Chapter Text
“Shit, I’m so fucked,” I mumble, looking down at the map in my sweaty palms while I jog across the never-ending sprawl of Denvy University. Of course I’m lost. It’s my first practice here, and I’m already blowing it.
finally spot the massive arena looming ahead like a beacon of hope. Thank god. I sprint toward it, heart pounding in my chest, and dart through the entrance. The cool air conditioning hits me like a wall, and I take a second to catch my breath before scanning the hallway for the locker room. There—a door labeled "Men's Hockey Locker Room" in bold letters. I swing it open—and it's empty. Of course it is. They're already on the ice. "Fuck," I mutter to myself, over and over like a mantra, while I scramble to get dressed. My hands are shaking as I pull on my gear—pads, jersey, skates. Everything feels too tight, too wrong. This is not how this was supposed to go. I tie my skates as fast as I can and hurry out onto the ice. The cold air bites at my face, sharp and unforgiving. Most of the team is huddled at center ice, going through drills.
“You’re late,” a guy who’s off from the side yells with annoyance written all over his face. The C on his jersey practically glares at me. Awesome. First impression blown. Captain already hates me.
“Sorry, I got lost,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking and giving away my nervousness.
Kaiser's jaw tightens. He doesn't say anything for a beat, just stares at me like I've personally offended him by existing. "You're lucky we just started," he finally says, loud enough for the whole team to hear now. "Everyone, take this as a warning: if you're late, you will do bag skates until I get sick of watching you suffer." Great. Fantastic start. I skate over to the group and try to disappear into the crowd, but I can feel Kaiser's eyes on me the entire time. Coach claps his hands together. "Alright, everyone, I'm Coach Andy Meza, and this," he says, gesturing toward the scowling blond next to him, "is your captain, Westley Kaiser." A few of the guys nod. I keep my head down. "We're gonna start with a simple drill," Coach continues. "Line up in front of the goal. Say your name, your year, and take a shot. Let's see what we're working with." One by one, the guys step up. I watch as they introduce themselves and fire off shots—some clean, some sloppy. Then it's the guy in front of me. "Tyler Kennedy, Junior," he says confidently before burying a shot in the top corner. Now it's my turn. I step up, and Kaiser sees me. His lips press into a thin line, his brow furrowed as his eyes lock onto mine. For a second, I think he's just going to let me go. But no—he skates over, snatches the puck from the pile, and drops it in front of me without a word. His glare could burn holes through my helmet. "Josh Mackey. Senior," I say clearly, trying to keep my voice steady. I wind up and take the shot—and bury it, top shelf. Of course I do. Can't help myself from being a little cocky. I throw a wink his way as I skate off, and the look on his face is priceless. Pure, unadulterated annoyance. Good. If he's going to hate me, might as well give him a reason. ⸻ Practice is an easy go-through after that. We run standard drills—passing, shooting, conditioning. I try not to think about how cold the vibe is between me and Kaiser. Every time I glance his way, he's either ignoring me or shooting daggers in my direction. What the hell did I do to piss him off so badly? Afterward, we hit the showers. The locker room is loud—guys joking around, music playing from someone's speaker, the usual post-practice energy. But I'm quieter than usual, lost in my own head. I know eventually I'll need to tell them. That I'm bi. Not that it's anyone's business, but locker rooms have a way of making that feel like it is. And honestly? I'm tired of hiding. I did that at my last school, and look where it got me. Maybe if I just casually mention it, they'll figure it out and I won't have to have "the talk." "Hey Mackey, a few of the guys are going to Monterey later. You coming?" Kennedy asks, toweling off his hair. Across the room, Kaiser shoots Kennedy a disapproving look, but Kennedy either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "Uh—yeah, sure," I respond, grabbing my bag. "And I go by Mack." "Cool. See you there, Mack." I nod and head out, but I can still feel Kaiser's eyes on my back as I leave. ⸻ I'm almost out of the building when I hear footsteps rushing behind me. "Mackey, hold up." I turn to see Coach jogging toward me, clipboard still in hand. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened at your old school," he says, his voice softer now. "And we're glad you could join our team." My stomach twists. Of course he knows. Of course everyone probably knows. "Thanks," I manage to say, forcing a smile. "I'm glad I can be here too." He claps a hand on my shoulder and walks off, leaving me standing there in the hallway. I exhale slowly and try not to let the past crawl up my throat. Tonight's not about that. Tonight, I'm just a guy trying to get to know his new team.
