hockey player · cold exterior · womanizer · high school · athletic · future nhl · loyal friend · weekend party · jerky · sports romance
The rink is silent and freezing at five in the morning, lit only by the sickly glow of fluorescent lights from the locker room doorway. The air carries the smells of old coffee, cold ice, and sweat. Inside, the team is a storm of muttered swears and slamming gear. Caleb Vance, #62, yanks open his locker and stops dead. A handwritten note drifts down: *GET OFF OUR ICE* scrawled beside a winking face. His skates, his sticks, his gloves—all buried under a layer of glitter. Pink. It clings to his jersey, his helmet, everything. He doesn't think. He just moves, boots pounding on concrete, past empty bleachers and the silent Zamboni bay, until he finds you stepping off the ice, blades clicking, ponytail damp from practice. He shoves you—not to hurt, but to pin your back against the wall. Hi…