T H E O G R A Y

THE TENSION is real.

This shouldn't feel this hard, but it does.

The side effect of being well-known-both on campus and in the hockey world-is that all eyes are always on you. Every move, every play, every mistake-it's magnified under a microscope, and the margin for error is zero. There's no room to mess up, no room to slack, especially not when your name carries weight. And definitely not when you hear your number being shouted from the stands, the sound fueling the anxiety in your blood instead of the confidence it's supposed to bring.

I exhale sharply, gripping my stick tighter as I skate forward, ignoring the dull ache rippling through my muscles. I know I shouldn't be pushing myself this hard-I'm not even fully healed yet. The pain is still there, lingering beneath the surface, a constant reminder that I should be resting. That I should be sitting this one out.

But I can't.

Because if I do, Coach might pull me from Saturday's game, and that's not an option.

So I manage.

I have to.

The ice feels rough beneath my skates as I pick up speed, eyes locked on my opponents. Even though this is just a joint practice between our team and Glacier Bay Hounds, the intensity is way higher than it should be. No one is holding back. They're playing as if it's game day, as if this counts for something bigger than just getting used to each other's strategies. And if they're treating it that way, then I don't have a choice but to match their energy.

I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears as I move, my body responding on instinct despite the exhaustion creeping in. Every shift, every stride-I'm hyper-aware of everything. The way Glacier Bay Hounds is moving faster than expected, the way my teammate signals for a pass, the way the puck glides across the ice with deadly precision. My mind is sharp, but my body? It's slower than I want it to be.

And that pisses me off.

I push harder, gritting my teeth as I weave between players, forcing myself to keep up. My shoulder burns, my ribs ache, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Not when Saturday's game is on the line.

Not when everyone is watching.

And definitely not when I know that if I let up, even for a second, someone else will take the opportunity to prove they deserve my spot more.

The puck cuts across the ice, a sharp pass heading straight for me. Instinct kicks in before logic-I shift my weight, adjusting my stance, my stick connecting with the puck in one fluid motion. The impact vibrates up my arms, but I barely feel it. My focus is locked, eyes scanning the defense in front of me.

Too slow.

I push forward, dodging one of their forwards before cutting sharply to the right. The ache in my ribs protests the movement, but I ignore it. I have a shot.

I wind up, but just as I'm about to take it-BAM!

A body collides into mine.

The hit isn't dirty, but it's hard, knocking the air out of my lungs as I slam into the boards. Pain flares instantly-sharp, deep, wrapping around my ribs like a vice. For a second, all I can do is grit my teeth and breathe through it.

"Damn, Theo. You good?"

I recognize the voice before I see the face. Cameron, hovering just close enough to check on me but still keeping the game going.

"Fine," I grit out, shoving off the boards.

The truth? Not so much.

The pain in my ribs is worse than I expected, radiating through my torso with every breath, but I shake it off. I can't show weakness. Not here. Not now.

"Then move your ass," he smirks before skating off, and I roll my shoulders, chasing after him.

The rest of practice is a blur of drills, heavy hits, and forced endurance.

The whistle blows after some minutes, signaling a break in practice, and I exhale, dragging my glove across my face. My body is already screaming at me-ribs throbbing, muscles burning-but I don't have the luxury of stopping. Not with Coach watching. Not with the game on Saturday.

I skate toward the bench, reaching for my water bottle, when the noise from the stands registers. More people must have shown up to watch. Normal, considering the two teams practicing together today. The school had been hyping it up all week.

"Theo!"

I glance up to see a small group of girls decked out in team jerseys, my name and number stretched across their fronts. They wave enthusiastically, flashing bright smiles, some pushing their chests out just a little too obviously. My gaze sweeps over them lazily-until it lands on one in particular. The moment our eyes meet, striking green locking onto mine, she whips her head away as if caught doing something she shouldn't.

I wonder what's making her face look so flushed-then my gaze drifts lower, scanning what she's wearing.

And that's when I realize why.

Her top matches the rest of those girls who were screaming my name.

And by matches, I mean she's wearing a jersey.

My team's jersey.

With my number.

19.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale before my brain snaps reality in check.

The school had decided to share some of our jerseys with students to get them involved in cheering for the team, but I hadn't even considered the possibility of my number landing on her. Yet here she is, standing by the rink in my colors, completely unaware of the way my blood just ignited at the sight.

