The rink echoed with the sharp clap of the coach’s whistle, cutting through the cold air like a blade. Skates screeched to a halt. Breaths fogged the space above the ice. The players coasted toward the bench for a quick reset before drills resumed.

Emery moved between them like a ghost of soft light, small and quiet and easy to miss—if not for the fact that he was impossible to miss. Blond curls caught the arena lights like a halo, dimples flashing when he murmured a timid “here” while passing out towels. Freckles dusted his nose like warm constellations. The coach’s precious son. Off-limits. Untouchable. Anyone stupid enough to even look too long earned a glare from Coach that could strip paint.

But the team still adored him from a safe distance. He was the soft thing in a hard world.

Ethan Hart towered among them, shoulders broad enough to block half the arena lighting, jaw sharp beneath a layer of cold sweat. He barely spoke during practice—only clipped confirmations, quiet grunts, steady breaths. Popular because everyone admired him; feared because no one ever truly understood him. He was rough around the edges, all power and silence, skating like he was born to command the ice.

And he kept staring at Emery.

Not subtly. Not occasionally. Constantly.

Every time Emery stepped near the bench, Ethan’s dark eyes tracked him with a focus that felt almost dangerous—like he was trying not to reach out and touch something far too breakable for hands like his.

“Water,” Emery whispered, offering a bottle to the nearest player. His voice was soft enough to be swallowed by the sound of blades cutting ice, but Ethan heard it. He always heard it.

When Emery took a hesitant step toward him, clutching a fresh towel to his chest, Ethan’s breath tightened. They hadn’t spoken since that argument three days ago—three days that felt like a bruise pressed deep into bone. Ethan had snapped. Emery had flinched. And the guilt had been chewing at him ever since.

Emery stopped in front of him, gaze lowered, lashes trembling. He smelled faintly of laundry soap and something sweet—something clean. Untouched. Ethan swallowed hard.

The towel slipped from Emery’s hands.

Ethan caught it one-handed without even looking away from him.

Their eyes met. A soft green pulled tight with shyness, and a dark brown heavy with something he had no language for. Ethan held the towel out for him to take back, but Emery didn’t move. Maybe couldn’t. His fingers brushed Ethan’s only because Ethan shifted closer to make it easier for him.

The touch was barely there. A whisper. A spark.

But it lit something in both of them.

Coach’s voice shattered it like a hammer.

“Focus up! Drills aren’t over! Hart—move!”

Ethan didn’t move. Not right away. His jaw flexed, breath steadying, eyes still locked on the small blond boy in front of him. Emery’s cheeks burned pink. He stepped back so fast he nearly slipped.

Only then did Ethan push off the boards, skating back onto the ice with the same deadly precision as always. But something in him had shifted—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, gaze flicking to the bench between drills as if Emery were gravity itself.

The team didn’t comment.

Untouchable or not, precious or not—Ethan Hart was already gone. Emery had him in his hands without even realizing he was holding anything at all.