Chapter 7: Warm Touch

Elliot's POV

My breath completely hitched in my throat, freezing right inside my chest.

The icy draft of the empty arena vanished instantly, replaced by the intense, burning heat of Cruz’s palms gripping both sides of my waist. Even through the fabric of my practice jersey, his touch felt like a direct fire against my skin, anchoring my body in place as his chest rested lightly against my shoulder blades.

"Stop holding your breath, Hayes," Cruz’s low voice sounded right near my ear. The steady vibration of his words sent an electric wave straight down my spine. "Relax your hips. You're fighting the turn again."

"I'm not fighting it," I managed to say, though my voice sounded tight and breathless in the vast, quiet building. I tried to focus on the ice beneath my blades, but every single nerve in my body was locked onto his hands. "I'm trying to keep my balance."

"You don't need to fight for balance when your core is supported," Cruz murmured, his voice smooth and steady in the dark.

He didn't let go. Instead, he shifted his weight with mine, his skates slicing through the ice in absolute sync as he guided my body step by step through the tight curve. His hands on my waist remained firm and unyielding, adjusting my posture until my lower body locked into the exact, smooth angle needed for the edge.

"Feel that?" Cruz asked quietly, his breath warm against the side of my neck in the chilly darkness. "That's where your power lives. You don't lean with your upper body. You let your hips carry the speed."

"Yeah... I feel it," I stammered, my pulse beating  wildly against my ribs like i was trapped .

I kept my hands tight on my hockey stick, trying desperately to keep my mind on edge control, but it was impossible. My heart was beating so hard in the silent rink that I was convinced Cruz could feel the rhythm right through his own hands. Everything about him—his low, focused voice, the solid warmth of his touch, the quiet intensity holding us together—was completely overwhelming.

"Good," Cruz said softly. "Now let's complete the arc."

We glided together through the center face-off circle, our blades carving a single, flawless line into the fresh ice before gradually coming to a smooth, complete stop right at the red line.

The drill was finished. We were standing completely still.

Yet Cruz did not pull his hands away.

His fingers stayed anchored tightly against my waist, holding me in place in the middle of the dark, empty rink. The only sound left in the building was the sound of our heavy breathing, misting together into small white clouds in the cold air.

"Why are you doing this, Cruz?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. My chest heaved as I tried to pull myself together. The deep rivalry and resentment that had defined every single interaction between us since I arrived at Westbridge felt completely scrambled, melting away into something terrifyingly intense. "Why spend hours out here with me after curfew?"

"I told you," Cruz replied, his voice low and steady. "I need players who care about winning."

"There are twenty other guys on the team who want to win," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "Nathaniel wants to win. Austin wants to win. Why me?"

"Because they play for status, Hayes," Cruz said, his hands tightening just a fraction against my waist. "You play like your entire life depends on every single shift. You play like you have everything to lose."

"I do have everything to lose," I said softly, looking down at our skates on the red line. "My scholarship is all I have. If I fail here, I go back to nothing. I don't have a wealthy family to fall back on like you do."

"You think having money means you don't have anything to lose?" Cruz asked quiet, a sudden drop in his tone that caught me completely off guard. "You think my father lets me fail?"

I kept my eyes on his face, surprised by the raw, hidden weight in his words. "Cruz..."

"If this team doesn't win the regional title this season, my father pulls my spot and sends me to a business school abroad," Cruz said, his voice flat and brutally honest. "He doesn't care about hockey. He cares about control. Every game I play is a fight to keep my own life in my hands. So don't tell me I have nothing to lose."

The confession hung in the cold night air between us, heavy and completely unexpected. The untouchable, arrogant captain who seemed to have everything in the world was standing in front of me, carrying his own suffocating cage.

Slowly, I turned my body around to face him directly within his hold.

Cruz was standing mere inches away. In the dim, amber emergency light falling from the high rafters, his sharp features were soft, stripped completely clean of the cold mask he wore in front of the rest of the squad. His dark blue-gray eyes were locked onto mine, carrying a raw, quiet intensity that made my throat go completely dry.

"So we're both fighting for our lives out here," I said quietly, holding his stare without backing away.

"Looks like it," Cruz murmured, his voice smooth and deep in the stillness between us.

"Then stop making it harder for me during official practice," I said, a small spark of my usual defiance rising up. "Stop acting like you hate my guts when the rest of the team is watching."

"I have to keep order on my ice, Hayes," Cruz said, a faint, almost invisible trace of a smirk touching the edge of his mouth. "If I show you favor, Nathaniel and the others will turn the locker room into a war zone."

"It's already a war zone," I pointed out, my eyes dropping to the space between our chests. "He ruined my blades this morning."

"And you got new ones," Cruz replied softly. "Better ones."

"Because you gave them to me," I whispered, my heart taking another sudden leap inside my chest as I realized how close we were actually standing. "Why did you give them to me, Cruz? That wasn't just about keeping order."

Cruz stared at me in complete silence for a long, agonizing moment. The boundary between hatred and intense attraction blurred until it completely disappeared, leaving only the burning physical reality of his hands resting against my hips.

"You really want to know?" Cruz asked, his voice dropping into a low, rough whisper that sent a thrill straight through my veins.

"Yes," I breathed, unable to look away.

Instead of answering with words, Cruz's grip on my waist tightened firmly, pulling my hips a fraction of an inch closer to his until there was no space left between us at all.

His dark blue-gray eyes slowly dropped down from my gaze, locking onto my cut, swollen lower lip, lingering there in complete, heavy silence as the cold air around us burned.