Chapter 2 He Kissed Me First
ARES’S POV
Forty-three seconds into the game and I already lit up the scoreboard. Not bad for the new kid everyone had been whispering about all week.
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 stretched out, helmet still strapped on tight. Sweat trickled down my back under the pads.
The lights in this place were way brighter than my last school—bigger arena, louder crowd, way higher stakes. Ridgewood was Division I. This was the real deal. None of that mattered, though. The only thing that mattered was the guy sitting two seats over who’d decided I wasn’t worth remembering.
Ethan Drake.
Captain. Golden boy. The face on every poster in the student center. The guy who’d kissed me like the world was ending last summer, then disappeared before I even got his name.
I flexed my fingers inside my gloves and let my eyes slide over to him. He stared straight ahead, jaw locked, shoulders tight under that red-and-white jersey. Number 19. Even from here, I could see how hard his gloves gripped the edge of the bench—like if he let go, something bad would happen.
He hadn’t looked at me since that split-second glance 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. That thin silver line where his teeth had caught me that night—cheap vodka, dim basement lights, his fists twisted in my shirt like he was drowning and I was the only solid thing left. He’d been drunk. I wasn’t.
I remembered every second. That’s why I’d spent the whole last year tracking down a blurry phone video and a Ridgewood hockey bag half-buried behind some couch.
I didn’t transfer here for the last-minute scholarship they waved in my face. I didn’t come for the NHL whispers around this program. I came because the guy who kissed me like he meant it was right here, and I was done letting him pretend it never happened.
Welcome home, Drake.
Coach Harlan clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Nice goal, Cole. Keep that fire.”
“Working on it, Coach.” The words came out flat and easy. I’d learned a long time ago how to sound like nothing could touch me. After all the shit at my last school—getting outed by a teammate who thought it was hilarious, losing my scholarship, two transfers in fourteen months—I’d 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. It worked every time.
The ref’s whistle cut through the air. Next shift.
I stayed on the bench for two minutes, eyes locked on Ethan while he worked the ice. He was good. Better than good. Clean passes, hard checks, the kind of presence that made the whole team fall in line. But I saw the cracks.
His eyes flicked toward me every few seconds, then yanked away like he’d touched something hot. His stick slammed down harder than it needed to after a missed shot. He was scared.
Good. He needed to be.
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 noise kicked up. I didn’t bother with the Jumbotron. I felt Ethan’s stare burning into the back of my neck as I glided into position at center.
He lined up right across from me. Close enough that I caught the salt of his sweat and the scent from his stick tape. His blue eyes—sharp, every wall up—finally met mine for the first time since the goal. No smile. No welcome. Just that perfect captain mask he wore like armor.
I let the slow half-smile slide across my face. The scar tugged at the corner of my mouth.
The ref dropped the puck.
I won the faceoff clean because I wanted him to feel how easy it was for me. Puck on my tape, I spun past the other center and carried it up ice. Ethan matched me stride for stride, skating like he had everything to prove. I could’ve passed to him—probably should’ve—but I wanted to see what he’d do if I pushed him.
I faked left, cut right, drove hard toward the boards. He read it perfect and threw the shoulder check. I took the hit, felt his body slam flush against mine for that half-second—solid, warm, even through all the gear. Heat punched through my gut, the same heat from last summer when his mouth fell apart on mine.
I spun off the check and fired a short pass to Asher Kane on the wing. The puck left my tape clean. Kane buried it. 5–2.
The horn went off. The crowd lost it.
This time I tapped gloves with the guys. But when Ethan skated past me toward the bench, I let my stick blade graze his calf—just enough to make him feel it. He jolted.
“Good hit, Captain,” I said, low enough that only he heard.
His head snapped toward me. Eyes wide for half a second before the mask slammed back down. “Stay in your lane, rookie.”
I laughed, quietly. “My lane’s wherever you are tonight.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked fast toward the bench—Asher was cracking up at something Coach said, helmet half off.
The rest of the guys were chugging water, arguing about the defense, lost in their own noise. Nobody was paying attention. But the way Ethan’s jaw worked told me he felt exactly how close we were standing to something we couldn’t take back.
He didn’t answer. Just skated harder.
I followed and sat right next to him this time. Our shoulders almost touched. The bench was packed and loud, full of guys slapping helmets and yelling plays. Nobody noticed. But I felt Ethan’s thigh go rock-hard against mine. He didn’t move away.
There you are Drakie
I pulled off my glove and wiped sweat from my face. The tattoos on my forearm caught the arena lights—black lines, constellations I got 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. Wondered what he’d do when he realized the guy he kissed was now moving in under his roof. Because I hadn’t dropped that bomb yet.
Coach had told me this morning: family housing was full, so the new transfer was bunking with the captain. Shared room, shared bathroom, shared everything until the season ended or one of us broke. I almost laughed out loud in his office.
Ethan Drake was about to learn exactly how close I was willing to get.
The period ended 5–2. I stood with the rest of the line as we filed toward the tunnel. Ethan stayed 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.
In the locker room the noise doubled. Guys stripped pads, laughed, replayed the goals. I found my stall, dropped my helmet, and started unlacing. The scar throbbed. I ran my tongue over it without thinking.
That blurry video was still sitting in a hidden folder on my phone—you could see the Ridgewood bag on the floor behind us, and you could see the way Ethan had pulled me in like something inside him was starving.
I hadn’t shown it to anyone. Didn’t want to. But I’d learned the hard way—guys like Ethan needed proof before they’d admit a damn thing. The video was insurance. A last resort if he tried to run and pretend that night never happened.
“Cole.” His voice cut through the noise. Three stalls down, jersey already off, pads half-undone. His chest was flushed from the ice, hair dark with sweat. He looked pissed. Or rattled. Probably both. “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.”
Panic flashed across his face—quick and real—before he turned back to his stall too fast, yanking at a pad like it had personally fucked him over.
I let the quiet stretch until the guys around us got loud again. Then I dropped my voice low, just for him.
“Coach told me about the housing situation, by the way. Looks like we’re sharing a room.” I let it hang there a second. “Hope you don’t snore, Drake.”
Ethan went completely still. His back stiffened like something had locked up inside him. When he turned, his face was shut down tight, but his knuckles were white around his stick.
I kept that same slow, crooked smile from the ice and pulled my practice jersey over my head. Let him look. Let him put it together.
I wasn’t here to make this easy for him. I was here until he stopped runni
ng from what he wanted and finally admitted I was his.
