Chapter 2 He Kissed Me First

ARES’S POV

Found you.

Forty-three seconds into the game and I'd already lit up the scoreboard. Not bad for the new kid everyone spent the whole week whispering about.

Trouble. Attitude. Don't get comfortable.

They had no fucking clue.

I hopped off the ice and dropped onto the far end of the bench, legs out, helmet still strapped tight, sweat running down my back under the pads. This place was bigger than my last school — brighter lights, louder crowd, Division I, the real deal — and none of it mattered, because the only thing in that building worth watching sat two seats over, pretending I didn't exist.

Ethan Drake.

Captain. Golden boy. The face on every poster in the student center. The guy who kissed me like the world was ending last summer and then vanished before I even got his name.

I flexed my fingers inside my gloves and let my eyes slide over. He stared dead ahead, shoulders locked under the red and white, gloves gripping the edge of the bench like the whole thing would tip if he let go. Number 19. He hadn't looked at me since that half-second on the ice, but he felt me watching.

I made sure of it.

The scar on my lower lip tugged when I smirked. Still there. Still mine. A thin silver line where his teeth caught me that night — cheap vodka, dead porch light, his fists twisted in my shirt like he was drowning and I was the only solid thing left. He was drunk. I wasn't.

I remember every second.

Bass through the walls. Rain hammering the windows. Some guy in the corner laughing way too loud about nothing.

And Ethan pressed against me on that back porch, eyes half-closed, breath sharp with vodka and something sweeter underneath, grabbing my collar like he was about to shove me off — and pulling me in instead.

"Who are you?" he'd whispered, mouth already brushing mine.

"Whoever you need me to be."

Then he kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Like he'd spent his whole life waiting for permission and finally ran out of patience.

I'd kissed plenty of people before him. Nobody ever kissed me like that.

By morning he was gone. No name, no number — just a Ridgewood hockey bag half-buried behind a couch and a blurry three-second video some girl shot before I knew her phone was out. You could see the bag. You could see how he held onto me. You couldn't see his face — the porch light was shot — but I didn't need his face. I had the jersey number sticking out of the bag. Nineteen.

A year. Twelve months of rosters and highlight reels and team photos until my eyes burned, two transfers, every bridge behind me on fire. All of it to sit on this bench, two seats from the only person I'd ever wanted this badly, and watch him decide I was a stranger.

He didn't flinch when they announced my name. Didn't react when I scored. Didn't blink when I sat down close enough to touch.

It hurt. More than I'd budgeted for. Because here's the math I'd been dodging all week: I torched two schools and a scholarship and crossed the country on ten seconds of bad video and a hockey bag, and if the guy on that porch only existed drunk, then I'd burned my whole life down chasing somebody who was never real.

My hands weren't steady inside the gloves. I flexed them until they were. Then I put it away, because looking untouchable was the one thing I did better than anybody.

Coach Harlan clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Nice goal, Cole. Keep that fire."

"Working on it, Coach." Flat and easy. I'd had a lot of practice sounding like that — after a teammate at my last school outed me for laughs, after the scholarship went, after fourteen months of packing boxes, I built the armor piece by piece. Tattoos up both arms. A mouth that cut first. A reputation that told people to back the fuck off.

Worked every time.

The whistle cut the air. Next shift. I stayed down two minutes and watched Ethan work the ice. He was good — better than good — clean passes, hard checks, and when he pointed, guys went. But his eyes kept flicking my way and yanking back like I was a hot stove, and after a missed shot his stick came down harder than the ice deserved.

He was losing the fight to hide it. Good.

Coach tapped my shoulder and I was already up. "Cole — you're running with Drake's line. Let's see it."

I vaulted the boards and hit the ice smooth. The crowd kicked up. I didn't check the Jumbotron; I could feel Ethan's stare on the back of my neck the whole glide to center.

He lined up straight across from me, close enough that I caught the salt of his sweat and the wax off his stick tape. His eyes finally met mine for the first time since the goal — blue, sharp, every wall up. No smile. No welcome. Just the captain mask he wore like it was bolted on.

I let the slow half-smile slide across my face. The scar tugged.

The ref dropped the puck.

I won the draw clean, because I wanted him to feel how easy it was. Puck on my tape, I spun past their center and carried it up ice, and Ethan matched me stride for stride, skating like he had something to prove to somebody. I could've passed to him. Probably should've. I wanted to see what he'd do if I pushed instead.

