Ice In His Veins

The roar of the crowd was supposed to feel like home.

Sebastian Cruz had spent fifteen years chasing that sound. The thunder of ten thousand voices shaking the rafters. The slam of bodies against plexiglass. The screech of blades carving ice. It lived in his bones. It pumped through his veins like blood.

Tonight, it sounded like a funeral.

3 to 1.

The scoreboard hung above center ice like a tombstone, glowing red with defeat. Vancouver Storm at home. Calgary Snow Wolves visiting. And the man responsible for two of those three goals was currently gliding past the Storm bench, his number 17 jersey a walking insult.

Julian Frost.

Sebastian's gloves creaked as his hands tightened around his stick. The wood groaned under the pressure. Behind him, someone muttered a curse, but Sebastian barely heard. His entire world had narrowed to the back of that jersey. The arrogant set of those shoulders. The easy way he moved, like he owned the ice. Like he owned everything.

Stepbrother.

The word was acid on his tongue.

Five years. Five years since his mother walked down the aisle and made them family. Five years of family dinners where Julian sat across from him with that perfect, practiced smile, making small talk while Sebastian wanted to put his fist through the wall. Five years of watching Richard Frost treat his son like a trophy while looking at Sebastian like he was a stray dog his mother had dragged home.

And now this. Julian Frost, golden boy, trust fund prince, traded to Vancouver's biggest rival. Just to rub salt in wounds Sebastian had been trying to heal for half a decade.

He chose this.

Sebastian did not realize he had spoken aloud until Louie, his left winger and the only person on the team who could read him, shot him a confused look.

"Who chose what, Cap?"

Sebastian shook his head. Said nothing. Watched Julian disappear into the tunnel toward the visitor's locker room without a single glance back.

Of course not. Why would he look back? He won.

---

The locker room was a tomb.

Players moved in silence, shedding gear like second skins, the weight of the loss pressing down on everyone. Sebastian sat on the bench in front of his stall, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His body ached, the good kind of ache that meant he had left everything on the ice. But underneath it was something worse. Something that felt like poison.

Three to one.

He had lost faceoffs he never lost. Missed assignments he had drilled since he was twelve. Let Julian slip past him twice to set up goals that should not have happened.

"You're in your head."

Coach Marshall's voice cut through the fog. Sebastian looked up to find the old man standing over him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Sir?"

"I've coached you for four years, Cruz. I know when you're playing angry and when you're playing distracted. Tonight was distracted." He paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he sighed. "Figure it out. We've got them again in two weeks, and I need my captain present."

He walked away before Sebastian could answer. Not that he had one.

Louie appeared at his elbow, already showered and dressed. "Drinks? My treat."

"Pass."

"Come on, man. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're about to do something stupid." Louie's voice was light, but his eyes were serious. "Whatever's going on with you and Frost, maybe don't sit here marinating in it. Come drink. Forget for a few hours."

Sebastian almost said yes. Almost let himself be pulled into the normalcy of post-game drinks and bad jokes.

Then his phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Good game tonight, Captain. You almost had us in the second.

Sebastian stared at the message. His thumb moved before his brain caught up.

Sebastian: Who is this?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Unknown Number: You don't have my number saved?

Unknown Number: That hurts, Sebastian.

Unknown Number: It's Julian.

Unknown Number: Your stepbrother.

Unknown Number: Or did you forget about me entirely?

The last message landed like a punch to the sternum. Sebastian's vision tunneled. The words blurred and sharpened, blurred and sharpened, and suddenly the locker room was too small, too hot, too full of ghosts.

"Louie."

"Yeah?"

"I changed my mind. Let's go."

---

The bar was loud and dark, exactly what Sebastian needed. A place where no one would recognize him if he kept his head down and his glass full. Louie did most of the talking. Rehashing plays. Complaining about the refs. Speculating about trades. Sebastian nodded in the right places, grunted when expected, and drank just enough to numb the edge without losing control.

His phone stayed in his pocket. Burning.

He did not look at it. Did not respond. Did not let himself think about those words.

Or did you forget about me entirely?

The answer was yes. No. Sebastian did not know what it was.

He remembered Julian at family dinners. Polite, distant, watching Sebastian with an expression he could never quite read. He remembered Julian at the wedding, standing beside him in an expensive suit, whispering, "You look like you're going to your own funeral." He remembered snapping back, "At least at a funeral, you're allowed to hate the dead," and the way Julian's face had flickered. Hurt. Confusion. Something deeper. Before the mask slid back into place.

He remembered hating him. That was easy. That was safe.

But the messages suggested there was something else. Something Sebastian had missed.

No, he told himself firmly. There's nothing. He's playing games. That's what rich boys do.

He drained his glass and signaled for another.

---

Two hours later, Sebastian was drunk enough to make bad decisions and sober enough to remember them.

He left Louie at the bar and took an Uber to the players' parking garage. His truck waited like a faithful dog. The concrete echoed with his footsteps as he walked, keys jangling, head pounding.

He should go home. Sleep. Pretend tomorrow was not a nightmare of film review and media questions.

Instead, he found himself leaning against his truck, phone in hand, reading the messages again.

Julian: Or did you forget about me entirely?

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Sebastian: I didn't forget you were my stepbrother. That's hard to forget.

The response came immediately, like Julian had been waiting.

Julian: Stepbrother. Right. Is that all I am to you?

Sebastian's heart stuttered. What kind of question was that?

Sebastian: What else would you be?

