Owned by the rink reaper

002

Elio’s POV.

Five a.m. was a lawless time.

The world was still dark, save for the flood lights that illuminated the training ground, and the rink was a tomb of concrete and ice.

I stood by the boards, my fingers numb against the casing of my laptop, trying to get some work done in my new hell hole.

My mind darted to Leah’s call on Friday. I should never have answered. I should never have visited Arnold.

Would’ves and shouldn’t-haves kept racing in my mind as I regretted my decision.

‘Deep Dive,’ Leah had called it. If you ask me, I’d call it a death sentence.

The rhythmic ‘shh-shh-shh’ of skates carving into fresh ice echoed through the empty rafters. The team moved in a blur of black jerseys like monsters in a mist. I watched them in marvel, my eyes tracking the numbers, the formations, the technical precision I’d spent a career dissecting.

For a moment, they really did live up to their name, moving with a particular ferocity that made them look like Reapers on the rink.

Just then, the air shifted. His scent, just like his reputation, preceded him. This morning, he smelled fresh and sharp, carrying the cold scent of winter and expensive colognes. I reeled in disgust.

What a horrible way to start a week.

Rowan Moonstone skated toward me, slowing into a spray of ice that coated the hem of my coat. He didn't stop until he was inches from the glass, his height a physical weight even through the barrier. He looked disgusting—not because he was messy, but because he wasn't. Despite the hour, his features were defined, each angle sharp, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

"You’re early," he drawled. His voice was raspy from sleep. "I didn't think you did 'fieldwork' before the sun was up."

"I don't," I snapped, refusing to look at him as I opened my laptop. "But apparently, the Rink Reapers’ board decided the team needs a babysitter and I am just the unlucky soul who pulled the short straw."

Rowan leaned his arms over the boards, his gaze rested on me. "Unanimous? Even Miller? He usually hates reporters more than he hates the penalty box."

"You’d think," I muttered with a sneer. "But apparently, I’m the only journalist in this city who won't write a three-pager about the color of your eyes or how 'misunderstood' you are, so I was the only ‘logical’ choice."

Rowan let out a soft, dark chuckle. He didn't seem annoyed; he seemed fascinated.

"Is that right? You think I need a babysitter?"

I finally looked up, meeting his gaze. My second mistake.

His eyes were too bright, too focused on me. He was enjoying this. "I think it’s pathetic. Why do you still join them for training, anyway? Don't you think it’s better to just go home and be daddy’s perfect little soldier? Or the obedient heir? Why waste the sweat when you aren't even allowed to touch the puck in a real game?"

Something sharp flickered in Rowan’s gaze—a c***k in his nonchalant mask—before the cockiness returned back into place.

"Perfect little soldier? Please. I look way too good in a jersey." He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass between our faces. "The old man banned me from the game, not from being fit. Besides, if I stayed home, who would keep you company in the dark?"

"I’d prefer the dark," I scoffed. "Go run your laps, Moonstone. Some of us actually have to use our brains for a living."

"Moonstone! Laps! Thirty! Now!" the coach’s whistle screamed across the ice.

"Go on," I waved him away, finally focusing on my screen. "Go do your little circles. Try not to trip over your own ego."

Rowan lingered for a heartbeat too long. "Watch the form, Elio. You might learn something about commitment."

He pushed off, his blades scratching against the ice as he accelerated.

I told myself I was working.

For minutes, I stared at a blank document, my jaw tight. But subconsciously, my eyes were just as traitorous as my mind. I found myself tracking the #17 jersey as it lapped the rink. I watched the way his thighs flexed with every stride, the terrifying power of his movement.

He was faster than the others. He moved like he was trying to outrun the very ban that was choking his career. And even then, his mask never slipped. He looked defiant and…angry.

He completed his set but didn't stop at the bench. He glided past my section of the boards at half-speed, looking directly at me.

He caught me staring—caught the way my eyes followed the sweat dripping down his neck—and then dropped a slow, mocking wink.

My heart hammered against my ribs with indignity. Definitely indignity.

I didn't wait for him to finish. I shoved my laptop into my bag, my face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the freezing arena air, and bolted for the exit. I just needed to get out.

But in my haste, I took a wrong turn past the equipment racks. Suddenly, the wintery air of the rink was replaced by the heavy, humid scent of steam, sweat, and cologne.

The locker room.

It was empty, the rest of the team still cooling down on the ice, but the air was thick with their presence. My feet moved before my brain could protest. I found myself walking past the stalls until I stopped at number seventeen.

Moonstone.

I hated him. I truly did. But curiosity was a cruel thing, and it was currently cutting through my common sense. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I hooked them into the vent of the locker door.

It wasn't locked, and I couldn’t say I was surprised.

I didn’t know what I was looking for. Gods, I didn’t even know why I was there. But I still acted.

The door swung open with a soft, metallic whine.

It was organized with a terrifying, billionaire-heir precision. And there, taped to the inside of the door, was a photo.

It was an old picture from a high school game ten years ago. A younger Rowan was center-ice, glowing with the sweat of a victory. But he wasn't the focus. Someone had taken a blue marker and circled a figure in the background, standing near the bleachers.

Me.

A younger version of me, clutching a notebook to my chest and staring at Rowan with an expression I couldn't quite name.

He’d circled me. He’d kept this in his locker for a decade. But why?

"Find what you were looking for, Journalist?" His voice was a low, rumble, sounding every bit predatory.

All my thoughts fled as I heard his voice behind me.

I froze, the humid air of the locker room suddenly feeling like ice. I didn't have to turn around to know Rowan was standing there, his heat radiating off his body inches away from pinning me against the metal.

I was too rooted to move away, and we were too close, far too close, for me to escape him. His hand reached over my shoulder, deliberately clicking the locker shut, trapping me between the cold steel and him.

Then, he moved closer, his presence now smothering. “What are you doing?”