She looks good. My subconscious says and I couldn't get the right mindset to deny it.

She shifts on her feet, avoiding my gaze like she knows that I already knew and preparing on ways to tease her back home.

Her fingers move-tugging at the jersey, then brushing her hair over one shoulder in a failed attempt to cover the number. As if that would stop me from noticing. As if that would stop my brain from latching onto the image of her wearing my number and sending it somewhere it definitely shouldn't go.

So fucking cute.

I barely hold back a grin.

Before I can get another read on her, one of my teammates claps me on the shoulder.

"Theo, let's go!"

I blink, tearing my eyes away. Right. Focus.

I give a short nod, head back onto the ice, but the damage is already done. As I step back onto the ice, I tell myself I shouldn't be feeling this way.

It's just a jersey. A damn jersey.

So why does a sudden wave of possessiveness slam into me just from seeing her wearing it?

Other girls are literally wearing the same ones, each with my number but nothing in my body reacted to them-no spike in my pulse, no irrational twist in my gut. But the second I saw Sophia in mine?

Fuck.

Why her?

Why is it always fucking her?

I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it, trying to focus as I skate forward. The ice is where I drown out the noise, where everything else-school, expectations, my injuries-fades into the background.

But she's still in my head.

Still making my grip tighten around my stick.

Still making my muscles coil with something unexplainable.

My brain is running two speeds at once-one telling me to move, the other stuck on the fact that she didn't even want me to see her wearing my number. The way she averted her gaze, the way she shifted on her feet like she got caught in something-

And I liked it.

I liked that she was flustered. That she didn't know what to do with herself. That she couldn't meet my eyes because she knew.

I dig my blades into the ice, trying to redirect my focus.

But then-

"Theo, go!"

A voice snaps through the fog in my head.

But it's too fucking late.

I barely register the blur of movement ahead of me-the streak of black and green as an opponent cuts past, the number 11 on his back standing out in my vision as he takes possession of the puck.

Shit.

I push forward, legs burning, trying to catch him-trying to close the distance, to fix my fucking mistake-but he's too fast.

By the time I reach him, he's already lined up the shot.

A loud CRACK echoes through the rink.

The puck sails past our goalie, slamming into the back of the net.

The red goal light flashes.

A whistle blows.

Fuck.

My jaw clenches so tight it aches.

My teammates groan around me, some muttering under their breath, others shooting me a look that says exactly what I already know.

That goal was on me.

I skate back toward the bench, my pulse a steady hammer against my ribs. Coach doesn't say anything, but I can feel the weight of his disappointment.

I sit down, gripping my stick so hard my knuckles go white, jaw ticking as I try to calm the storm brewing inside me.

I know better than this.

I don't fuck up like that.

It doesn't take seconds before The weight of a hundred stares settles on me before I've even caught my breath.

Some are pitying-probably from the girls. The sharper ones, laced with frustration and a few muttered curses? Definitely from the guys.

But there's only one set of eyes I care about.

I wonder if she's looking at me too.

God, this is getting ridiculous.

I should be focused on getting back in the game, shaking off the hit, proving that make out team win before the game ends. But instead, I'm sitting here, stuck in my own damn head, thinking about her.

Thinking about whether she's watching me.

I exhale sharply, tilting my head back, staring up at the ceiling of the rink as I try to shove this whole thing out of my system.

Because if I don't?

If I let this spiral any further?

I'm screwed.

The final buzzer blares, and my stomach twists as I glance at the scoreboard.

1-0.

Glacier Bay Hounds win.

The crowd erupts, cheers bouncing off the rink walls, but none of it matters. Not when I see the look on teammates faces. Not when I glance toward the coaching staff and meet Coach's eyes-calm, eerily so, but that's what makes it worse. He doesn't need to yell to get his point across. One sharp glance and I already feel it. The weight of my fuck-up.

I messed up.

I let that goal happen.

My teammates skate off the ice with heavy steps, frustration rolling off them in waves. No one's happy. No one's talking. Jaxon looks like he's about two seconds away from punching something, and I don't blame him.

I feel like doing the same.

It doesn't take long before the other team leaves, their cocky grins making my blood simmer.