Three dots. Disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.

Then, from the shadows to his left: "You could try asking me in person."

Sebastian spun. His phone clattered to the concrete.

Julian Frost stood ten feet away, leaning against a pillar like he had been there for hours. He was still in his suit from the game. Navy blue, perfectly tailored, tie loose around his neck. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger. Softer.

Vulnerable.

"What the hell?" Sebastian's voice came out rougher than intended. "Are you stalking me?"

"Waiting for you." Julian pushed off the pillar, taking a slow step forward. "There's a difference."

"The difference being?"

"Stalking implies I wanted to scare you. I just wanted to talk." Another step. He was close now. Too close. Sebastian could smell him. Expensive cologne mixed with something warmer underneath. "You didn't answer my question."

"Which question?"

"Am I just your stepbrother?"

Sebastian laughed. A harsh, broken sound. "What else would you call it? We're not friends. We've never been friends. You're the son of the man my mother married. That's the beginning and end of our relationship."

Julian's jaw tightened. Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

"You really believe that."

"I know that."

"No." Julian shook his head slowly. "You don't know anything."

He stepped closer. They were chest to chest now. Close enough that Sebastian could see the individual lashes framing those dark eyes. The slight tremor in his lower lip. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off Julian's body, even through both their suits.

"Seven years ago," Julian said quietly, "there was a hockey camp. Elite development. Do you remember it?"

Sebastian frowned. "Barely. I had a concussion that summer. Wiped out a lot of it."

Something shifted in Julian's expression. Hope, maybe. Or relief.

"What do you remember?"

"I don't know. Weights. Drills. Sleeping in bunks." Sebastian's head was pounding. The whiskey and confusion mixing into a dangerous cocktail. "Why does it matter?"

Julian was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

"There was a boy at that camp. He used to get up at 5 AM to lift before anyone else. He was fierce. Angry. Like he had something to prove to the whole world." Julian's eyes never left Sebastian's. "He didn't have much money. Didn't have connections. Just had this fire that made everyone around him want to be better."

Sebastian's throat went dry. "Julian—"

"That boy kissed me under the stars on the last night of camp. Told me he'd never forget me. Made me promise to stay in touch." Julian's voice cracked, just slightly. "I waited for his call. For weeks. Months. It never came."

The words landed like physical blows. Sebastian's knees felt weak. His chest tight. His mind racing through fog.

Seven years ago. A camp. A concussion.

A boy.

"Wait." Sebastian's voice was hoarse. "Wait, that was—that was you?"

The smile Julian gave him was the saddest thing Sebastian had ever seen.

"You really don't remember. All this time, I thought you just didn't want me. That I'd done something wrong. Said something wrong. Been something wrong. But you actually don't remember."

"I—" Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. "I had a concussion. I forgot a lot. I didn't—I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't." Julian stepped back, creating space between them. The loss of warmth was physical. "That's what makes it so cruel. I spent five years watching you hate me from across dinner tables, and you didn't even know why I kept looking at you. You didn't know anything."

He turned to go.

"Wait." Sebastian's hand shot out, grabbing Julian's wrist. "Don't. Don't just walk away. Explain this to me."

Julian looked down at Sebastian's hand on his wrist, then up into his eyes.

"Explain what? That I've been in love with you since I was sixteen? That I spent every family dinner hoping you'd suddenly remember, suddenly look at me like you used to? That my father traded me to this team just to watch me suffer, and I said yes because at least I'd be in the same city as you?"

He laughed. Bitter. Broken.

"Explain that I've been dying for five years while you couldn't even be bothered to remember my name?"

Sebastian could not breathe. Could not think. The world had narrowed to Julian's face, Julian's words, Julian's pain. Pain Sebastian had caused without even knowing.

"Julian—"

"Don't." Julian pulled his wrist free. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say you'll try to remember. I've waited seven years. I'm done waiting."

He walked away. His footsteps echoed in the empty garage, each one a hammer blow.

Sebastian stood frozen, watching him go, watching the man he had hated for five years disappear into shadows that suddenly felt a lot like regret.

At the tunnel entrance, Julian paused. Did not turn around.

"Goodnight, Sebastian. Congratulations on your game." His voice carried, hollow and distant. "Maybe next time, you'll actually see me."

Then he was gone.

Sebastian stood alone in the parking garage for a long time. The cold seeping through his suit. His phone still lying on the concrete where it had fallen. When he finally bent to pick it up, his hands were shaking.

He read the messages again.

Julian: Or did you forget about me entirely?

He had. He had forgotten everything.

And now he could not stop wondering what else he had lost.

---

That night, Sebastian did not sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Julian's words echoing in his head. I've been in love with you since I was sixteen. He wanted to call. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted to drive to Julian's apartment and demand to know everything.

But he did not. He just lay there, the hole in his memory feeling wider than ever.

He thought about the piece of paper Julian had given him at the wedding. The one with his phone number. He had kept it all these years, folded in his nightstand drawer, without ever knowing why.

He got up. Opened the drawer. The paper was still there, creased and soft.

Julian. I hope you call.

Sebastian picked up his phone. He stared at Julian's name in his contacts. He had saved it after the garage, even though he told himself he would never use it.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

He put the phone down.

Not yet. He was not ready. He did not know what he would say.

But something had changed. The hatred he had carried for five years was cracking, and underneath it was something he did not have a name for.

He fell asleep with the paper in his hand, dreaming of a lake and stars and a kiss he could not remember.