Chapter Three
1420 Words
Andrew's POV
Practice was brutal.
Coach Denson had us on the ice for nearly three hours, running drill after drill with the kind of intensity usually reserved for playoff weeks. I didn’t mind. If anything, the relentless pace was a relief.
Skating hard, sweating buckets, taking hits without thinking too much — it was better than being in my own head.
Especially when Jake was on the ice too.
I found myself watching him again, the sharp way Jake cut across the rink, the flex of his thighs under his compression gear, the easy grin he pulled off even while sprinting on skates. It was maddening. There wasn’t a single thing about him that wasn’t attractive, and I hated that nothing had changed.
I’d tried to shake it. After the club — after the girl — after ‘that night’ — I told myself it was time to move on. Time to shove all that heat and tension back into the box it came from. Jake didn’t see me that way. Never would.
We were just teammates. Just best friends. Just ‘bros’.
Right?
Maybe, if I repeat the mantra fast enough, I’ll be able to convince my stupid brain, nothing would ever happen between Jake and I.
Jake skated past me during a scrimmage and gave me a playful shove. “Keep up, slowpoke.”
I smirked, shoving him back. “You wish.”
“Focus Malone!” Coach bellowed from the sideline. “This isn’t prom. Get your head in the game or get off the ice.”
Laughter echoed from behind us.
“Coach, let’em dance, we could use the entertainment,” Harris, one of our defensemen, called out from the blue line.
“Shut it, Harris,” I muttered under my breath, trying to hide my burning ears.
Jake just grinned, skating backwards. “Hey, I’d make a great prom date. Ask anyone.”
“Yeah, especially the goalie from Westfield,” someone jeered from the bench.
Coach blew his whistle so sharp it echoed off the walls. “You all want to run suicides or play hockey?”
We groaned collectively.
“I thought so. Face-off, let’s go! Malone, you're center. Carter, left wing. Harris, quit chirping and do your damn job.”
Jake skated up beside me, nudging my shoulder as we got into position. “See? We’re so in sync.”
I rolled my eyes, lining up for the puck drop. “I hate you.”
He grinned. “No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he was right.
I caught coach’s glare across the ice. “Get in line, Malone.” I gave him a fake salute, before focusing on the game.
---
After practice, the locker room was thick with steam and sweat. The guys were half-dressed, joking loudly, tossing tape balls, making plans to go out for drinks. It was chaos, the usual post-practice mayhem.
“Hey Malone,” Harris called, “You still coming out on Friday? A few guys are going to ☓.”
“No,” I said, pulling my shirt over my head. “I’m skipping this one.”
Harris raised an eyebrow. “You? Missing a party? Who are you and what did you do with our starting center?”
“Maybe I’m growing up.”
“Or maybe he’s finally realized those vodka shots aren’t actually helping his game,” chuckled Anders from across the room.
“Shut up,” I muttered, smirking a little.
Jake peeled off his jersey and sat on the bench next to me, still catching his breath. We always waited until the locker room cleared out before we showered. It was either that or we showered at home. On most days, we were the last to leave the training center.
“You’ve been on fire today,” Jake said. “What’d you eat for breakfast, steroids?”
I shrugged, watching him wipe a towel across his neck. “Just… focused, I guess.”
Jake watched me for a second.
“You’ve been acting differently,” Jake said, voice light. “Since the club.”
I tensed, then forced a laugh. “Guess I’m just tired of partying.” I looked everywhere but at him. “I should cut back on drinking.”
“You sure that’s all it is?”
“Yeah.” I looked down at his hands. “Why?”
Jake didn’t answer. He just shook his head, almost like he was trying to shake off a thought he didn’t want to have.
Before I could press, Coach walked in, clipboard in hand.
“Good effort today, boys,” he said gruffly. "We’ve got two weeks until the regional showcase. I want clean plays, tighter transitions, and no dumb penalties,” he said while staring directly at Anders.
Anders threw up his hands. “That was one time!”
“One time too many. Friday — extra conditioning. Don’t be late.”
Groans filled the room.
Jake muttered, “There goes my Friday night.”
Coach shot him a look. “You’re welcome to sit on the bench if conditioning’s too hard for you, Carter.”
“No, sir,” Jake said quickly.
“Didn’t think so.”
Coach left, and the room slowly started to thin out.
---
Back at the house, the silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. Not yet.
Jake was in the kitchen, drinking straight from a carton of juice. I flopped on the couch, scrolling through the Bruins group chat. Half the guys were already planning another night out.
I wasn’t going. It has been proven that I have little to zero control over my emotions when alcohol is involved.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” Jake said casually, leaning against the kitchen door-frame.
I looked down. “Yeah. It was on the chair. You want it back?”
A total lie. I stole it from his closet a few days ago, and I’m not ready to part with it. His smell still lingers on it, something woody with a hint of vanilla.
Jake shook his head. “Nah. Looks better on you anyway.”
I rolled his eyes. “Flirting doesn’t work on me. Is that the line you’ve been feeding those innocent girls?”
“Who says I’m flirting?” he bit his lip, looking down like he was reminiscing. “Trust me, they are not innocent.”
“You always flirt.” I joked, trying to keep my tone light, ignoring the sharp pain in my chest.
Jake smirked and walked past me, ruffling my hair as he passed.
It was dumb, but the touch sent a shiver down my spine. I stared at my phone screen to avoid reacting. I wasn’t going there. Not again. I couldn't afford to.
Jake plopped down beside me on the couch, way too close. Our thighs brushed. He didn’t move. Neither did I.
We sat like that for a while, watching a replay of last week’s game in silence.
I stole a glance at Jake.
There was something about the way he leaned back, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, head tilted slightly. He looked tired. But also… solid. Familiar in a way that made my stomach twist with a bittersweet feeling.
“Did you ever…” Jake started, then stopped. “Never mind.”
I glanced at him. “What?”
Jake scratched the back of his neck. “Forget it.”
I raised a brow. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just spaced out.” That makes two of us bro.
I nodded, eyes drifting back to the TV. I didn’t think anything of it. I pretended not to notice the way Jake kept looking over at me.
I ignored the way Jake’s knee shifted slightly toward mine. Or the way Jake’s fingers twitched on the cushion between them, like he was considering reaching out.
If he had, I probably would’ve laughed it off.
Because in my mind, Jake was just being Jake — my best friend, my roommate, the straight guy who kissed girls in clubs and would never, ever look at me that way.
The thought lingered long after Jake had fallen asleep on the couch beside me.
I watched him, just for a moment longer, before quietly grabbing a blanket. I hesitated for a second, just watching him breathe. Peaceful. I pulled the blanket over his shoulders, careful not to wake him.
Then I sat back, biting my lip, staring at the TV, and wondering when this torture would end.
- Writer
