1. SHARING

Julian’s POV; 

The head coach’s office wasn’t built for this many people, It was packed to the point of suffocation. Too many bodies, too little space. 

Every chair was taken, and the rest of us were crammed along the walls, shoulders brushing, knees almost colliding.

The air felt heavy with the smell of sweat, damp gear, and coffee that had probably been sitting in the pot since the previous day. 

The walls seemed closer than usual, lined with framed photos of championships and trophies no one here cared about at the moment.

My team was stuck to one side of the room, shoulders brushing, blades and skate guards resting against our bags on the floor. Coach Harris stood alongside us looking nervous and sweaty, that was enough to know that bad news was coming.

Across from us, the hockey players sprawled out like they owned the place. Even in normal clothes they took up more space than they should’ve, they laughed loudly as usual, their sticks and bags littered on the floor in a huge smelly mess.

I was already irritated just from being in the same space as them. 

Figure skaters and Hockey players. 

We didn’t mix well. We didn’t need to. We had our own rink, our own schedule. That’s just how things work. No reason to mix with them.

I kept my arms folded, already on edge. 

Coach Mitchell, the head of the sports program and also primarily hockey coach, stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, while our own coach, Harris, shifted uneasily to his side.

Coach Mitchell cleared his throat and the noise reduced.

“There has been a budget cut,”  his tone flat, murmurs filled the air.

“And as of today, the university has decided both teams: ice hockey and figure skating, will be sharing the main rink facility.”

The words landed like a slap and the reaction was immediate. My head jerked up, my teammates stiffened, a few muttering curses under their breath. 

Share? I must’ve misheard. But the mutters rising around me said otherwise.

One of the hockey players groaned and said loudly,

“You’ve got to be kidding,” 

“That’s not going to work,” another added, already shaking his head. “We’ve got practice almost every day.”

“Exactly,” our captain snapped back. “So do we.”

Someone from the hockey side let out a laugh, low and mocking. My irritation was beginning to turn to anger.

The back and forth started quickly, filling the cramped office with the kind of argument you’d expect when you shove two opposite teams into one space.

Coach Mitchell held up a hand. “Schedules will rotate. Ice time will be split evenly. Both programs are expected to adapt, show respect and cooperation. It’s not up for debate.”

“Bullshit,” someone from the hockey side muttered.

My jaw clenched. My chest felt tight. Sharing the same building with them was already a crazy thing to compromise. Sharing the ice? With these savages? 

It felt like something was being ripped out from under us.

I hadn’t meant to speak, but the words slipped out annoyed and sharp before I could stop them. 

“That’s going to mess with training.”

It wasn’t loud, but it cut enough for a few heads to turn.

A random player across the room snorted. “Please. You guys twirl around for a couple hours and call it practice. You’ll survive.”

A few laughs broke out on their side. 

I opened my mouth to retort but Coach Harris gave me a warning glance, sharp enough to tell me to leave it. 

I leaned back against the wall, letting silence cover me again. 

The coaches kept talking, laying down rules, explaining why this was an “opportunity.” I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on the restless movements in the room. 

Someone’s leg bouncing against the floor. A stick tapping against the chair leg. The faint squeak of skates shifting in their guards.

And then, as if the noise wasn’t irritating enough, my eyes landed on him.

Asher Beckett. Star player. Poster boy of Boston’s hockey program. 

No seriously, he was on the school’s brochure last year for the hockey program.

He was sitting amongst the hockey players, broad shoulders filling out his jacket, arms resting loosely across his knees. His expression was calmer than the others with  his long brown hair falling into his eyes.

When someone cracked another joke, his mouth tugged into a relaxed grin.

Everyone knew Asher, BU’s golden boy. Which was exactly why I hated him.

Being a hockey player was a plus.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, the room felt even smaller than when it started. 

My bag strap dug into my shoulder as I stood ready to leave, my blades knocking softly together.

We held back, waiting as the hockey players pushed their way out first, loud and carelessly.

And if you didn’t catch it by now, I hate hockey players.