Chapter 3 — No Distance Left

Lucian POV

I should avoid him. That’s the first thought I have as I step back onto the rink the next day. Avoiding Orion Kael should have been simple, obvious… and yet, impossible.

The air feels different today. The locker room is louder than before, voices sharper, energy tighter. Yesterday’s uncertainty has vanished. Everyone here made it through the first cut, and that means something. It means they are better, stronger, more dangerous.

I move through them as I always do, quiet, controlled, unnoticed. My gear goes on in the same order. My hands don’t shake. Outwardly, nothing has changed. I can still feel it, that moment in the hallway, my control slipping, him noticing.

My jaw tightens slightly. That cannot happen again.

“Try not to get crushed today,” a voice whispers from behind me. A few players laugh. I don’t respond. They are not wrong.

This stage is different, less testing, more pressure. They are not looking for potential anymore; they want dominance.

I finish lacing my skates, stand, and roll my shoulders to settle the tension. Control.

I step out onto the ice, cold, clean, familiar. For a moment, it almost feels normal again.

“Pairs,” the coach’s voice cuts across the rink. “Two-on-two drills. Rotate every round.”

Pairs. My stomach tightens. That complicates things. Pairs mean proximity, timing, and coordination. It also means less room to disappear. Most players start grouping quickly, strong with strong, fast with fast. No one approaches me.

Good. That makes things easier. I begin moving toward the edge, ready to take whoever’s left.

Then…

"Virek."

My steps halt. I don’t need to turn to know who it is. I do anyway.

Orion stands a few feet away, already watching me, decided.

“You’re with me.”

It’s not loud, not aggressive, but it’s not a suggestion. A few nearby players quiet down, subtly but noticeably. Of course they would. The captain just chose someone no one knows, and he did not hesitate.

I do not react. I cannot. I nod once.

“Fine.”

Wrong answer, quick and easy. His gaze sharpens slightly; he notices that. Of course he did.

“Good,” he says as we move onto the ice together, side by side and close.

The shift happens immediately. I feel it, that same sharp awareness from yesterday, stronger now, closer.

I keep my eyes forward, do not react, do not give him anything.

“Stay on my left,” Orion says, simple, clear, controlled.

“I don’t need instructions,” I reply before I can stop myself, to be sharp and honest.

Silence. Then…

“That was not a suggestion.”

There it is again, quiet authority. My jaw tightens. I do not argue, not because he is right, but because pushing him is worse.

We take our positions, opponents across from us, two Alphas, both bigger, watching carefully. Good. Let them.

The whistle blows. Everything moves at once, and the puck drops. I react instantly. Orion does too. He is fast, instinctively knowing where I will be before I move. I adjust, cut right, and he is already there.

The play tightens, fast, close. I take the puck, slipping past the first defender with a clean pivot. The second comes in harder, trying to force contact. I move before he reaches me, timing, precision.

The puck leaves my stick, and Orion is already in position. He does not hesitate or overthink. He shoots, scores, clean, effortless.

The whistle blows again.

“Reset!”

We skate back, and I do not look at him. I can feel it, that awareness again.

“You’re holding back,” Orion says softly, low and close

“I am not,” I reply.

“You are.”

I glance at him. That is enough because he is already watching me, not the play, not the drill, just me.

“You adjust too fast,” he continues. “You are not reacting, you are anticipating.”

I do not respond because he is right. Because he is noticing too much.

“Again!”

***

The next round begins, faster, more aggressive. The defenders push harder. I need that. I need something to focus on that is not him. The puck comes to me again. I move, cut, shift, everything sharpens. This time, I do not hold back, just enough.

The first defender misses. The second nearly catches me and closes. Heat rises under my skin, sharp, unwanted. I push through it, pass. Orion catches it instantly, no hesitation, and scores again.

The whistle cuts through the moment.

“Next!”

We rotate, but Orion does not move away. Everyone else resets and shifts. He stays exactly where he is, right next to me.

“You felt that,” he says quietly. Not a question.

I do not answer because I cannot. If I do, he will hear everything I am trying to bury.

“You’re getting worse at hiding it,” he adds.

My chest tightens; something should not be happening. The suppressant I rely on should be holding. I have to, must.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Liar.” His voice is quiet, certain. It hits harder than it should.

I turn slightly, just enough to face him.

“Then stop watching.”

“Not an option.”

Of course it isn’t.

The next whistle blows. We move again, closer than before, closer than necessary. Every shift, every movement, I feel him and am aware.

The play tightens, defenders press in. I move instinctively, and this time he does not pull away. He moves with me, perfectly in sync and perfect.

My breath catches, just slightly, not enough, but enough for him to notice. I see the change, his pace shifts, more precise, testing, waiting for my reaction.

Damn it. I push harder, break away, create distance. But he follows, matching me, always matching.

The puck comes again. I take it, but my control slips. The angle’s off, the timing wrong. The defender hits me hard. Pain flares, balance breaks, and heat spikes again.

No. I force it down and to late. Orion sees it, of course.

I recover quickly. But it is not enough because now he knows.

We reset again, and this time he does not speak. He only watches me, like he is not even pretending anymore. The drill ends with the whistle. Players move off the ice. I do not wait. I turn immediately, three steps, before his hand closes around my wrist.

Everything stops, not forcefully, but firmly, certain. I freeze.

Orion is right there. His grip does not tighten, but it does not loosen either.

“You are not leaving,” he says quietly. Not a command, not a question, something worse.

“You do not get to decide that,” I reply.

His gaze sharpens.

“Don’t I?”

The words are low, dangerous, and close.

I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, just slightly, enough. His eyes darken. He felt it.

Silence stretches, tight, unavoidable. Then he leans in, close enough I can feel his breath.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you will not be able to stop it.”

My chest tightens. He is right. I already know it.