Black Ice

~ALAN~

I leaned my forehead against the cool shower wall, letting the water hit my neck until the heat turned my skin a raw, angry red.

Practice was a mess.

Coach was riding us for the upcoming playoffs, and my quads felt like they had been injected with lead.

The air in the Briarwood locker room was heavy, wet soup—old sweat, the strong smell of sports tape, and the fancy cologne the guys used to cover up the rink smell.

Outside my stall, the other Knights were a mix of loud voices, slamming locker doors, and high-fives.

Loud rap music with heavy bass played from a speaker in the corner, shaking the floor and my feet.

It was meant to be a fun time after skating, but it didn't help with the silence in my mind.

“Voss! Are you planning on living in there, or are we going to the Liquid Lounge?”

I didn't look up.

I knew the voice. John, our goalie and my oldest friend. I could hear the steady clack-clack-clack of his skates as he finished unbuckling his pads.

"I’m good," I called back, my voice sounding rougher than I wanted. I reached for the handle, turning the water off and listening to the final, echoing drips.

"You look like shit," John grunted as I stepped out of the stall, dripping wet.

He was already halfway out of his gear, looking like a huge, sweaty wall of muscle.

"Listen, I know the scouts are coming Friday. Don't let it get to you. You’re the best forward this school has seen in a decade. Just play your game. Chill. It will all pass."

The scouts.

The NHL draft. My father’s legacy.

Everyone thought they knew what was in my head. They thought the pressure was the only thing that kept me cold.

They didn't realize that being cold was the only way I knew how to survive the noise of everyone else’s expectations.

"I’m not worried about the scouts, John. I’m playing my game," I lied.

I didn't bother reaching for a towel yet.

I liked the air hitting my skin, the way the chill of the locker room hit me hard after the warm shower. I was 6'4" and healthy, a big guy covered in tattoos and muscles that usually made people step aside.

I walked toward my locker, completely naked, not giving a single fuck. In this room, we were all the same—meat and bone, sweat and scars.

I reached for my bag, but a sudden change in the room’s energy made me stop.

The locker room was usually loud and messy, but the laughter from the far end near the equipment closet felt different.

It wasn't the usual friendly teasing.

It was harsher. Crueler.

“Please... I’m just trying to finish the floors,” a voice whispered.

It was a small, trembling sound—the kind of sound a rabbit makes when it's cornered by a pack of wolves.

I straightened up, my skin prickling.

I didn't think; I just moved. I didn't care that I didn't have a stitch of clothes on.

I didn't care that my knuckle tattoos were still red from the cold. I followed the sound toward the back, my bare feet silent on the rubber matting.

Miller and two of the freshmen were crowded around a corner. They were laughing, Miller’s large hand braced against a locker, pinning something—someone—into the shadows.

"What's the matter, pretty boy?" Miller teased. "Too good to look at us while you mop? Or maybe you just like the view from down there?"

He kicked a yellow wet floor sign, sending it clattering across the room. The boy trapped against the lockers flinched, a small, violent shiver that went through his entire slender body.

My vision excavated.

"Miller."

My voice wasn't loud, but it was so cold that it made the air in the room feel still.

The three of them froze.

Miller turned his head, his smug, crooked grin faltering when he saw me standing there. I was a head taller than him, dripping

wet, and looking like I was ready to tear someone’s throat out.

"Whoa, Voss. Take it easy," Miller said, putting his hands up but not moving away from the boy. "Just having a little fun with the new janitor. Kid’s a ghost. He doesn't say a word."

"Move," I spat.

Miller hesitated, his eyes darting to the freshmen. He didn't want to lose face, but he knew better than to push me when I was in this headspace.

He stepped back, the swagger in his steps forced and arrogant.

"Fine. He's all yours, Captain. See you at the lounge."

They shuffled past me, the heat of their embarrassment spreading out of them. I didn't look at them. My eyes were locked on the boy in the corner.

He was trembling—proper, bone-deep shaking.

He was wearing an oversized gray jumpsuit that hung off his weak body, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of his mop.

He looked up, and the breath left my lungs like I had been cross-checked in the throat.

He was haunting.

Pale skin, a dusting of light freckles across his nose, and eyes the color of a winter forest—deep, terrified green. His blond hair was messy, clinging to his forehead, and his lips were full and rosy, currently caught between his teeth as he stared at me.

He looked at my chest, then his eyes went wide as he realized I was standing there completely naked, then he looked at the floor, his face flushing a deep, burning red.

I should have walked away.

I should have grabbed my towel, but the way he looked—broken, beautiful, and so goddamn fragile—it hit me harder than any slapshot ever had.

I stepped closer, ignoring the way he flinched.

I reached out, my hand steady as I leaned his chin up, forcing him to look at me. His skin was like silk under my rough thumb.

"You’re safe with me," I growled, my heart beating against my chest like a scared animal. "No one touches you again. You understand?"

He didn't speak. He just looked at me, breathing quickly and lightly.

‘Fuck me,’ I thought, the realization freezing the rage into something much more dangerous.

He was the most beautiful guy i have ever set my eyes on.