Noah

NOAH

************

The arena is already alive when I arrive Friday night, pulsing with energy, a sea of silver and deep blue jerseys shifting under the flashing lights. Music pounds through the speakers, vibrating through my chest as if the entire place shares one heartbeat.

Leo is already seated when I make my way down, balancing a pretzel in one hand and a beer in the other.

“Hey,” I say, dropping into the seat beside him. “Sorry. The line was insane.”

It’s a lie. I circled the arena three times before I even got in line, trying to calm the restless tension in my chest.

Leo doesn’t respond right away. His gaze drifts slowly over me, then settles—very deliberately—on my back.

My shoulders stiffen.

“You’re wearing a jersey,” he says finally, his tone unreadable.

I take a huge bite of the pretzel just to avoid answering. It tastes like cardboard.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I mutter.

“Lean forward.”

“Do you ever think about traveling again?” I deflect quickly. “You’ve been stuck in the city too long.”

“Noah.” His voice sharpens slightly. “Whose name is on your back?”

There is absolutely no way out of this.

I shift in my seat just enough for him to read it.

MILLER. 17.

Silence stretches between us.

Then Leo blinks slowly. “Am I missing something?”

The lights dim before I can answer, and the roar of the crowd rises like a tidal wave as the players hit the ice. My pulse spikes instantly.

And then I see him.

Stefan.

He skates past our section like he owns the entire arena, confidence rolling off him in waves, his movements sharp and controlled. When his eyes find mine, his mouth curves into that familiar, infuriating smirk.

He winks.

God.

This is it. The fake part. The deal.

I force myself to respond, lifting my chin slightly and giving him a cool, measured wink back.

His grin widens.

Behind him, Luca follows onto the ice.

The moment his gaze lands on me, something dark and satisfied flickers in his expression. For a split second, my stomach drops—but then something sharper rises in its place.

Good.

Let him see it.

Let him think whatever he wants.

“Okay,” Leo says slowly beside me, turning his full attention to me now. “Start talking.”

I clasp my hands together, lowering my voice as the players line up.

“We’re not actually dating,” I begin.

His eyebrow lifts.

I exhale, the words coming faster now. I tell him about Luca’s message. About how I thought it would be an apology. About how it wasn’t. About the arrangement Stefan suggested.

Leo listens without interrupting, his expression growing darker with every word.

“He’s unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

I shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though something tight twists in my chest.

“It’s temporary,” I say. “Just until January. It helps Stefan with the captain image, and it helps me deal with Luca. That’s it.”

Leo studies me carefully.

“You hate him,” he points out.

I open my mouth to agree automatically—but the words don’t come.

Because I don’t.

Not really.

“I made a deal,” I say instead. “I’m just sticking to it.”

The puck drops, and the game explodes into motion.

For a while, neither of us speaks. The sound of skates cutting ice, sticks clashing, and the crowd roaring fills the space between us.

Then Stefan scores.

It happens so fast I almost miss it—the sharp flick of his wrist, the blur of movement, the puck already in the net before anyone can react.

The arena erupts.

Leo grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. “Clap,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re supposed to be impressed.”

“I am impressed,” I protest weakly, but I clap anyway, heat creeping up my neck.

I don’t miss the way Stefan looks toward me through the chaos, like he’s searching for my reaction.

And when our eyes meet, something strange and unfamiliar stirs in my chest.

Not annoyance.

Not irritation.

Something warmer.

Something dangerous.

We sit again, and Leo glances sideways at me. “That was incredible.”

“Don’t tell him that,” I mutter.

But as the players reset, my attention stays on Stefan.

And that’s when I notice it.

The shift.

The exhaustion.

His expression goes flat the moment the celebration ends, like someone flipped a switch. The energy drains out of him, leaving behind something heavy, something worn down.

It catches me off guard.

That’s not the Stefan I know. Not the arrogant, untouchable version he shows the world.

This one looks… tired.

Really tired.

The kind that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Before I can think too deeply about it, the play resumes. Stefan takes the puck again, cutting across the ice with lethal precision.

Then it happens.

A brutal hit slams him into the boards right in front of us.

The crack echoes.

My stomach drops instantly.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Is he okay?”

Leo’s gaze flicks to me, sharp with interest. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I just—he shouldn’t get hurt.”

But my chest is already tight.

Stefan pushes himself off the glass, wincing slightly. There’s blood on his lip.

Then he looks up.

Right at me.

A slow grin spreads across his face despite the injury.

Oh no.

He taps the glass.

Points at me.

Then taps his lip.

Heat floods my entire body.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

“Kiss it better,” he mouths, eyes gleaming.

“No,” I mouth back immediately, shaking my head.

The camera finds me.

Of course it does.

My face appears on the giant screen above the arena, and the reaction is instant.

“DO IT!” someone yells behind me.

Then the chanting starts.

“Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!”

I want the ground to swallow me whole.

Stefan just leans closer to the glass, completely unbothered, completely enjoying this.

“Hartley,” he calls, tapping his stick again. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I glance past him—and meet Luca’s gaze.

He’s watching.

Expression tight.

Something ugly and possessive flickering beneath the surface.

And just like that, the embarrassment burns away, replaced by something sharper.

Fine.

You want a show?

I’ll give you one.

Before I can second-guess it, I lean forward, pressing my lips lightly against the glass where Stefan’s face is on the other side.

The arena explodes.

Cheers, whistles, shouting—it’s deafening.

Stefan freezes for half a second, clearly not expecting me to actually do it.

Then he recovers fast, clutching his chest dramatically like he’s been shot, his grin brighter than ever.

He winks at me before skating away.

Idiot.

My heart is racing.

My face is burning.

But when I glance toward Luca again, the look on his face makes it worth it.

Leo lets out a low laugh beside me. “Well. That was something.”

I sink back into my seat, dragging a hand over my face.

“This is going to get out of control,” I mutter.

Because Stefan Miller doesn’t know how to do anything halfway.

And I have a feeling tonight is only the beginning.