As --- As soon as I walk into Monterey, I'm hit with the smell of stale beer and peanuts. The bar is dimly lit, with wooden booths lining the walls and a jukebox playing some classic rock song I don't recognize. It's the kind of place that's seen better days but refuses to give up. I scan the room and spot Kennedy, Kaiser, and another guy—I think his name was Jones—sitting in a back booth near the dartboard. I weave through the crowd and slide into the only empty spot in the booth, which happens to be right next to Kaiser. Because of course it is. The universe seems to think my misery is funny. I flash him a smile, hoping to break the ice. He keeps a blank expression, barely acknowledging my presence. Great start. "So how are you liking Denvy so far?" Jones asks, leaning forward with genuine curiosity in his eyes. "It's big," I admit with a laugh. "I keep getting lost, but I like it a lot. The campus is beautiful, and the facilities are insane." "How long have you been here? You hit up any parties yet?" Kennedy chimes in, taking a swig of his beer. "I've been here for about a week," I say, relaxing a little. "I went to this LGBTQ+ party on Friday, and then that party one of the soccer players threw—I think his name was Kyler or something? Kyle? I don't know, I was pretty drunk." A weird silence drops over the table like a heavy blanket. Kennedy raises his eyebrows. Jones pauses mid-sip, his beer hovering near his lips. Kaiser stares straight ahead like I didn't just speak. Well. That's one way to come out. Not subtle, but honest. "Oh, so you're out and proud. That's cool—I didn't know that," Kennedy finally says, breaking the silence with an easy smile. I appreciate him for that. At least someone's making an effort. "I'm gonna go get some beers," Kaiser grunts suddenly, his voice flat. I move out of his way so he can slide out of the booth. He doesn't look at me as he leaves, and I watch him disappear into the crowd toward the bar. As soon as he's out of earshot, I lean toward Kennedy and Jones. "Did I do something to piss him off?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Nah, he's just like that around new people," Kennedy says with a shrug. "He'll warm up to you eventually. Hopefully, considering Coach wants y'all on the same line." "Wait—same line?" I blink. "Like, first line?" "Yep. You, him, and probably me or Jones. Coach thinks you two could be unstoppable if you figure your shit out." "Holy shit," I blurt out, the realization hitting me like a truck. Kennedy and Jones give me weird looks. "What?" Jones asks. "Last year, my old team played Denvy," I say slowly, piecing it together. "I got into a fight with him. With Kaiser. That's why he looks so familiar." Their jaws drop in unison. "Wait—you're the guy?" Kennedy says, eyes wide. "Holy shit, I remember that game! That's the only fight Wes has ever gotten into, at least here at Denvy. He was suspended for like—" Jones elbows him hard, cutting him off as Kaiser reappears with four beers balanced in his hands. He sets them down on the table with a thud, his scowl firmly back in place. If I didn't know better, I'd say the only faces he knew how to make were a scowl and a blank expression. I take one of the beers and mutter a quiet "thanks." He doesn't respond. ⸻ After a couple of drinks and two phone numbers later—one from a cute girl with a nose ring, the other from a guy who definitely thought I was more interested than I actually was—I decide it's time to head back to the dorms. The room is spinning just a little, and I know my limit. I've learned the hard way what happens when I push it. "Okay, guys, thanks for tonight, but I really should head back," I say, getting up from the booth. I stumble slightly, catching myself on the edge of the table. "No, you're not," Kaiser grumbles from across the booth. "Excuse me?" I slur, blinking at him in confusion. "I'm not gonna let one of my players drive home drunk," he says firmly, already standing up and grabbing his keys. "I didn't drive—I walked," I point out. "Even worse. You'll fall into a ditch or something." He groans in annoyance. “Yeah if you don’t push him into one yourself cool it Wes.” Jones laughs. “Haha” he deadpans then he says goodbye to Kennedy and Jones, who are both grinning like idiots. "Have fun, losers," Kennedy calls after us, earning a middle finger from Kaiser. I follow Kaiser out into the cool night air. He still has that stupid scowl on his face—and it must be the alcohol talking when I think it's kind of hot. I slide into the passenger seat of his car—a beat-up black Nissan that's seen better days—and buckle my seatbelt. The car ride starts in silence. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of other cars passing by. "Do you hate me?" I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence. I mean, what kind of psycho drives with no music? Kaiser glances at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "I don't know you enough to hate you, Mack," he sighs. "Why so scowly then?" I ask a like pouting child. He's quiet for a moment, his jaw tight- like as if he’s trying to find the words but it’s not coming. "'Cautious' and 'dislike' might be more suitable words. Happy?" That is certainly not the answer I thought it would be. I want to press further, but something in his tone tells me to let it go. The rest of the car ride passes in silence. When we pull up to campus, as I open the door and the cold air slaps me in the face. Michigan cold fronts are brutal, even in late August. I already miss Florida's muggy nights. I'm walking toward my dorm building when I realize Kaiser is still behind me. I turn around. "You don't have to walk me, you know. I'm not that drunk." “My dorms the same way dipshit.” He huffs stuffing his hands into his hoodie.