didn't flinch. "Not yet."
By the time Christian stepped off the ice, he was flying on something more than adrenaline.
His body was wrecked—sweat-drenched, sore—but his mind buzzed, still replaying every pass, every clean connection with the puck. He'd done it. He didn't just survive out there with Caleb—he'd matched him. Matched them.
Even Coach Tanner had looked impressed.
The locker room swallowed him in warmth and noise. Music thumped somewhere near the back, someone was already singing along badly, and the smell of sweat, ice, and joy filled the air like steam.
He dropped onto the bench in front of his cubby, already tugging off his jersey, a rare smile playing on his face. His muscles ached, but it felt earned.
For the first time since stepping into camp, Christian felt like he belonged.
Then Caleb's voice cut through the noise—calm, loud, and unmistakably smug.
"Hey, boys."
The locker room didn't exactly go quiet, but the energy shifted. Like when lightning's about to strike.
Christian glanced up—just in time to see Caleb walking straight toward him, helmet off, hair damp and curling slightly from sweat. He had that slow, confident stride that didn't need attention but always got it.
Then—an arm slung casually across Christian's shoulders.
Heavy. Warm. Way too familiar.
Christian blinked. "What are you—?"
"Let me introduce you all," Caleb said, smirk creeping across his face, "to my new left hand."
He gave Christian's shoulder a quick squeeze.
"Christian Evans."
Laughter broke out instantly. Some players whistled, a few clapped like they were watching a show.
Ruben Carter grinned from across the room, rubbing at his jaw. "Shit, you're lucky. Bet he does all the nasty stuff with the right hand."
Christian's mouth opened—what the hell—but before he could say anything, Kai chimed in from his bench, voice cold and perfectly neutral.
"Inaccurate. He's dominant on the left side."
Dom Price cackled. "Matsuda's out here dropping biomechanical stats. Jesus."
Caleb just laughed softly, hand still comfortably anchored around Christian's shoulders. "If he's nice to me," he said, not looking at anyone but Christian now, "I might start treating my left hand better."
The locker room whooped. A few towels got tossed. Someone banged a stick against a bench.
And then—before Christian could react—Caleb's hand slid down and smacked his ass.
Hard.
The crack echoed too loud in the tile-heavy space.
Christian jolted, but it wasn't just the sound or the force—it was the grab that came after. Caleb's fingers pressed in for half a second too long, just enough to make Christian feel it in his gut.
Heat bloomed across his chest, sharp and overwhelming.
He shoved Caleb off with both hands. "Get off me," he snapped, voice a little too breathless, and stood fast. Then bolted.
Laughter erupted.
Dom hollered behind him, wheezing, "Weston, you made your left wing fly away!"
Ruben added, "He ran like he just found out what you do with your left hand too!"
But Caleb? He didn't join the noise.
He stood still, watching where Christian had vanished, that slow half-smile lingering on his face like a secret.
"He's fast when he wants to be," he murmured, almost to himself.
Ruben leaned around his cubby, one brow raised. "You proud of that?"
Caleb shrugged. Calm. Amused.
"We'll see if he keeps up tomorrow."
Christian didn't stop until the hallway curved and the noise behind him faded into a dull roar.
Christian leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
His heart was a fist in his chest, pulsing in places that had nothing to do with adrenaline. He could still feel it—Caleb's hand. Not just the slap. The grab. The press of fingers, the heat of it, how it landed somewhere deeper than it should've.
It hadn't felt like a joke. Not really.
And the worst part? The part Christian couldn't outrun?
It was how his body reacted. The jolt of electricity. The warmth flooding low. The way his skin buzzed where Caleb touched him, like it wasn't fear or anger burning through him—but something else.
He swallowed hard, throat tight.
What the hell was that?!
Why did it feel good?!
WHY DID HE LIKE IT?!