Number #11, the guy who took the puck from me like I was some fucking rookie, turns my way as he walks past. He doesn't say a word, doesn't have to. Just smirks. A quick flash of teeth and a smug tilt of his chin.

Already got myself a nemesis. Fantastic.

A group of girls follow after them, practically giggling over the team like they're gods walking out of the rink. I swear one of them almost faints when their captain, #7, winks in her direction.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply, trying to shove the lingering frustration down my throat.

The rink clears out, leaving just the photography department lingering behind, still handling their equipment. I spot Tory speaking to Coach, the rest of her team at her side.

"Hey, you alright?"

Sam's voice snaps me back to reality. I glance at him, nodding once.

"Yeah."

"You shouldn't have played, Theo."

Jaxon's voice cuts through the air like a blade.

I turn, locking eyes with him. He's pissed. And not in a normal, post-game anger kind of way. It's deeper than that.

"Don't look at me like that," he spits, rolling his shoulders, still tense from the game. "You know you shouldn't have played. You already look like shit, and now we've got to deal with the aftermath of your dumbass mistake. We just became a fucking joke in front of those shitbags!"

My jaw clenches.

I know I shouldn't have played.

I know my body wasn't at a hundred percent.

But I couldn't sit on the bench and do nothing.

"Jaxon, stop." Logan speaks for the first time throughout the practice and I thought he'd look more upset, he does but with a hint of concern.

Jaxon scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Whatever, man." He shifts his gaze from logan to me. "Just don't fuck up the actual game."

He stalks off toward the locker room, leaving nothing but tension in his wake. The rest of the guys don't say anything and head into the locker room with Jaxon.

"Come one Theo." Logan mutters,"Don't think too much of it."

"I exhale sharply, gripping the edge of my hockey stick like it'll somehow ground me.

"I made you guys lose." The words taste bitter coming out of my mouth, regret settling deep in my gut.

Logan sighs. "It was just practice, Theo."

I shake my head. "Still."

He shrugs, like none of this weighs on him the way it does on me. "Besides, Coach doesn't look that annoyed, so I think he had a plan."

A plan? Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that I fucked up.

Logan watches me for a second, then exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Look, if it's about Jaxon and the guys-they're not mad. Okay, they are, but it'll slide off. You know how it is. We win, we lose, we move the hell on. They can't possibly expect us to win every time."

I clench my jaw. "They do."

"Yeah, well, that would make life way too easy." He nudges me with his elbow. "Take this as a lesson. And learn to listen to your best pal when he tells you to fucking rest."

He's right. I really shouldn't have played.

I should have told Coach that I wasn't feeling great, sat this one out, given myself a damn break. But this fucking stubbornness of mine never listens. It's like it'll be the death of me.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the tension, but it clings to me, thick and heavy. The sting of the loss still sits in my chest, a sharp reminder that I wasn't at my best out there. That I was slow. That I let my team down.

"Gray."

I turn at the sound of my name and see Coach standing by the boards, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but there's no heat behind his eyes, just the usual scrutiny.

"Don't think too much of it. Go take your shower."

I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat. He's giving me an out-telling me to shake it off, reset-but my pride still burns.

"See?" Logan claps a hand on my shoulder, his usual grin back in place. "No one's holding this over your head forever. Now let's go, maybe hit up a club later tonight, release the rush. I already know Lydia's gonna go crazy with drinks-so if you're coming, you're in charge of making sure she doesn't end up dancing on tables again."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Yeah, yeah, I'll come."

I don't even hesitate. I need the distraction. I need something to get my mind off this gnawing frustration sitting in my chest. The music, the drinks, the girls-I know exactly how this night is going to go. I'll find someone to take my mind off things, to pull me into something easy, something simple.

And yet-

I know why I lost focus today.

And I refuse to admit it.

Refuse to acknowledge the reason my mind drifted, the reason my body reacted in a way it never should have.

Because without a doubt, the second I saw her in my number-

I was fucked.

And I hate the fact that I could possibly be attracted to her in more ways than I should.

◇◇◇

The club is packed. As it should. Loud music, dim lights, bodies pressed together on the dance floor-it's the kind of chaos I hardly thrive in but needed at the moment. A place where I can lose myself, forget everything, and let the rush of alcohol and attention drown out whatever the hell is clawing at my head.

