Chapter Four: Home Love

The car ride home from the rink carried a heavier silence than usual. Elias gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, the engine’s low hum the only sound breaking the quiet between him and Elara. Practice had left a sour taste in his mouth that no amount of post-session stretching could wash away. Jax Thorne’s voice still echoed in his head, those sharp, cutting words in the locker room, the way his eyes had burned with something far more personal than casual disdain.

Elias cleared his throat, trying to lighten the dry vibe that had settled like fresh frost. “Driving suits you more, you know. You handle the wheel like it owes you money.”

Elara glanced over from the passenger seat, one eyebrow arched. She had claimed shotgun rights the moment they left the arena, citing “emotional support duties” after the locker room incident. “Flattery won’t distract me from the fact that some meathead tried to start World War III over a birthmark. Do you know that asshole? The tall one with the permanent scowl, Jax something?”

Elias snorted, popping a piece of gum into his mouth and chewing it with deliberate nonchalance as he flicked through his phone at a red light. The screen glowed with notifications, messages from teammates congratulating them again on Nationals qualification, a few sponsor inquiries, and the usual flood of fan edits from their regional win. “Eww, where would I know that prick from? He’s probably one of those guys who peaked in junior league and now compensates by bullying anyone who doesn’t bench-press their body weight.”

Elara drummed her fingers on the dashboard, her expression darkening. “If this bully shit continues, I swear I’m going to fuck him over so hard he’ll wish he’d never laced up skates. I’ll shove his head so far up his own ass he’ll be able to taste his own homophobic bullshit.”

She gripped the steering wheel dramatically (even though she wasn’t driving), twisting it as if it were Jax’s neck, complete with exaggerated sound effects. “Take that, you oversized puck-chaser! And that!”

Elias’s face split into a mix of amusement and confusion, his cheeks lifting despite the lingering tension. He nearly choked on his gum. “Wait, fuck him over? Like…?”

“Oh my God, not that kind of fuck!” Elara burst out laughing, the sound bright and contagious, cutting through the heavy air like sunlight on ice. She doubled over in her seat, shoulders shaking. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Elias Noir. I meant destroy his reputation, file complaints, maybe accidentally spill protein shake all over his gear. The platonic, vengeful kind of fuck-over.”

Elias joined her, laughter spilling out until his eyes watered. For a moment, the car filled with the easy camaraderie that had carried them through countless early mornings and late nights on the ice. “Platonic fuck-over. Noted. Though knowing you, you’d probably choreograph the whole takedown like one of our programs, triple axel of revenge.”

They laughed until the light turned green, the tension easing just enough for Elias to breathe properly again. Elara wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “Seriously, though. If he keeps coming at you like that, we tell Coach. Or better, your dads. They’d have his entire team blacklisted before he could say ‘sorry.’”

Elias shrugged, eyes on the road as they turned into their gated estate. The upscale neighborhood was quiet this time of evening, manicured lawns glowing under soft streetlights, luxury homes set back from wide, tree-lined streets. He and Elara lived just three blocks apart in the same exclusive enclave, close enough for late-night ice cream runs or emergency pep talks after tough practices. “I can handle it. He’s all bark. Probably insecure about his own… stick skills or whatever.”

Elara rolled her eyes but let it drop as they pulled up to her house first. The modern two-story home with its sleek glass accents and perfectly trimmed hedges looked warm and inviting, lights already on in the living room. She unbuckled and stepped out, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Text me when you get home, superstar. And if that prick shows up in your dreams tonight, punch him for me.”

“Will do, potato,” Elias called back, waving as she headed up the walkway. She turned at the door, blowing an exaggerated kiss before disappearing inside.

Alone now, Elias continued the short drive to his own house. The estate’s security gate hummed open at his approach, and he navigated the familiar winding driveway. His family’s home was a spacious contemporary build, clean lines, large windows overlooking a private garden, and an indoor pool that doubled as recovery space after brutal training days. Wealth had its perks, especially when both his fathers had built successful careers that allowed them to support his skating dreams without question.

He parked in the garage, killed the engine, and dropped the car keys into the elegant marble tray by the entrance with a soft clink. The house smelled faintly of garlic and herbs, dinner already underway. Elias cat-walked through the foyer with playful exaggeration, hips swaying in an exaggerated model strut that always made his dads laugh.

“I’m home, daddies!” he called out in a singsong voice, giggling as he entered the bright, open-concept kitchen.

Mr. Peter Noir looked up from the island, his warm brown eyes lighting up at the sight of his son. At fifty-two, Peter still carried the graceful posture of someone who had once danced professionally before transitioning into arts management. He crossed the room in a few strides and pulled Elias into a tight hug, ruffling his dark hair affectionately. “There’s my baby. How was practice today? You look like you could use a good meal and maybe a massage.”

Elias melted into the embrace for a moment, the familiar scent of Peter’s cologne grounding him. “It was okay. Mostly. One homophobic ass almost ruined it for me, but don’t worry—it’ll be taken care of. By me, probably with Elara’s dramatic assistance.”

