BOARDS AND BODY HEAT

Sleep refused to come that night. Every time I closed my eyes, the arena shadows returned—cold glass against my back, the overwhelming presence of Caleb Ruiz pressing close, his breath warm against my ear. My body stayed restless, caught in a fever I couldn’t name and refused to indulge. Twice I found my hand drifting lower, seeking relief from the tension he had wound so tightly inside me, but I stopped each time. I would not give him that power, even in the privacy of my own mind.

At 4:00 AM I gave up and stood under a freezing shower until my teeth chattered. The cold did nothing to quiet the heat still lingering beneath my skin.

Morning arrived too soon. I dragged my duffel bag across campus to 114 Oak Street, the off-campus hockey house. The two-story building loomed like a fortress built for warriors—peeling paint on the porch, faded team banners in the windows, and an unmistakable scent of pizza boxes, laundry, and unrelenting male energy drifting through the screen door. This was their domain. I was about to live inside it.

Marcus “Riot” Rivera opened the door with an easy, lopsided grin. As alternate captain and goalie, he was one of the few who didn’t look at me like a problem that needed solving.

“Welcome to the madhouse, Jones. Most of the guys are already at morning lifts or still unconscious. Your room’s upstairs—second door on the left.” He paused, smirk widening. “Right next to Captain Sunshine.”

I managed a tight smile, fingers tightening on my bag strap. “Thanks, Riot. I’ll try not to disrupt the peace.”

“Don’t worry about us,” he chuckled. “It’s our fearless leader who’s been slamming doors since dawn.”

The wooden stairs creaked under my weight like they were protesting my presence. When I reached the landing, the door to the room beside mine stood slightly ajar. I told myself not to look. I looked anyway.

Caleb was inside, shirtless, back to the doorway, performing slow, controlled pull-ups on a bar mounted in the frame. Every muscle across his shoulders and back shifted with precise power, sweat tracing lines down his spine. The sight hit me harder than it should have. I forced my gaze away and stepped into my own tiny room—barely large enough for a bed, desk, and narrow closet.

Paper-thin walls.

I could already hear the faint rustle of his movements next door, the low bass of whatever music he played, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Only inches of drywall separated us. The realization settled heavy in my chest: there would be no true escape from him anymore.

Practice that afternoon crackled with a new kind of tension. Coach Harlan had officially announced the upcoming rivalry series against the Wolves. Social media was already burning. Kane Harlow, their captain, had posted our roster with my name circled in red. The caption was vicious: a warning that they didn’t play gentle with “cheerleaders” on their ice.

The locker room laughter sounded forced. Caleb didn’t laugh at all. He sat lacing his skates in silence, but the rigid set of his shoulders radiated quiet fury.

On the ice, he became my shadow.

Midway through defensive drills he blew the whistle and pointed his stick at me. “Jones. One-on-one. Show me you can hold position under pressure.”

The team gathered near the boards to watch. The moment the puck dropped, Caleb came at me like a storm. No mercy, no hesitation. I tried to use my speed, but he was faster and stronger. His shoulder caught me just enough to unbalance me, spinning me until my back met the boards with a solid thud.

He didn’t pull away.

His gear pressed fully against mine, heavy and unyielding. The cold glass chilled my spine while his body heat cut straight through every layer between us. One powerful thigh braced between mine, steadying—trapping—me in place. His hand settled at my waist, grip firm through the pads, guiding my posture lower.

“Too slow,” he growled near my ear, voice rough from exertion. “Harlow won’t wait for you to find your balance. He won’t give you space to breathe. He’ll drive you into these boards and make the whole arena watch.”

I felt every inhale he took. The steady thud of his heart. The controlled strength in the way he held me there, demonstrating without words how easily a bigger player could dominate position. My own pulse hammered wildly. I hated how aware I was of him—every point of contact, every shared breath in the frigid air.

“Caleb—”

“Captain,” he corrected, the word low and strained. His gloved hand adjusted my stick grip, covering mine completely for a moment longer than necessary. “If you want to survive this league, you need to learn how to stand your ground when someone bigger wants to take everything from you.”

He held the position. The silence between us stretched, thick with everything we weren’t saying. I could feel the conflict rolling off him in waves—the anger at my presence, the frustration at his own inability to ignore me, the weight of responsibility he carried as captain. For one suspended heartbeat, his helmet nearly brushed mine.

Then Coach’s whistle pierced the air.

Caleb stepped back instantly, face locked into its usual icy mask. “Again,” he ordered.

We ran the drill three more times. Each repetition left me more shaken. Each time his body pinned mine against the boards, the contact lingered a fraction longer. Each correction carried the same low, intense murmur that felt less like coaching and more like a warning wrapped in unwanted intimacy. By the final whistle, my legs barely held me.

I escaped to the locker room and stood under the shower until my skin turned raw, trying to scrub away the memory of his touch, the scent of him that still clung to my gear. When I stepped out, wrapped tightly in a towel, the room was no longer empty.

Caleb leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, hair still damp. His grey eyes tracked a single droplet of water as it slid down my neck and disappeared beneath the towel.

“The Wolves are scouting tomorrow’s scrimmage,” he said quietly, voice echoing off the tiles. “They’re going to come for you, Danica. They’ll try to provoke you. Break you in front of everyone.”

He pushed off the wall and crossed the space between us. Not touching. Not yet. His fingers hovered near the edge of my towel, a breath away from my shoulder. The almost-contact sent electricity racing across my skin.

“If you can’t handle one man against the boards in practice,” he whispered, eyes dark with stormy intensity, “maybe you should walk away before Harlow does something I can’t stop.”

His presence filled the room. The air felt too thin. I searched his face and saw the same war I felt inside myself—resentment, protectiveness, and something deeper neither of us wanted to name.

“I’m not quitting,” I answered, voice barely steady.

For a long second he simply looked at me, jaw tight, conflict etched in every line of his expression. Then Riot’s voice boomed from the hallway, calling everyone for dinner. Caleb’s hand dropped. He gave me one last scorching glance—equal parts warning and something painfully close to longing—before walking out.

I stood alone in the damp silence, heart pounding against my ribs, body still humming from every near-touch and weighted stare. The rivalry hadn’t even truly begun.

How long could I keep pretending I hated the way Caleb Ruiz dismantled every defense I had—on the ice and off it—before the walls between us crumbled completely?