CHAPTER 4

⸻

The sound of blades scraping across ice filled the arena like static in Adrian’s skull. Coach was in one of his moods again—whistle shrieking every two minutes, barking orders like a drill sergeant with a vendetta.

“Carter, Calloway—you’re paired up. Again,” Coach snapped, glaring over his clipboard. “Maybe if you two spent more time skating and less time glaring, we’d win cleaner.”

Adrian’s jaw flexed as Julian skated toward him with that same maddening ease, helmet slightly askew, mouthguard tucked into his glove.

“Can’t stay away from me, huh?” Julian said, tone just loud enough to carry.

“Maybe Coach wants a body count today,” Adrian muttered.

Julian smirked. “You always this cheerful in the mornings?”

“Only when I’m partnered with my least favorite person.”

Julian raised his brows. “You ranked me? That’s cute.”

Adrian didn’t respond. He just crouched lower, gripping his stick tighter. This wasn’t about teamwork. It never was, not with Julian. Every movement was a test, every glance a challenge. They circled each other like wolves forced into a cage.

Coach blew the whistle.

They were off—sprint drills, mirror drills, puck control, passes. Every time Julian moved just a little too close, Adrian retaliated with more force than necessary. Julian didn’t back down. He met aggression with finesse, spinning out of reach, smirking like it was a game.

When they crashed into each other at the end of a tight turn, it was intentional—neither willing to yield.

“Back off,” Adrian hissed.

“You’re the one crowding me, jackass.”

Coach’s whistle shrieked. “Off the ice. Both of you. Now.”

They skated toward the bench, breathing hard, tempers boiling.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Coach snapped. “You think sponsors are paying to see this crap? You’re benched from scrimmage. Sit, shut up, and cool down.”

Adrian dropped onto the bench, helmet in his hands. Julian sat at the far end, shaking sweat from his hair.

Neither said a word.

**

The locker room was quiet after practice, just the hum of showers and the distant echo of pucks hitting the wall as the rookies stayed behind for extra drills.

Adrian tugged off his pads in silence. His muscles ached, his knuckles were scraped, and his head was pounding.

Julian sat on the opposite bench, towel around his neck, chest rising and falling. He looked just as wrecked—but of course, somehow still camera-ready.

“You have a death wish or something?” Adrian finally muttered.

Julian looked up. “Says the guy who kept checking me like it was Game 7.”

“You baited me.”

“You let me.”

Adrian stood, slamming his locker shut. “You never stop talking, do you?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to get through to the guy who walks around like he’s one shove away from snapping.”

“Try harder. You haven’t even come close.”

Julian stood too, closing the space between them. “Why do you hate me, really?”

Adrian stared him down. “You’ve had everything handed to you since day one. The sponsorships. The attention. Everyone thinks you’re this clean-cut golden boy, but you’re just… fake. Manufactured.”

“And you think you’re more real?” Julian’s voice rose. “Because you sulk and scowl and never let anyone in?”

“At least I don’t pretend.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “You think I like being a product? Being branded every time I lace up?”

Adrian hesitated. He hadn’t expected that.

“You think I don’t notice how people only care when I’m smiling or scoring?” Julian’s voice dropped. “They don’t want me. They want the version of me that looks good in interviews and makes them money.”

Adrian blinked.

“I don’t have the luxury of being angry,” Julian said, stepping back. “You get to be complicated. I don’t.”

For the first time, Adrian didn’t have a comeback.

Julian grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Whatever. Keep hating me if it makes you feel real.”

He left without another word.

**

That night, Adrian sat in the dark, the only light coming from his laptop screen.

He hadn’t planned to open the app again. He’d told himself he’d stop obsessing. MidnightViper wasn’t real. Not to him. Just a fantasy. A release.

But the post notification blinked, and his fingers moved before his brain caught up.

New video.

The thumbnail was simple—just shadows, and that voice.

He clicked play.

“There’s a certain pressure in being what people want. Smile enough, and they stop asking questions.

Get it right enough times, and they forget to see the cracks.”

Adrian leaned forward.

“But what happens when the mask sticks?

When no one wants the real you anymore?”

The voice paused—intimate, like it was aimed straight at him.

“Sometimes, the most exhausting thing is pretending you’re fine just because you look like you should be.”

Adrian swallowed hard.

The voice was familiar again. Not just in cadence, but in weight. Like the words had come from somewhere personal. Somewhere too close to what Julian had said earlier in the locker room.

He froze.

Was it…?

No. No way.

He played the clip again. Slower this time.

He caught a glimpse in the corner—part of a hoodie sleeve. Black and gray. Looked like a team jacket. Just for a second.

His heart pounded.

No.

He backed up the video, frame by frame. The lighting made it impossible to see clearly, but there was something in the shape of the jaw, the angle of the lips.

Couldn’t be.

Adrian slammed the laptop shut.

Still, his hand hovered over the keyboard.

He opened the message box on MidnightViper’s page. His thumbs trembled over the keys.

“Do I know you?”

He stared at the words. Deleted them.

Typed again.

“Why does it sound like you’ve been in my head lately?”

Backspaced that, too.

Finally, he just closed the tab and let the silence fill the room.

Whatever this was—it was getting dangerous.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.