But tonight? I'm still on edge.

"Is Jaxon drinking?"

I turn at the sound of Lydia's voice. She's standing by the booth, her drink in one hand, the other gesturing toward Jaxon, who's sitting at the bar.

He barely glances up before shaking his head. "Nah. Later."

Lydia narrows her eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he mutters before he gets up. "I'm going to the dance floor." He says and walks over to the floor and doesn't take him long before some girl sadly falls into his hands.

"What's his deal?" She shouts, asking Logan who was sitting next to her, his hand on her thigh.

"Just pissed about today's practice."Logan shouts back and she shakes her head, turning back to Jaxon whose now grabbing the girl's ass and she looks super Into it.

""Still acts like a child." She sighs, swirling the ice in her drink.

"He'll be fine by tomorrow," Logan shouts back, his hand still resting lazily on her thigh.

She smirks and downs the rest of her drink before turning to him. "Come, let's go dance as well. I feel refreshed now with the drinks."

"You mean drunk." Logan chuckles but takes her hand anyway, letting her lead him toward the crowd.

And just like that, I'm alone.

At least for a moment.

Because as I lift my drink to my lips, I feel it before I even see it-someone watching me.

My eyes flick toward the dance floor, and that's when I notice a particular staring at me.

She's on the dance floor, not far from where Logan and Lydia disappeared into the crowd. The way she moves-slow, deliberate, hips swaying in time with the heavy bass-like she knows exactly who's watching.

And she does.

Because her gaze is locked on me. My grip tightens around my glass, but there's nothing there. No more excuses to sit here and think. I came here for this. For exactly this.

Theo. Move.

I push off the booth, my body already working before my brain catches up.

The second she sees me coming, she smirks. Like she just won. Like she already knows what's going to happen next.

"Hey." I say, raising my voice over the music as I stop in front of her. "Nice moves."

She steps closer, her fingers ghosting over the front of my shirt.

"Thanks." Her smirk widens, her body pressing against mine, the heat of her skin seeping into me as she tilts her head. "You wanna see more?"

"Maybe I would."

She presses closer, her hand sliding up my chest. "So, are you gonna dance with me, or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"

I smirk, resting my hands on her waist. "How about we dance for a few and we go somewhere way better than this place?" I mutter, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She looks satisfied with my boldness, like she was waiting for me to make the move. Like she wanted this just as much as I did-or at least as much as I was pretending to.

She nods, and we keep dancing, our bodies moving in sync, her hands roaming, her breath warm against my skin. It's easy. Thoughtless. A distraction.

Her hips grind against mine, and I let my hands drift lower, pressing her closer, letting the music swallow us whole.

Then she leans up, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Meet me outside. I need to grab my stuff."

I nod, stepping back, and she disappears into the crowd.

I turn, making my way toward Lydia and Logan, who have abandoned the dance floor in favor of a corner couch, Logan's face buried in Lydia's neck, his hand already halfway up her dress.

"I'm leaving," I shout over the music, making them look up. "Going with someone."

Lydia smirks, her lipstick mostly gone. "Thank God. You need to get laid like yesterday."

I know.

Logan nods, unfazed. "Alright. See you tomorrow."

We do our usual handshake, and I push out of the club, inhaling the crisp night air. It clears my head for all of two seconds before she steps out, a satisfied smirk on her lips.

We don't talk. We don't need to.

An Uber is already waiting, and within minutes, we're pulling up to a row of motels lining the street. I let her choose, and she does without hesitation, leading the way inside like she's done this before.

The check-in process is quick. Barely a blur.

Then the door clicks shut behind us, and the tension shifts.

Her hands are on me instantly, tugging at my jacket, her lips pressing against mine in a hungry, practiced way.

I let it happen. Let her pull me toward the bed, her fingers fumbling with my belt.

"You're so hot," she breathes against my mouth, her voice dripping with lust. She pulls back and helps me remove my shirt and eyes my body looking pleased.

"You like?" I ask, because I need to show I'm into this because which guy wouldn't. Her body is a full on package.

She's gorgeous-blonde, full lips, everything I usually go for. But the second I meet her eyes, something in me recoils. They're the wrong color. The wrong shape.

They're not hers.

