Fitness Tests

The weight room buzzed with movement, the sound of metal clinking, trainers calling out numbers, and the occasional groan from one of the newer recruits. 

Fitness evaluations were underway, and Noah was in his element.

Pull-ups? Easy. He cleared the bar like it was nothing, his arms pumping with practiced power. Bench press? He didn’t even blink at the weight the trainers loaded onto the bar. He blew past the expected max, earning a few surprised looks from the group. Vertical jump test? His long legs had the kind of explosive strength that could've made him a basketball star. He launched skyward with effortless grace, drawing a low whistle from one of the assistants.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mackenzie—Mac—standing with his arms crossed. The same guy who had cracked jokes earlier. When Noah landed his final jump and the trainer called out the top-tier score, Mac gave him a sheepish look.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, nudging another player. "Remind me not to mouth off next time."

Noah offered a brief smirk. He wasn’t one to gloat, but at twenty-two, he was in the best shape of his life, and today he felt it. Every movement felt precise. Controlled. Efficient.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall across the gym. His shorts sat low on his hips, his torso gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. His muscles, hard-earned from years of disciplined training, flexed and relaxed with every rep. He wasn’t particularly vain, but he understood what his body represented. It was his tool. His career. His legacy in the making.

Sterling Belmont’s presence had been constant. He and Jessica stood near the far end of the gym, observing each station. They were watching everyone, or at least, they should have been. But Noah couldn’t shake the feeling that Belmont’s piercing gaze lingered just a little longer on him.

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was the heat of being evaluated.

Maybe it was something else.

His turn wrapped, and Noah moved to the side to towel off, catching his breath. The heavily tattooed defenseman he’d noticed earlier sat nearby, and without lifting his head, offered Noah a bottle of water.

"That was impressive," the guy said, his voice gravelly but not unfriendly. "Ashton Graves. People call me Ash."

Noah took the bottle. "Thanks. You didn’t look too bad out there yourself."

Ash shrugged. "I get by. You’re fast and strong. That’s rare in a kid your age."

"Been training for this since I could walk."

Ash nodded, leaning against the wall beside him and scratching at his dark beard. "You notice how involved our new owner is? Apparently, he used to play. Got injured. Now he watches us like it’s all he’s got left."

Noah turned to look across the gym. Sterling Belmont was still there. Still watching. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, posture statuesque, face unreadable. But his eyes? They were locked on Noah. Demanding. Powerful. As if he were dissecting him, piece by piece. Not just his performance, but his body. His potential. His presence.

Then their eyes met.

And Sterling turned away.

A shiver ran down Noah’s spine, quick and unexpected.

***

They were introduced to their coach just before hitting the ice.

"Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier," the man said, jogging out onto the rink with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He looked to be in his late thirties, trim and fit, with a few days of beard growth and a genuinely warm smile. "My wife just had our second kid. I’m operating on about three hours of sleep."

He extended a hand. "Coach Jensen. You can call me Mike."

Despite the fatigue, Coach Jensen was sharp. As the players took their places for the on-ice tests, his instructions were clear, his expectations high.

The first drill was a 44-meter sprint. Noah exploded off the line like a rocket, his skates cutting into the ice with precision. Then came the aerobic drills, testing endurance and control, followed by backward skating sequences.

Noah kept up, even excelled, his name landing at the top of more than one list.

"That stride," Coach Jensen said, whistling. "Rivers, you’ve got power. You pivot quick, too. Just need to polish that backward technique."

Noah appreciated the attention to detail. Backward skating had always been his weak point, but Coach Jensen offered a few technical tips that clicked almost instantly. By the third run, he was already improving.

By the end of the ice session, sweat was dripping down his back, but satisfaction settled into his chest. He belonged here.

In the locker room afterward, players peeled off pads and jerseys, dragging themselves into the showers. Noah didn’t hesitate. He undressed with the same quiet confidence he carried onto the ice. Shyness wasn’t in his nature, and besides, half the team was already naked.

Still, he felt it.

The weight of that gaze again. Cold and hot all at once.

Through the glass window of the coach’s office, Sterling stood, deep in conversation with Coach Jensen. Jessica was seated nearby, flipping pages in a folder.

Noah toweled off slowly, casually, aware of the eyes, unsure what to make of them.

As he zipped up his hoodie and started to leave, Jessica caught him by the exit.

"Hey, Noah. A few of us are heading out for drinks tonight to celebrate the new season. Our generous new owner is covering the tab. You in?"

Before he could answer, Lukas clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, man. You gotta come. It always starts chill and ends in some overpriced strip club. It’s a thing. You in?"

Noah hesitated for a beat, then smirked.

"Sure. I’m in."