Kayden
The cold hit me first. Even through the layers of gear, through the pads and jersey and sweat, there was still a sharp bite of Glacier Dome ice that sank straight into my bones.
The Avalanche practiced like they were in a live game, not a drill, and the pace today felt like it was designed to kill me.
My lungs already burned as I skated hard into the next sprint drill, the edges of my blades slicing into the ice with clean bites.
"Again!" Coach Reddick’s voice thundered from the boards. "Move your feet, Vale! Faster!"
I pushed harder. My legs screamed. I leaned forward anyway, driving my weight into each stride until the cold wind whipped against my face. I knew I was fast; I knew I could leave defenders choking on snow dust when I wanted. But every time I stole a glance toward Rhys, he was watching me like I was doing everything wrong.
My stomach did a nervous flip. Did he see it? The thought of that 2:00 AM Instagram notification haunted me with every stride. I searched his eyes for a sign—a smirk, a judgmental glint, anything that proved he knew I’d been ogling his shirtless photos—but his gaze was as impenetrable as a frozen lake.
He skated beside me during the next break, gliding effortlessly, not even breathing heavily. His gaze flicked to me once before he looked at the rest of the team huddling at center ice.
I hated how his attention made something inside me tighten. Even through my suppressants, the aggressive, dominant flare of his winter pine scent hit me like a physical blow, demanding my body recognize him as the Alpha in the room.
"Next drill!" the coach barked.
We reset. The puck dropped and Rhys passed to me, expecting me to pick it up without fumbling, and I did.
I spun on my edges and tore up the left side of the rink, dropping low and cutting dangerously close to the barrier, accelerating into a tight turn that had two defensemen scrambling after me.
I slipped between them, knocked their sticks aside, and fired a shot dead center—right into the goalie’s glove.
Miller Reid caught it like it was nothing. "Do better next time, newbie," he commented.
Across the ice, I saw Luca Rossi smirk at me, leaning on his stick with a look that said I told you so, while Theo Hartman bit his lip, looking genuinely worried for me.
A ripple of disappointment moved through the players, subtle but almost physical. Rhys didn’t say anything yet, but I could feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on me like a hand around my throat.
"Reset!" the coach shouted again.
We did another drill. Another sprint. Another pass I didn’t catch cleanly enough. Another shot that went too wide. Not by much, but enough. Rhys still hadn’t said anything, and his silence was louder than any insult.
We continued practicing and I tried to match everyone stride for stride, but every time I thought I was gaining ground, Rhys flew past me like the ice bent for him and him alone.
I didn’t understand how someone could move like that, or why his presence made my chest tighten the way it did.
We went through two more plays and then a final breakaway drill where Rhys was defending against me. He read every one of my moves, cutting me off before I could even react. By the time the puck skittered into the corner, I was out of breath.
The whistle blew across the rink. Everyone started moving, but Rhys turned immediately toward me and this time, he didn’t hold back.
He skated forward with controlled fury, his jaw tight, eyes blazing with the same cold fire as the ice under us. "What the hell was that, Vale?" he said, his voice low enough not to echo, but sharp enough that it cut cleanly through the air. "Are you even taking this seriously?"
My chest tightened, my heart hammering against my ribs as I replied. "I am taking it seriously. I—"
"No," he snapped. "You are skating like someone who doesn’t belong here. Like someone who thinks he can take it easy and still make the roster because of his name or his hype or whatever the media is screaming about you today."
I clenched my jaw. "I’m trying. I’m still getting used to the system. To the pace. To the team. I just—"
"You just what?" His voice rose, finally carrying across the rink. "You just didn’t bother to show up on time this morning? You just didn’t bother to warm up properly? You just happened to miss half the drills because you couldn’t be bothered to leave your hotel earlier?"
Heat rushed up my spine. "I got caught in traffic. I’m not—"
"I don’t care," Rhys said, cutting me off with the cold finality of someone who had no time for excuses. "If you want to be on this team, you don’t get to be late. You don’t get to be comfortable. You don’t get to be anything less than perfect. The Avalanche spent a ridiculous amount of money and trust bringing you here, and what you’re showing me is nowhere near worth it."
My throat tightened around something sharp and hot. I felt anger and shame, but I wasn’t going to let him look down on me.
"I said I got caught in traffic," I repeated. "I’m staying far from the arena, and—"
"Then move," Rhys said. He leaned in closer, his scent flaring so thick and icy it made my knees weak. His eyes burned into mine, searching for the "Alpha" he thought I was. "Or skate like someone who actually wants to be here. Because right now, Vale, you’re not impressing me. Not even close. You look like you are not meant for the ice."
"I..."
The whistle blew again before I could reply.
Coach Reddick stepped onto the ice, looking from me to Rhys. "That’s enough! Both of you. My office. Now."
Rhys didn’t break eye contact with me. Not until the coach said his name again. Then he finally turned and skated away, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.
I exhaled slowly, my breath fogging the air. For the first time since joining the Avalanche, I wondered whether this team was going to devour me alive or if I could survive through it.