Kayden
By the time practice finally ended, my legs felt like someone had replaced my bones with wet noodles. Rhys had pushed us harder than I expected for a mid-season routine skate, and I hadn't even had time to catch my breath before he barked for another drill, another sprint, another round.
An "introduction practice," he called it. A punishment practice, if you asked my lungs.
By the time I left the Glacier Dome and reached the hotel the team had booked for me—temporary housing until they figured out whether they wanted to keep me long-term—I felt like I was dragging a dead body that happened to be my own.
The door clicked behind me, and I exhaled for the first time in hours. The room smelled like generic hotel detergent and cold recycled air.
Clean, quiet, empty. A relief. A curse. A place where nobody could smell me, judge me, or ask uncomfortable questions.
I stripped out of my clothes and headed straight into the bathroom. The tiles were cool under my feet, and when I turned on the shower, steam filled the space instantly, curling around me like a fog I could finally hide in.
I stepped under the water and let the heat pound against the back of my neck, washing away sweat and the faint trace of Rhys's pine scent that had clung to me all damn afternoon.
It shouldn't have affected me like that. He shouldn't affect me like that. I pressed my forehead against the shower wall and tried not to think about the way his hand brushed mine in the locker room, or the way his voice sounded when he said my name, or the way he glared at me on the ice every time I so much as breathed wrong.
"Stop thinking about him," I muttered under the rushing water.
My body did not listen. Soon, my hand went down to my cock, rubbing it gently. I fastened my pace, imagining Rhys's tight ass in front of me. "Oh, fuck yes!" I moaned out his name as I came.
First day and I was already jerking off to him. Crazy, right? But I liked it.
After a long while, I shut off the tap, dried myself, and wrapped a towel loosely around my hips.
My reflection stared back at me from the fogged mirror: tired eyes, damp strands of hair sticking to my forehead, a body that looked more fragile than it had during adrenaline-fueled skating.
I wiped the mirror halfway, reached into my duffel bag, and retrieved the small black case I hid under layers of tape and fabric. My suppressant kit. I unlocked it with the code I changed every week. Four digits no one would ever guess.
The injector gleamed under the bathroom light as I bought it out.
I sat on the closed toilet lid and pressed the cold metal against my thigh. For a moment, I hesitated because suppressants always left me feeling dull afterward, like someone had lowered the volume on every emotion I had. But I didn't have the luxury of skipping a dose. Not now. Not when I was surrounded by an entire team of Alphas and Betas. Not when I was sharing air with Rhys Calder.
I pushed the injector down. It was a sharp sting, a slow burn that made me grit my teeth.
I let out a relieved exhale, and the buzzing under my skin calmed almost instantly. I tossed the syringe into the hotel trash, walked out of the bathroom once I was done, and collapsed on the firm hotel bed.
My muscles still ached from practice, and the hot shower had only done so much. I should have slept as soon as I hit the bed. I should have closed my eyes and pretended I wasn't already messing up this fresh start. Instead, out of habit—stupid, masochistic habit—I picked up my phone and started scrolling through the internet.
The first headline nearly punched me between the eyes: AVALANCHE'S NEW #26: KAYDEN VALE STEALS THE SPOTLIGHT… AND MAYBE THE CAPTAIN'S ATTENTION?
I snorted. Loudly. "What attention!"
The notifications were endless. Articles. Comments. Gossip accounts already posting slowed-down footage of the moment Rhys helped me back onto my feet during practice. Someone had zoomed into our hands touching. Someone else had circled the way Rhys had looked at me afterward. The tag #CalderValewas already trending, which was ridiculous and insane and so predictable it made me want to scream.
Scrolling made it worse. There were so many comments about us making it seem like we were a couple.
"Did you see that look? – Social Media Goes Wild."
"Coach Reddick Comments: 'They Seem to Get Along Well.'"
"Compilation Video: Kayden and Rhys's First Day Chemistry."
My jaw dropped. There were screenshots. Slow-motion replays. Edits with stupid sparkles and hearts. Even a split-screen of Rhys looking at me and me looking at the floor like a socially crippled goldfish.
I scrolled until another headline slapped me across the face: "New Avalanche Rookie Already Flirting With the Captain?"
I actually choked. "Flirting? With Calder? You've got to be kidding me."
But the internet loves delusion, so there it was—thousands of comments, some laughing, some arguing, some terrifyingly serious, all trying to ship me with a man who had spoken maybe thirty words to me. Thirty words that had somehow branded themselves into my skull.
I locked my jaw, pushed the phone away for a second, and rubbed slowly at the ache building beneath my ribs.
If only they knew how dangerous it was for me to even stand beside him. If only they knew how the suppressant barely held back my instincts when his pine scent hit me like a punch to the lungs.
I replayed practice in my head, remembering the speed drills I nailed, the passes I executed flawlessly, and the shot I buried top-shelf that even the goalie had applauded.
And then Rhys's voice cutting through it all: "Again, Vale." "You're drifting too far left." "Faster. You can do faster."
He found something wrong in everything I did. Not enough to humiliate me. Just enough to keep me off balance. Just enough to make me chase his approval like an idiot.
And the worst part? A tiny, treacherous part of me didn't hate it as long as I could see his tight ass.
I groaned and dragged my hand down my face. "Get a grip, Kayden. Seriously."
I should have stopped there. I should have stopped scrolling online, but I didn't. Instead… I typed his name into the search bar. Rhys Calder.
His official verified Instagram page popped up instantly; he has 11.2 million followers. The profile picture was him mid-game, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temple, eyes sharp with that predator focus that made people adore him and fear him at the same time.
I shouldn't have clicked. But I did.
The grid loaded, and my breath left me. There were pictures of him at training camps, pictures of him lifting the Stanley Cup above his head, and pictures of him smiling faintly with teammates.
And then—I froze. There were shirtless pictures. A handful of them. Professional shoots. Training photos. A candid one where he was wiping sweat from his neck, muscles shifting thick and solid beneath tanned skin.
His tattoos peeked from beneath the hem of his compression shorts. His ribs expanded with a breath I couldn't hear but felt anyway.
My pulse stuttered. "What the hell," I whispered. "No wonder he has millions of followers. He is so hot!"
I scrolled further, unable to look away. Every photo had hundreds of thousands of likes. Some had millions. The comments were a battlefield of thirst, praise, and devotion.
Meanwhile, my own page struggled to break fifty thousand likes on a good day. The comparison shouldn't have bothered me. But it did. It clawed somewhere deep, where old insecurities sat like bruises that never fully healed.
I should have stopped at that moment, too, and slept. But I didn't. Instead, I followed him. And then, because my self-control was apparently nonexistent, I scrolled back up and tapped "like" on one of his shirtless photos.
It was not even a normal one. No. It was the thirstiest, most unhinged thing I could have possibly done. I liked the one of him leaning against the rink boards after practice, with his shirt off, sweat sliding down his chest like a goddamn commercial.
As soon as the heart icon turned red, I sat up straight.
"Oh no. No, no, no. What the hell did I just do?" I slapped a hand to my face.
He was going to see it. Of course he was going to see it. And worse, he was going to think I liked him. Which I did, but I shouldn't.
I heaved a deep sigh and stared at the screen in horror. He was going to see "Kayden Vale liked your photo." The thought alone nearly made me throw myself out the window.
I dropped the phone on my chest and covered my eyes with my forearm, groaning like my soul was trying to escape my body.
"I'm so screwed."
Tomorrow's practice would be worse. Rhys would push harder or even make comments about me liking his picture. "Kayden!" I groaned and closed my eyes, trying to summon the will to sleep, but all I could see was Rhys's face.