CHAPTER: 7. ROOKIES.

EZRA'S POV

FOUR MONTHS LATER

"Ezra! Ezra, that pass in the third, bro, where did that even come from?"

"Just saw the opening," I shrugged.

"Just saw the opening?" Cole repeated, throwing his arm around my neck and nearly taking me off balance. "Listen to this guy. Just saw the opening. You made Petrov look like he was skating in the sand, man."

The locker room was loud the way it always was after a win, everyone was talking, hooting and hollering as they talked loudly over each other. Five months and I still wasn't used to it. Not in a bad way though, it was just I hadn't had this before. People genuinely happy and including me in that happiness without wanting anything back for it.

But they were becoming family fast.

I sat on the bench and started unlacing my skates while Cole kept talking.

"Coach wants to push for the eastern bracket now. If we keep this form we're looking at a real shot at… hey, are you listening?"

"Eastern bracket," I said. "Real shot. Yes."

He squinted at me. "You good?"

"I'm good."

That was mostly true. To an extent. I felt like shit.

My heat had been pressing at the edges since the second period, a low persistent hum in my body that made me uncomfortable and restless. It wasn't a full surge though, just enough to get me riled up. My body's way of reminding me that the suppressants I'd taken this morning were already wearing off faster than they should have been.

I kept my face neutral and focused on my skate laces.

Cole dropped onto the bench next to me, dropping his voice to the tone he used when he was about to say something he thought was profound. "Real talk though, where did you train? Like before. Because you skate like you've been doing this your whole life but you said you only picked it up two years ago and that doesn't add up, man, that genuinely doesn't–"

My heat spiked and there was a sharp internal lurch that I converted into a slow exhale through my nose, keeping my hands steady on the laces, keeping my expression exactly where it was.

"– because Petrov has been playing since he was six and you read him like a book, which means either you're some kind of natural or there's something you're not telling us and either way I feel like…"

"Cole," I cut him off, my voice tight.

"Yeah?"

"I need five minutes."

He looked at me, then nodded, easy as anything. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Good game man. Seriously." He clapped me on the shoulder and stood, drifting back into the noise of the room.

I waited until he was far enough away and immediately, I reached into my bag, found the small case at the bottom, and got a suppressant out, taking it dry. I sat very still for a moment with my elbows on my knees and my head down, waiting for it to do something.

It did something, it wasn't enough, but it did something, the heat pulled back to a dull pressure instead of a sharp one, sitting low and uncomfortable rather than urgent.

I stayed on the floor of the locker room for a few minutes longer than I needed to. Around me the celebration continued, nobody paying me particular attention, which was exactly what I needed.

Nobody needed to tell me what I already knew. It was getting worse.

I knew it was getting worse. The cycles were shorter now, the suppressants lasting maybe sixty percent of what they used to. I had been managing it, I mean I was still managing it but managing it was starting to take up more mental space than I wanted to give it.

With a sigh, I put the case back in my bag before anyone could spot it and stood up.

"Good game," I said to nobody in particular, grabbing my things, ready to go back home.

Five months ago, that was Caelan’s mansion. And now, it means my apartment.

The apartment was a fifteen minute walk from the rink, which I had decided when I moved in was either the best or worst idea I'd ever had depending on the day. Tonight it was fine and gave me enough time to think.

The apartment itself was small. One bedroom, a kitchen that was technically a section of the living room, a window that looked out onto the building across the street. I had furnished it slowly and practically with a bed that was actually comfortable because I'd decided that was non-negotiable, a couch that had come with the place and was fine.

I dropped my bag by the door, shrugged off my coat, and went to wash my hands.

The heat had settled to a background hum, still there but better.

I opened the fridge and looked at it for a moment. Eggs, leftover rice from two days ago, half a block of cheese, vegetables I'd bought on Tuesday. With a hushed whisper of going to the store on the weekend, I pulled out the eggs and the rice and got the pan on, moving through the small kitchen.

I ate standing at the counter, scrolling through my phone with my free hand. Team messages, a few notifications I didn't care about, a voice note from Cole that I would listen to tomorrow. I put the phone face down and finished eating and washed the pan and the plate and stood in my clean, quiet kitchen.

This was it. This was the life that I always wanted.

I meant that without irony. I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world.

After washing up, I took my laptop to the couch and pulled up the league schedule, which had been updated that afternoon with the next six weeks of fixtures. The coach had mentioned the Eastern bracket push and I wanted to see what the path actually looked like – who we were playing, when and what the difficulty curve was.

I scrolled through, quietly looking through.

Three weeks out was a home game, manageable. Then an away fixture against the Northern division leaders, which was going to be rough but not impossible. Then a gap week. Then— I stopped scrolling, staring at a name.

Ice Princes Of Hell.

I frowned at it. The fixture was four games away, away match, and next to the team name was a city I didn't recognise. Interesting. I set my laptop on the cushion and pulled my phone out, searching the name.

The results came back immediately and there were a lot of them, they had a following, clearly. I clicked the first article and read the first paragraph. Four players stood out, apparently identical even in the way they played, not exactly an old team. Even weirder. I spotted the attachment of a photo and I looked at the photo.

Four players in full gear, helmets on, visors down. They had identical builds and even identical stances. You couldn't see their faces. The image had been taken from the stands and had that slightly blurred quality of a long lens shot.

I scrolled for another image but I couldn't find one where the visors were up.

They had to be new. The article was dated three months ago, which meant they'd come out of nowhere relatively recently or had somehow made their big mark. Fast rise and no prior league history that I could find, which was unusual.

I put my phone down and looked at the fixture on my laptop again.

Four games away, which was enough time to prepare properly, study their footage and figure out how they played.

They were new but had already moved themselves up the league. I couldn't afford surprises. I wanted to get into the national team and I couldn't afford any mistakes.

Especially not from a rookie team.