Exposed on Ice

Ronan Vale There are very few moments in life where a man questions every decision he’s ever made. Standing in my kitchen at eight in the evening, staring at a pair of shorts that could legally qualify as a handkerchief… This is one of them. I hold them up between two fingers like they might contaminate me. They don’t get bigger. I give them another second. For hope. For miracles. For divine intervention. Nothing. Still tiny. Still offensively blue. Still something that looks like it belongs on a child’s Halloween costume instead of a six-foot-two professional hockey player with a reputation to maintain. “This,” I say slowly, to absolutely no one, “is a violation of my human rights.” Because there’s no other explanation. There’s no world—no universe—where I willingly chose this. I dig through the box again, more aggressively this time, like maybe the real outfit is buried underneath this insult to masculinity. Shirt. Striped. Fine. Annoying, but survivable. Red scarf thing. Absolutely not. And then— The hat. White. Bright. Mocking me. With the word Ahoy stitched proudly across the front like it’s done something to earn respect. I stare at it. Long. Hard. Deeply offended. “Don’t,” I warn it. The hat remains unapologetic. So this is my life now. I drop everything back into the box like it personally betrayed me and scrub a hand over my face. Somewhere, one of the guys is laughing. I can feel it. Deep in my bones. “Calder,” I mutter darkly. “This has Jett Calder written all over it.” That smug bastard has been bored all week, which is always a bad sign for the rest of us. Or maybe Zane. Actually, no—this level of psychological damage? Definitely Calder. They’re both dead. I haven’t decided how yet, but it’ll be creative. I’m just about to grab my phone and start issuing threats when there’s a knock at my door. Perfect timing. I straighten, grab the box, and march over like a man preparing for war. If this is one of them, I’m throwing the shorts at their face. Hard. I yank the door open. “Tell me you brought a real cos—” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat. Because standing in front of me are Darius Kane (#88) and Zane Holloway (#19). And they look… Ridiculously cool. Darius is in some dark, sharp suit that screams authority and intimidation, like he walked straight out of a mafia movie. Zane, on the other hand, has gone full chaos—black leather, chains, something vaguely rockstar-ish, and way too much confidence for someone who once tried to microwave a protein shake. I look at them. Then at my box. Then back at them. “No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not.” Zane grins immediately. “Oh, this is going to be good.” Darius crosses his arms, already suspicious. “Why aren’t you dressed, Vale?” “Because,” I say, stepping aside so they can come in, “I’ve been the victim of a hate crime.” Zane snorts as he walks past me. “You’re so dramatic.” “You haven’t seen it yet.” “I don’t need to. Your face says everything.” Darius shuts the door behind him, gaze sharp. “We leave in ten minutes.” “Yes,” I say, dropping the box on the kitchen counter. “And unless one of you has a backup costume hidden somewhere, I’m not going.” Zane perks up. “Wait—what?” I flip the box open. There’s a moment of silence. And then— Zane loses his mind. He doubles over instantly, laughter exploding out of him like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He actually has to grab the counter to stay upright. “NO WAY—” he wheezes. “There’s no f*****g way—” Darius doesn’t laugh. Which is somehow worse. He just stares at the contents with a slow, deliberate blink… then looks at me. “…Explain.” “I can’t,” I snap. “Because I didn’t order it.” Zane straightens just enough to grab the shorts, holding them up like a trophy. “Oh, this is beautiful. This is art. This is—” “Put it down before I break your hand.” He clutches it to his chest. “You’re wearing this.” “I am not.” “You are.” “I would rather retire.” Darius pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is it supposed to be?” “I don’t know,” I growl. “A sailor? A child? A public embarrassment?” Zane finds the hat. Of course he does. He puts it on immediately. “Ahoy,” he says, grinning like an i***t. I stare at him. Deadpan. “You’re on my kill list now.” “Worth it,” he says without hesitation. I grab my phone, already typing. Ronan: Which one of you idiots ordered my costume? A few seconds pass. Then— Jett Calder: 😂😂😂 Jett Calder: Please tell me you got the one with the shorts I freeze. Slowly look up. “Calder,” I say, voice dangerously calm. “It was Calder.” Zane gasps. “That legend.” “He’s a dead man.” Darius sighs. “We don’t have time for this.” “I’m not wearing it.” “You are,” Zane cuts in. “You have to. This is once-in-a-lifetime material.” “I will end you.” “You say that like I’m afraid.” I open my mouth to respond, but my phone vibrates again. I glance down. Unknown tension settles in my chest for no reason I can explain. Then I see the name. Sienna Cross. I blink. That’s… new. We don’t text. Ever. My thumb moves before I think. Sienna: Hey… sorry. I didn’t know who else to message. Caleb’s not picking up. My focus sharpens instantly. “What?” Zane asks, noticing the shift. “Quiet,” I mutter, reading. Sienna: My car broke down. I’m on the side of the road and it’s making a weird noise. I think it’s bad. That’s all it takes. Decision made. I grab the shorts. Zane goes silent. Darius raises a brow. “You’re not serious,” Zane says slowly. “I need to go pick her up.” Darius nods once. “Then go.” Zane points at the outfit. “But that means—” I exhale sharply, already heading toward my room. “Yeah,” I mutter. “It means I’m wearing the bloody thing.” “INCLUDING THE HAT?” Zane shouts after me. I pause in the doorway. Look down at the box. At the stupid. Mocking. Hat. Then close my eyes briefly. “…Yes,” I say. “Even the f*****g hat.” Because apparently, tonight, I’m not just Ronan Vale. I’m a professional i***t. And somehow— I’m still going to be the one rescuing her.