Weston Carter didn’t let people in.

It wasn’t personal. He just didn’t have the time, the patience, or the energy to entertain anything outside of hockey. His life was already crammed full of expectations—early morning practices, late-night weight training, post-game critiques that never seemed to end. Every second of his day had a purpose, and small talk wasn’t part of it.

That was why he kept his head down, stayed in his lane, and let people believe whatever they wanted about him. Cold. Untouchable. Arrogant, maybe. He didn’t care. As long as they left him alone, the rumors could say whatever they wanted.

But then, there was them.

It started in the most inconvenient place—detention.

Weston wasn’t the type to get in trouble, but things happened. A bad game. A worse mood. One idiot too many running his mouth about how Weston was “nothing without his team.” He had ignored it at first, clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, swallowed the anger like he always did. But then the guy said something about how Weston would probably choke under pressure just like his team did last season, and—

Well. He wasn’t proud of what happened next.

Neither was his coach. Or his principal.

Detention was an hour of his life wasted, sitting in the back of the room, arms crossed, foot tapping against the tile in quiet irritation. He was prepared to zone out completely—until they walked in.

He recognized them, of course. Hard not to when they sat two seats away in his history class, always scribbling in the margins of their notebook, always a little too quick to defend the underdog in class debates. They weren’t the loudest person in the room, but they had this way of speaking that made people listen.

And now, apparently, they had landed themselves in detention too.

He didn't speak at first, just watched. Watched the way they subtly glanced up toward the clock every minute or so. It was endearing, really.