The first time they met, it wasn’t even supposed to matter.

It was just another tryout.

Daemon Forbes showed up late.

Of course he did.

Skates slung over his shoulder, hoodie pulled up, headphones in like he didn’t give a single shit about making a good impression. He looked out of place in a way that made people stare anyway. Tall, broad, built like he’d already seen too much for someone his age. Dark hair falling into his eyes, scars faint but noticeable along his hands and jaw.

And the look on his face.

Like he didn’t want to be there.

Like he didn’t want to be anywhere.

He stepped onto the ice without warming up.

Didn’t talk to anyone.

Didn’t introduce himself.

Just played.

And fuck, he played like something was chasing him.

Hits too hard. Movements too sharp. Every check like he was trying to send a message nobody else understood. Defense like a wall you don’t get through without paying for it.

People noticed.

One person especially.

Archer Gray.

He was already on the team. Already known. The kind of player everyone liked without trying. Fast, confident, loud in the best way. Sandy hair always a little messy, golden skin flushed from the cold rink, grin always right there like he couldn’t help it.

He loved hockey.

You could see it in everything he did.

Which is exactly why he skated straight up to Daemon mid-drill.

“Hey,” Archer said, easy like they were already friends. “You always hit like you’re pissed off at the world or is today special—”

Daemon didn’t even let him finish.

He checked him.

Hard.

Archer slammed into the boards with a loud crack, breath knocked out of him for a second.

The rink went quiet.

“Jesus,” someone muttered.

Archer pushed himself off the boards slowly, blinking, then let out a short laugh.

“Okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “So it’s always.”

Daemon didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Archer kept talking.

That was the problem.

Practice after practice, he’d skate up next to Daemon like it was nothing.

“You’re not gonna introduce yourself or you just gonna keep acting mysterious as hell.”

Silence.

“Cool. I’ll go first. Archer.”

Nothing.

“You’re a defenseman, right. You play like one.”

A glare.

“Damn, you do talk. That’s crazy.”

Daemon avoided him.

Archer followed anyway.

Daemon shut him out.

Archer kept showing up.

And on the ice, they were relentless.

Archer would push. Fast, aggressive, fearless.

Daemon would meet him every single time.

Harder.

Rougher.

Like if he kept enough distance physically, nothing else would get through.

But Archer didn’t care about distance.

He cared about getting closer.

By second year, everyone just accepted it.

They fought. They argued. They shoved each other during practice. Chirped nonstop during games.

But they also… worked.

Perfectly.

Archer knew exactly where Daemon would be without looking.

Daemon trusted Archer to make the play without saying a word.

They never talked about it.

They just did it.

Now it’s their last year.

The rink is empty except for them.

Late night. No coaches. No teammates. Just the echo of skates on ice and the hum of the lights overhead.

Daemon is sitting on the bench, hoodie over his gear, head tilted back, eyes closed.

He looks tired.

Not just physically.

Everything about him is heavier now. More tattoos winding up his arms and neck, covering pieces of his past like he’s trying to rewrite it. The eyebrow piercing and large scar catch faint light when he shifts. His hands are rough, scarred, steady but tense.

Archer skates in slow circles before finally stopping in front of him.

“You skipping cooldown now,” Archer asks.

Daemon doesn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t feel like it.”