Chapter 1 Open Competition
“Wait a minute… you’re actually gonna let some guy fuck you?”
The words echoed across the ice as Ryder swung around a cone, his stick slapping the puck with an easy flick.
“Yeah,” he said, breath puffing white in the cold. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big—” Drew nearly tripped over his own skates. “What the fuck, man? Some guy’s gonna put his dick in your ass.”
Ryder grinned, coasting backward. “It’s Lila’s fantasy.”
On the next pass, Connor skated up beside him, one brow raised behind his cage. “Your girlfriend wants that?”
“Girlfriend’s a strong word,” Ryder said. “I guess technically she is, but we’re open. No rules. Just fun.” He lined up the next puck, nailed the target in the corner of the net, and smirked. “You should’ve seen the foursome I had last week.”
Drew groaned. “Oh God, here he goes.”
“No, seriously.” Ryder laughed. “Three girls. Me, Lila, her roommate, and this tattooed redhead from the swim team. I couldn’t remember their names after round two. Lila said my dick looked like it was directing traffic.”
Connor almost choked. “Jesus Christ.”
“Nothing’s off-limits and I wanna keep it that way,” Ryder added, breath coming fast as he powered down the rink. “She wants a threesome where the guys fuck too.”
That earned a spray of ice as Drew stopped short. “You’re kidding.”
“Not really.” Ryder shrugged, catching the rebound. “We do whatever. She already put a finger in my ass before. A toy one time. It wasn’t bad. You could cum from it.”
Connor bent over his stick, laughing so hard he nearly lost his balance. “Dude, you have no filter.”
Ryder just smirked, gliding past the blue line. “What’s the point of keeping quiet? I don’t give a shit.”
The coach’s whistle blared like a siren. “Hey! Enough chatter, let’s focus up!”
The guys straightened, trying not to laugh as Ryder lifted a hand in mock salute. “Yes, Coach.”
Coach Larsson wasn’t one to tolerate slacking, but Ryder Hayes had earned enough points to get away with it now and then. He was the team’s star center, a senior with a wicked shot and the kind of swagger that made scouts pay attention.
His sandy-blond hair was sweat-damp and slightly mussed beneath his helmet, his sharp grin was pure confidence. Ryder was sure he’d go pro after graduation, everyone was. The Greyhollow Direwolves had produced NHL players before, and he planned to be next.
This season, though, the ice felt more crowded. Ever since some Greyhollow alum had won the Cup in his rookie year, transfers from all over the country were flooding in. A dozen new players had shown up to tryouts, and half of them were still riding the bench, waiting for their chance to prove themselves.
Coach Larsson had made it clear, nobody waltzed into his lineup without earning it. He didn’t care how good their stats were, or what team they’d abandoned to be here.
Still, Ryder wasn’t worried. He’d worked his ass off for three years; his spot wasn’t going anywhere.
Or so he thought.
During a line change drill, someone collided with him hard enough to send him spinning. Ryder caught himself before he hit the ice, turning just in time to see a tall, dark-haired guy skating off with the puck he’d lost control of.
The guy was effortlessly cool, a little taller than Ryder, with long legs and the kind of build that made his pads look sculpted around him. He had dark hair curling damp at his neck, and dark eyes to match. Sharp, unreadable, and steady. He moved like he owned the rink, every stride smooth and certain, his power hidden behind that calm, infuriating ease.
“Watch where you’re going, rookie,” Ryder called out.
The guy stopped at the far end of the rink, flicked the puck into the net without breaking stride, and turned back with a smirk that matched Ryder’s own. “Didn’t realize centers here were that easy to knock off the puck... Guess this team could use someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Ryder’s brows pulled together. “You play center?”
“Yeah.” The guy’s voice carried easily, low and steady.
Ryder’s jaw tightened.
The guy’s confidence rubbed him raw. Too smooth, too sure, too try-hard.
Ryder could practically hear the imaginary soundtrack playing behind him, that slow-motion walk-in like he thought he was starring in his own highlight reel. Probably the kind of guy who smirked in every photo, showed up to parties like he owned the room, and thought his jawline could win games. Ryder bit down on a laugh, forcing it into a tight grin instead.
There was no way in hell some transfer was going to waltz in and make him look slow. Not on his ice. And yet, when those dark eyes lingered on him, steady and unreadable, it left a flicker of something that Ryder couldn’t quite shake.
Practice dragged on, drills running in endless rotations until Ryder’s thighs burned and his gloves stuck to his palms. Drew and Connor kept up their usual chirping, but he barely listened, channeling everything into sharper turns and faster sprints. Every time he pushed off, though, he felt the weight of that guy’s presence somewhere on the ice.
He tried to laugh it off, skating close enough to shoulder-check Connor during a pass.
“Heads up, Cap!” he called as he barreled into their captain, Beck Calder, who shot him a glare that could freeze lava.
“Hayes, try aiming that energy at the puck, not my goddamn ribs,” Beck barked, but Ryder just flashed a grin. Getting under Beck’s skin was almost a sport in itself.
He forced himself back into rhythm, but the awareness never left.
That new guy seemed to be everywhere. Every time Ryder lined up for a drill, he caught a glimpse of him at the edge of his vision: smooth, unhurried, all control and no effort. It made Ryder skate harder, push faster, trying to prove something.
By the end of practice, sweat rolled down his neck and his pulse thudded in his ears. He bent to catch his breath, the air cold enough to sting his lungs.
When he finally looked up, he froze.
Across the rink, the dark-haired transfer stood at the blue line, helmet off, dark eyes locked right on him. Not a smirk now. Just that quiet stare.
