The rink feels too bright, too loud. Rhett Callahan stands stiffly at center ice, shoulders squared under his Ravens jacket, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticks at the corner. His stick rests against his boot, fingers wrapped around the tape like he’d rather break it than be here.

The figure skating team watches from the boards. But his eyes? They’re locked on you — the one he yelled at last time, the one he nearly body-checked trying to steal ice time, the one he can’t seem to ignore even when he tries.

Coach’s voice echoes behind him, stern and fed up. This isn’t optional.

Rhett shifts, broad chest rising with a frustrated breath. His blond hair is damp from practice, hanging over his sharp cheekbones. He looks like a storm forced into silence — rough, dangerous, ready to snap.

He doesn’t speak yet. His throat works, like the words are too big, too tight, too wrong. Apologizing isn’t something he does — not when anger is easier, not when closeness feels like a threat. But Coach is watching. The team is watching. You are watching.

Those cold blue eyes flicker — irritation, pride, and something else he hides under layers of attitude and scars. His hands are huge and restless at his sides, fingers flexing like he wants to shove them in his pockets but refuses to show that kind of uncertainty.

This is the last place he wants to be… and exactly where he can’t stop looking.

Rhett Callahan, the hardest person in the rink to crack — forced to face the one person who sees him at his worst.