Faked left, cut right, drove the boards. He read it perfect and threw the shoulder, and I took the hit on purpose — half a second of him flush against me, solid and warm through all that gear, and my whole body remembered the porch before my head could stop it. His mouth falling apart on mine. Same heat, wrong building.

I spun off the check and fed Asher Kane on the wing. Clean off my tape. Kane buried it. 5–2, horn, the crowd losing its mind.

This time I tapped gloves down the line like a good teammate. But when Ethan skated past me toward the bench, I let my blade graze his calf — just enough. He jolted.

"Good hit, Captain," I said, low enough to be his alone.

His head snapped around, eyes wide for half a second before the mask slammed down. "Stay in your lane, rookie."

I laughed, quiet. "My lane's wherever you are tonight."

His eyes went fast to the bench — Asher cracking up at something Coach said, helmet half off, the rest of the guys chugging water and arguing defense, nobody watching. But his hand tightened on his stick, and he didn't step back, and he didn't look away, and neither of us did one thing about how close we were standing to something we couldn't take back.

He didn't answer. Just skated harder.

I followed him in and sat down right beside him this time, shoulders almost touching. The bench was packed and loud, helmets getting slapped, plays getting yelled. Nobody noticed his thigh go rock-hard against mine.

He didn't move away.

There you are, Drake.

I pulled off a glove and wiped my face, and the tattoos caught the arena lights — black constellations up my forearm, inked after my old team turned on me, a reminder that the sky didn't fall just because people saw who I really was. I wondered if he'd noticed them yet.

The period ended 5–2 and we filed toward the tunnel, Ethan two steps ahead, shoulders square, every inch the untouchable golden boy — until he glanced back once, just once, and our eyes locked.

He looked away fast.

The locker room doubled the noise. Pads coming off, goals getting replayed, somebody's speaker fighting the showers. I found my stall, dropped my helmet, started unlacing. The scar throbbed and I ran my tongue over it without thinking.

"Cole." His voice cut through everything. Three stalls down, jersey off, pads half-undone, chest still flushed from the ice, hair dark with sweat, and his hands were too busy with a buckle that was already open. "Good shift."

I held his eyes. "Thanks, Captain. You set me up clean on that second one."

He didn't smile. "Team game. We go up together."

"Or we go down together," I said, lifting one shoulder. "Depends how honest we decide to be."

For one second his face forgot every rule it had. Then he turned back to his stall too fast and yanked at a pad like it had personally fucked him over.

I kept the same slow crooked smile from the ice and pulled my practice jersey over my head. Let him look. Let him wonder.

I wasn't here to make this easy for him. I was here until he stopped running from what he wanted and finally admitted I was his.

After the game, Coach Harlan called us both into his office.

Standard stuff. Expectations, chemistry, first line with Drake by next week if I kept producing. Ethan stood rigid beside me and nodded at all the right moments and gave all the right answers, voice ironed flat, eyes fixed on Coach like I wasn't in the room. Captain mode. I already knew it on sight.

"Coffee?" Coach gestured at the pot on his filing cabinet. "Either of you?"

"No thanks," Ethan said.

"I'm good," I added.

Coach leaned back. "Cole, you'll be in Drake's room starting tonight. Drake, I expect you to get him up to speed — systems, schedules, team culture. You two figure out your rhythm, and we'll be unstoppable by playoffs."

Ethan didn't react. Didn't so much as blink. Whatever this was going to cost him, he'd already decided not to let it show here.

"Got it," he said. Already halfway to the door.

"Dismissed."

I followed him out. The arena had gone quiet — most of the guys off to the dorms or the bars — just the buzz of the overheads and the Zamboni humming somewhere out on the ice. His footsteps cracked off the concrete, picking up speed, like distance was going to fix this.

I let him get ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty.

Then I stopped walking.

"So..."

He froze.

The hallway stretched between us, empty and fluorescent and cold, and I watched his shoulders rise and fall on a breath I could see from twenty feet away. He didn't turn around.

I took one step. Then another. Slow. The same glide I'd used to score on him in front of three thousand people.

"Coach mentioned the housing situation, by the way." I let it land in the space between us. "Looks like we're sharing a room, Drake. Starting tonight."

His back went rigid one vertebra at a time, a man bracing for a hit he couldn't see coming.

"Do you really not remember me?"