My stomach is in knots when I push through the arena doors.
Almost a week of hiding in my apartment, of avoiding this exact moment, and now I'm back. The familiar smell of cold air and rubber hits me—ice and sweat and possibility. It should feel like home. Instead, it feels like walking into an exam I didn't study for.
The team is already warming up when I step onto the ice. Familiar faces glance my way—some nod in acknowledgment, others whisper to each other. I can guess what they're saying. Where's he been? What happened? Is he okay?
I ignore all of it. Focus on my skates, my stick, the feel of the ice beneath me.
Then I see him.
Blaze is at the far end of the rink, running through solo drills with that effortless grace that used to make me jealous. Now it just makes my chest tight for entirely different reasons.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the ice.
No dramatic gesture. No wave or call-out that would draw attention. Just a small nod, barely perceptible to anyone who isn't watching for it. An acknowledgment. A question: You okay?
I nod back. Yeah. I'm okay.
Something in my shoulders releases. We can do this. We have to.
Coach Wellington doesn't waste time with pleasantries. The moment warmups end, he launches us into intensive drills—defensive formations, offensive plays, the kind of grueling preparation that separates championship teams from everyone else.
"Carpenter! Wilson! You're paired up for offensive rotations."
My heart stutters. This is it. The test.
Blaze skates over, positioning himself beside me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth cutting through the arena's chill. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. We've already had our conversation.
The whistle blows. We move.
And something unexpected happens.
We find rhythm. Real rhythm. Not the awkward tension of our early practices, not the hostile competition I forced between us. This is different. This is the kind of sync we had as kids on frozen ponds, when hockey was just joy and friendship and shared dreams.
I know where Blaze is going to be before he gets there. He reads my positioning like he's inside my head. The puck passes between us seamlessly—stick to stick, anticipation to execution, two bodies moving as one unit.
It's terrifying how natural it feels.
We run the play again. And again. Each time, our chemistry sharpens. I cut left; he's already there with the pass. He drives toward the net; I'm in position for the rebound. Years of separation dissolve into nothing, replaced by muscle memory and instinct and something deeper I don't have words for.
"Carpenter! Wilson!"
We both freeze mid-stride. Coach Wellington's voice echoes across the rink, and I brace for criticism. Too aggressive. Too sloppy. Something.
Instead, Wellington is nodding. Actually nodding, with something close to approval on his weathered face.
"That. Right there. That's what I need from you two." He points his whistle at us. "Keep that energy and we might actually have a shot at this championship."
Warmth spreads through my chest—pride, relief, something else I don't examine too closely. I glance at Blaze, who's grinning at me with that infectious smile that used to drive me insane.
It still drives me insane. Just differently now.
"Not bad, Ashy," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "Almost like old times."
"Don't get cocky," I mutter back, but I can't quite suppress the smile tugging at my lips.
We run more drills. More plays. The rhythm holds, strengthening with each repetition. By the time Coach calls for water break, my legs are burning and my lungs ache, but I feel more alive than I have in weeks.
Then I notice Jackson.
He's standing near the boards, arms crossed, watching us with an expression that borders on hostile. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowed, tracking every interaction between me and Blaze like he's cataloging evidence. When Blaze skates over to bump my shoulder after a particularly clean play, Jackson's grip on his stick tightens visibly.
I file it away, uncertain what to make of it. Jackson has always been protective of Blaze—they transferred together, won championships together, built something I don't fully understand. But this feels different. This feels like something uglier.
Practice ends with a final scrimmage. Our line dominates—Blaze and I moving together like we've been partners for years instead of reluctant rivals thrown into proximity. When the final whistle blows, I'm exhausted in the best possible way.
The locker room fills with the usual post-practice chaos. Guys strip off gear, joke around, head for showers. The familiar rhythm of male camaraderie that I've navigated my whole life without ever feeling like I truly belonged.
I take my time. Wait for the crowd to thin. I'm unlacing my skates, focused on the familiar task, when movement catches my peripheral vision.
Blaze. Peeling off his jersey, back muscles flexing as he reaches for a towel.
I should look away. I know I should look away.
I don't.
My eyes trace the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way lingering water droplets cling to his skin. I watch the veins in his forearms shift as he moves. Watch the easy confidence in every gesture, the casual grace that makes everything he does look effortless.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring. Can't seem to stop.
Blaze turns. Almost like he sensed the attention—like he always senses when my eyes are on him, even when I'm trying to hide it.
Our gazes lock across the locker room.
The noise fades. Teammates talking, lockers slamming, showers running—all of it becomes white noise, distant and unimportant. The only thing that exists is the space between us and the weight of everything unsaid.
Blaze's lips curve. Not quite a smile, but something knowing. Something that says I see you looking.
Heat floods my face. I look away first, heart hammering against my ribs.
But here's the thing—I don't hate myself for it.
The realization hits me slowly, then all at once. My pulse is racing and my skin feels too hot and I just got caught checking out my teammate in the locker room. A week ago, this would have sent me spiraling. A week ago, I would have drowned in panic and denial and self-loathing.
But the sky isn't falling. The world keeps turning. I got caught looking at a boy—at Blaze—and I'm still breathing. Still standing. Still here.
I exhale slowly, something settling in my chest.
Maybe this is what acceptance feels like. Not comfortable yet, not easy, but possible. A door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
I sneak one more glance at Blaze. He's heading toward the showers now, towel slung over his shoulder, all casual confidence and lean muscle. Just before he disappears around the corner, he looks back.
Winks. Once. Subtle enough that no one else would notice. Private, just for me.
Then he's gone.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling my heartbeat slowly steady. The locker room noise filters back in—normal sounds, normal life, continuing around me like nothing earth-shattering just happened.
But something did happen. Something is happening. I'm changing, shifting, becoming someone I don't fully recognize yet.
And for the first time, that doesn't terrify me.
I finish changing, grab my bag, head for the exit. Tomorrow we practice again. The championship gets closer every day. There's still so much I haven't figured out—about myself, about Blaze, about what any of this means.
But I showed up today. Played well. Let myself look without drowning in shame.
Small steps. That's all I can manage right now.
It's enough.