Peter pulled back, concern creasing his forehead. “Homophobic? What happened?”

Before Elias could elaborate, his other father, Dave, turned from the stove where he was dishing out roasted salmon, quinoa, and steamed vegetables onto plates. Dave was the more analytical one, tall and distinguished, with silver threading through his hair from years running a finance firm. He set the plates down and wiped his hands on a towel. “I heard the Jonas hockey team is sharing ice with you guys now. Their rink’s under maintenance, right? That must be throwing off everyone’s rhythm.”

Elias nodded, sliding onto one of the barstools at the island. He accepted the plate Dave passed him, the food looking as perfectly plated as always. “Yeah. They’re loud, aggressive, and apparently one of them has a personal vendetta against figure skaters breathing the same air. Called me princess, made fun of my birthmark, threw around every tired slur in the book. It was… whatever. Elara shut it down before it turned into an actual fight.”

Both men exchanged a look. Peter sat beside him, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “You know we’re proud of how you handle yourself, Elias. But if it escalates, we can step in. No one gets to make our son feel small, especially not some entitled hockey player hiding behind his pads.”

Dave served himself and joined them, his expression thoughtful. “Jonas team has a reputation for being rough. Their coach is old-school, but the players… some of them come from families that don’t exactly celebrate diversity. Just be careful. Focus on your program. Nationals is the priority.”

Elias took a bite of the salmon, savoring the lemon-herb seasoning. The meal was comforting, a reminder of the stable, loving home he’d always known. His two fathers had raised him openly, never once making him feel ashamed of who he was. Coming out at fourteen had been met with hugs and a celebratory ice cream run, not lectures or conditional love. That support had given him the confidence to compete at the highest levels without hiding.

Still, tonight the words from the locker room stung more than he wanted to admit. “I’ll be fine. He’s just trying to get under my skin. Probably threatened by anyone who moves with actual grace instead of brute force.”

Peter chuckled softly. “That’s my boy, elegant even when plotting revenge. But seriously, if you need to talk more about it, we’re here. No judgment.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they ate. Dave asked about their short program tweaks for Nationals, and Peter shared updates from his latest arts foundation project. Elias laughed at their stories, the warmth of the kitchen slowly thawing the ice that had settled in his chest during practice. He told them about Elara’s dramatic steering-wheel revenge reenactment, mimicking her exaggerated gestures until both dads were laughing along with him.

Later, after clearing the table and helping load the dishwasher, Elias retreated upstairs to his room. The space was a perfect blend of his worlds, skating posters and medals on one wall, a sleek desk with his laptop on another, and a large window overlooking the garden. He dropped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as the day replayed.

Jax’s face kept surfacing. That towering frame, the cold demeanor cracking just enough to reveal something deeper. The way he had stared in the shower, not just with disgust, but with recognition. And those taunts about the birthmark… how had he known exactly where it was? Elias had been facing away most of the time.

A strange flutter stirred in his stomach. Attraction mixed with irritation. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t even like the guy. Yet the memory of strong hands and heated skin from that forgotten night teased at the edges of his mind again, refusing to stay buried.

Elias rolled onto his side, grabbing his phone. He typed “Jax Thorne hockey” into the search bar, curiosity winning over common sense. A few articles popped up, highlights from recent games, stats showing impressive goal tallies, mentions of his powerful presence on the ice. One photo showed Jax mid-check, expression fierce and focused. Elias stared at it longer than he should have, tracing the sharp jawline and broad shoulders with his eyes.

“Asshole,” he muttered, but there was no real heat behind it anymore. Just confusion. And maybe the tiniest spark of something he wasn’t ready to name.

Downstairs, Peter and Dave lingered at the table, voices low.

“He seemed okay,” Peter said, “but I worry. That kind of bullying can wear on anyone, even someone as confident as Elias.”

Dave nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on it. If it continues, I can make a discreet call. No one messes with our family.”

Up in his room, Elias set the phone aside and headed for a quick shower, his second of the day. As the hot water cascaded over him, he traced the three small dots on his lower back with his fingers. The mark had always been just a quirk, something his dads had called “his little constellation” when he was a kid. Now it felt like a secret he didn’t understand.

He dressed in comfortable sweats and collapsed back onto the bed, exhaustion pulling at him. Tomorrow would bring another shared practice. Another chance for Jax to push. Another opportunity for Elias to push back.

As sleep crept in, fragments of the club night flickered again, lips on his skin, a deep groan vibrating against his throat, the overwhelming sensation of being filled and wanted so fiercely.

He didn’t know the face.

But his body remembered the touch.

And across town in his own fractured home, Jax Thorne lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling with the same restless energy. The birthmark haunted him. Elias’s defiant eyes haunted him. The lies he told his teammates, his father, himself, they were cracking under the weight of one unforgettable night.

The ice they shared was getting thinner.

And neither of them was ready for what lay beneath.