Hate On The Ice, Mine In The Dark

_Nathan’s POV_

I should have stayed on the ice longer. At least there, I had an excuse to hit Miles Silvermane.

The final buzzer still rang in my ears when I grabbed the front of his jersey and shoved him into the boards. Our helmets cracked together. 4-3. We lost. Again. 

The crowd was still loud, but all I could hear was my own pulse and the low, mocking laugh he let out right against my face.

“Still sore about that last goal, Ashwood?”

Six years of playing against Miles Silvermane had taught me one thing: he never stopped until he got a reaction. Tonight he had whispered something filthy after I missed a shot in the second period, then smiled like he’d already won when I shoved him in response. He always knew exactly which buttons to press.

The Silvermane name had been poison in my family long before I ever stepped onto a hockey rink.

The refs finally dragged us apart. Penalties both. I skated off without looking back, jaw locked so tight it hurt. My wolf was restless under my skin. It had hated every opponent I’d ever faced. Miles was different. Around him, it never seemed interested in fighting. That fact alone made me want to put my fist through a wall.

The locker room was chaos when I got there. 

“Fucking hell, Ashwood,” Carter yelled from across the room. He was already half undressed, tape hanging off his ankles. “You almost took Silvermane’s head off out there.”

“I didn’t,” I said, dropping my stick. “Almost.”

A few guys laughed. Jax, our captain, tossed a towel at me. “We lost by one and you’re out here picking fights. Coach is gonna love that.”

“I wasn’t picking a fight,” I muttered.

“You were,” Jax said. He wasn’t mad. Just tired. “You’ve been off all week.”

I wasn’t the guy who lost his temper. My teammates knew that. My coaches knew that. My father had spent years making sure I knew better. Control. Discipline. Ashwoods don’t make scenes.

Apparently, none of that mattered when Miles Silvermane was involved.

I sat on the bench and started pulling off my pads. My hands were steady. They always were. But my wolf was pacing. Back and forth. Like it smelled something it couldn’t place.

“You good?” Jax asked quietly.

“Fine,” I said.

He didn’t believe me. But he let it go.

The showers were loud. Steam and yelling and the clank of equipment. I kept my head down. Didn’t look at anyone. The win would’ve made this easier. Losses always made the house feel heavier.

My phone buzzed in my bag.  

`Dad: Call me when you’re done.`

I ignored it.

I was halfway out of my gear when it hit me.

My father had taught me the Silvermane name before he taught me how to skate.

I was eight. We were in his office. He had a photo on the wall — two packs standing together at some charity event twenty years ago. Ashwoods on the left. Silvermanes on the right. Everyone smiling.

“This is them,” Dad had said, tapping the glass right over a man with silver-gray eyes. Miles’s uncle. “They took everything from us.”

“What did they take?” I’d asked.

“Business. Territory. Respect.” His voice went flat. “And they’ll take more if you let them. You never trust a Silvermane, Nathan. Not with your money. Not with your pack. Not with your back.”

I remembered nodding. Serious. Like I understood.

I remembered seeing Miles for the first time two years later at a junior league game. Same eyes. Same smirk. He’d knocked me on my ass in the first period and offered me a hand up after.

I didn’t take it.

Dad would’ve been proud.

The memory sat sour in my chest. I slammed my locker shut harder than I needed to. 

I wasn’t thinking about Miles.

Which meant I was absolutely thinking about Miles.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the tunnel. Showers, change, out. That was the plan. Get home before I had to talk to my father. Before I had to explain another loss to another Ashwood.

The tunnel felt colder than usual. Staff were already clearing equipment near the ice, and the locker room voices were fading behind me. I just needed to get out.

I almost made it.

A hand slammed against the concrete wall next to my head, cutting off my path. 

Miles stood in front of me, still in full gear, helmet tucked under one arm. Sweat darkened his hair. Those silver-gray eyes locked onto mine with the same quiet confidence that had been getting under my skin for years.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

“Get out of my way.”

He didn’t move. If anything, he stepped closer. The heat from his body cut through the layers of my gear. I hated that I noticed the height difference, the way he smelled like ice and sweat and something sharper, the calm way he looked at me like he already knew something I refused to admit.

I hated that I noticed things I had no business noticing.

“You played like you wanted to hurt me,” Miles murmured. “Did it feel good?”

I shoved his chest. He barely shifted. Solid. Like a wall.

“Fuck off.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Make me.”

The tunnel had quieted, but voices still echoed from the direction of the ice. I should have walked away. I had done it a hundred times before.

I didn’t move.

Miles took another step. The space between us disappeared. My wolf stirred again, the way it always did around him. Not angry. Not defensive. Just... awake. 

I told myself to shove him harder. To walk past him. To remember exactly who he was. Silvermane. The enemy. The name my father spat like a curse.

Instead I stayed right where I was.

For a long second we just stared at each other. His jaw was tight. Mine probably was too. Then Miles leaned in, slow enough that I had time to stop him.

I didn’t.

His mouth met mine.

The kiss was rough and angry, nothing careful about it. My back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. Miles pressed fully against me, one thigh sliding between my legs. Heat shot through me so fast it made my head spin.

I should have pushed him away.

Instead my hands fisted in his jersey and pulled him closer.

That was the part that terrified me.

This was Miles. The heir of the pack my father had raised me to destroy. So why wasn’t I stopping him? Why was I kissing him back like I’d been waiting for this?

Miles made a low sound against my mouth and deepened the kiss. One of his hands gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. The other braced against the wall beside my head, caging me in. When his hand moved lower and pressed firmly against the front of my pants, a sharp breath left me. He smiled against my lips like he’d won something.

My wolf was clawing at my control now. It didn’t want to fight him. It wanted more. It wanted _him_.

Footsteps and voices suddenly grew louder from the other end of the tunnel. Staff were coming.

Reality hit me hard.

I shoved Miles in the chest. He stumbled back a step. For a split second something flickered across his face—too fast for me to name—before the usual smirk returned.

My heart was racing. I could still taste him. My lips felt swollen. My body was aching for something I had no business wanting.

I turned and walked away as fast as I could, forcing my legs to keep moving.

Behind me, Miles’s voice followed, low and rough.

“Keep walking, Ashwood.”

I didn’t stop.

His next words hit harder.

“Next time I kiss you, I’m not letting you leave until you come for me.”

The locker room was empty when I got back.

Everyone had cleared out. My gear was still scattered on the bench like I’d left in a hurry. I stood in front of the mirror and stared.

My lip was swollen. Red. There was a faint mark on my neck where his collar had scraped me. I looked wrecked. I looked like someone who’d been kissed.

My wolf paced again. It wasn’t angry. It was satisfied. Pleased. 

“It was adrenaline,” I told it. “It was the game. It was losing.”

The wolf didn’t agree. It just settled, like it had been waiting for this.

My phone buzzed. 

Unknown number.  

`Miles: You can keep pretending you hate me.`

I stared at it. My thumb hovered over delete. I pressed it.

The screen went black. Then lit up again immediately.

`Miles: See you tomorrow, Ashwood.`

I threw the phone in my bag and zipped it shut.

Outside, the parking lot was empty. Cold air hit my face and did nothing to cool me down.

My father’s text was still there.  

`Dad: Call me when you’re done'

I started the car. My hands were shaking.

I told myself I’d forget the kiss before morning.

But the taste of him was still on my tongue.  

And my wolf was still smiling.