FAZER LOGINRYDER'S POV Ryder’s eyes snap open. The silence of the classroom presses against his eardrums, a heavy, suffocating blanket after the roar of the music. He rips the headphones off, the cord whipping against his chest, and spins in his chair. The plastic seat groans under the sudden movement, the sound sharp in the empty room. Adrian is standing there. He’s just inside the doorway, motionless. His eyes are locked directly onto Ryder, dark and unreadable, piercing through the dim light like he’s trying to carve the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out of Ryder’s skull. The intensity of it makes the hair on Ryder’s arms stand up. It’s a look that strips away the layers of noise and distraction, leaving him raw. Ryder groans, the sound dragging up from his chest. He rubbs a hand over his face, the stubble scratching his palm. His head is swimming, the lingering bass line from the music still thumping against his temples. He must be seeing things again. The lack of sleep, th
RYDER'S POV The paper lies on the ice, stark white against the scarred, gray surface, soaking up the cold. It’s a formal notice, heavy with official letterhead, but right now it’s just trash on the ice. "You’re done," Miller says, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the hum of the cooling system. "You are not worthy of being captain of this team. Effective immediately, you are stripped of your title. Get off my ice. Now." The shock ripples through the rink, a collective gasp that sucks the air right out of the massive space. Twenty pairs of skates stop scraping. The silence is heavier than the pads Ryder wears. He stands there, his chest heaving, staring at the letter lying near his skates. His heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped bird, the pulse throbbing in his ears so loud it drowns out the distant Zamboni engine. He drags his eyes away from the paper to Kai. Kai is wiping a smear of bright red blood from his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, his to
RYDER'S POV The sharp scent of Zamboni polish mixes with the thick, suffocating stench of male sweat, hanging heavy in the cool air of the rink. Skates carve vicious paths into the ice, the sound a rhythmic shhh-crack, shhh-crack that echoes off the high, barren walls. Coach Miller stands at the center circle, his face a twisted mask of frustration, barking orders that cut through the heavy breathing of the team. "Keep your fucking knees up, Carter! You’re skating like a toddler on a frozen pond! Focus! I need you animals sane for the game, not a bunch of limp-dicked losers gasping for air!" Miller roars, his spit flying onto the pristine white surface. Ryder skates past the bench, his lungs burning like he’s inhaling broken glass. His thighs scream with every lunge, the burn of lactic acid flooding his muscles, but the physical agony is a welcome distraction from the toxic mess boiling in his gut. His eyes lock onto Kai, who is skating a few yards ahead on the opposite side
ADRIAN'S POV For three weeks, the silence between Adrian and Ryder has been a physical thing, a dense, invisible wall erected in the lecture hall and across the campus. They don't avoid each other with obvious drama; there are no slammed doors or pointed glares. Instead, there is a rigorous, professional politeness that feels colder than ice. Ryder doesn’t look at Adrian with that hungry, heat-heavy gaze that used to strip the professor bare from across the room, and Adrian ensures his eyes slide past the hockey player as if he were just another face in the crowd. It is an unspoken truce, a mutual agreement to pretend the sweat-slicked, frantic encounters never happened. Adrian throws himself into the rhythm of the semester, burying his confusion under piles of grading and faculty meetings. But the campus rumor mill is a relentless beast. Whispers follow Ryder in the hallways—tales of a pregnant girl, a shotgun wedding, a star athlete settling down into domestic life. Adrian he
RYDER'S POV The doorbell chimes echo into the silence of the porch, a sharp sound that cuts through the cool evening air. Ryder stands on the welcome mat, shoulders hunched under the weight of a game lost and a mood soured by something he can’t quite name. He waits, counting the seconds as they drag by. No footsteps. No shout of ‘coming!’. The house remains dark and still. He sighs, the sound rattling in his chest, and turns on his heel, ready to retreat into the night and find solace at the bottom of a bottle somewhere else. The latch clicks. The door swings open before Ryder can take a step. There he is. Adrian. He stands in the doorway, framed by the yellow light of the hallway. He is shirtless, his skin pale and smooth, the definition of his abs catching the shadows in a way that makes Ryder’s mouth go dry. A pair of low-slung sweatpants hangs off his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Adrian’s lips are pushed out in a full, exaggerated pout, a look of pure ann
RYDER'S POV The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar clings to the air, a cloying, sweet perfume that signals his mother’s presence long before he sees her. Ryder steps into the foyer, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him, and immediately the aroma wraps around his throat like a chokehold. He doesn’t call out a greeting. He doesn’t pause to kick off his sneakers by the mat. Instead, he grips the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turn white and marches up the stairs, each step a dull thud against the carpet. He reaches his room and twists the lock, the metal latch sliding into place with a sharp snick. Only then does he let the bag slide off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He toes off his shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, and kicks them into the corner. The silence of his room does nothing to quiet the storm raging in his skull. Bankruptcy. The word tastes like ash. His parents had lost everything, decided to hide the crumbling foundation o
RYDER'S POV Ryder stands frozen in the center of his mansion his eyes locked onto the man standing near the door. The air between them feels heavy, charged with a static that makes the hair on Ryder’s arms stand up. In his mind, the silence breaks, not by the awkward hum of the refrigerator, b
RYDER'S POV Ryder moves through the living room like a man possessed, his hands fluttering over the marble surfaces of the side tables. He grabs a coaster, wipes an invisible speck of dust with the hem of his shirt, and sets it back down at a precise ninety-degree angle. The silence of the mansi
RYDER'S POV The sharp scent of Zamboni polish and sweat hangs heavy in the cold air of the rink, a stench that Ryder Knight usually breathes in like oxygen. Today, it tastes like ash. His skates carve hard into the ice, sending a spray of white shavings into the air as he dekes around a defender
**************** The cacophony of the Blackwood College hallway bled through the heavy oak door—a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers, shrill laughter, and the distinctive squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Inside the office, the air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old paper. Adrian Vale sat r







