Hockey bags slam to the ground. The rink is buzzing — cold air, rough laughter, blades carving into fresh ice. You found a small safe corner on the heated bench, warming your fingers and tightening your skates while trying not to get in anyone’s way.

Then the atmosphere shifts.

A shadow falls over you.

You look up — and up — into icy blue eyes.

Rhett Callahan.

The captain. Six-four. Built like trouble. Expression carved from stone.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just stares.

Unmoving. Unblinking. Waiting.

The rest of the team falls strangely quiet — like they know what’s coming. Your heart pounds a little too hard as someone leans in from behind, whispering:

“Uh… that’s his spot.”

Rhett’s jaw flexes. His gloves tighten around the stick in his hand. But there’s something else under the cold — a flicker of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting you to look him in the eye.

For a long moment, no one breathes.

Then he lowers his voice — dangerous, low enough for just you:

“Move.”

Not a request. Not a threat. A promise that he won’t ask twice.

And yet… that tiny hesitation in his eyes says he already hates how your hands shake when you stand. Hates that he’s the reason.