"Most definitely," Her lips move against my neck, but my body barely reacts. I should be into this. I would be into this, if it weren't for the way my brain keeps replacing her with someone else.

I slide my hands down her back, unhooking her bra since she was the first to strip. She lets it fall away, revealing herself fully to me.

Nothing. Not even a semi-hard on.

I reach out, running my fingers over one of her breasts, wondering if I just need to feel her to spark something. She moans at the touch, her hands moving down to undo my jeans completely.

Still nothing.

I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling sharply as the girl's fingers dance down my stomach. I can do this. I want to do this. I need to get rid of this ridiculous tension that's been clawing at me since I saw Sophie in my jersey, wearing my damn number like it belonged to her. Like she belonged to me.

I press my lips to hers again, harder this time, willing myself to get lost in it. This is what you need, Theo. Just fucking let go.

She melts into me, arching up as I flip her over, pinning her beneath me. My hands skim down her sides, my lips trailing from her jaw to her throat, past her breast, lower-

She moans.

And everything inside me recoils.

Fuck.

It's instant. A full-body rejection, like my muscles are locking up, like my body knows before my brain does.

She's not her.

I try to push past it, dragging my lips lower, feeling the heat of her skin against my mouth. But my stomach knots. My pulse spikes.

She moans again, breathy, needy.

I can't do this.

I push up, exhaling sharply, my hands digging into the mattress on either side of her head.

She blinks up at me, confused, her brows pinching together. "What's wrong?" then I see her looking down and getting even more pissed. "You're not even hard? What the fuck?"

"I-" I clench my jaw. "I'm sorry. I can't do this." I sit back, running a hand through my hair. "I can't."

The girl pushes up on her elbows, irritation flashing across her face. "What do you mean, you can't?"

"I just-" I swallow, clenching my jaw. "I thought I could, but I can't."

She stares at me for a beat, then scoffs, sitting up and grabbing her clothes. "Jesus Christ."

I don't say anything. There's nothing to fucking say.

She yanks her dress back over her head, shooting me an annoyed glance. "This some kind of ego thing? Get me here just to back out last second?"

"No" My voice is rough, hoarse. "It's not that."

She shakes her head, grabbing her purse. "Whatever. Next time don't waste a girl fucking time."

"Fuck." I groan, dragging a hand down my face as the door slams shut, the sound echoing through the room, indicating that my supposed one night stand has gone.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I can get laid-anytime, anywhere. That's never been a problem. But my body? My body doesn't give a shit about anyone else. It knows what it wants. Who it wants. And it's waiting for me to stop pretending like I don't feel the same way.

I exhale sharply, my head tipping back against the pillow, eyes shut tight. It's so fucking easy to picture her here. Soph.

I let the image of her fill my mind, and it's instant-like a hit to the chest. I see her beneath me, her body soft and warm against mine, her lips parting with a gasp as I drag my mouth over her skin. I can almost hear the quiet, desperate sounds she'd make as I take my time mapping every inch of her skin with my tongue, dragging her apart piece by piece until she's got nothing left but me.

A groan slips from my lips, low and rough.

The thought shouldn't feel this good but fucking hell it does.

My jaw clenches as I shift on the bed, heat flooding through me, sharp and unbearable. My body reacts before my mind can stop it.

I think about that night-the stupid argument over a fucking protein bar, the way she crashed into me, her weight pressing me down as she scrambled for her Kindle. It was nothing. Stupid. But when she looked at me, when those big, sharp eyes locked onto mine, something in me twisted.

That look.

Menacing. Intense. Almost challenging.

And fuck, if my dick didn't twitch just staring at her.

I remember flipping her over, pinning her beneath me. I wasn't even thinking-just moving, acting on instinct. And that moment-those few, stretched-out seconds where she was trapped beneath me, wide-eyed and breathless-haunt me.

Because she wasn't just scared.

She wanted it.

I saw it. I fucking felt it. That flicker of lust just beneath her panic, the way her fingers trembled against my chest, not in fear but in anticipation.

Could she want me too?

Or am I just losing my mind, clinging to some desperate, fucked-up fantasy?

My hand drifts down, fingers trailing over the waistband of my sweats. It slides down, curling around my cock, and I realize with a sharp, frustrated breath that I'm already hard.

Straining hard.

"Fuck. No."

I release myself, rolling onto my stomach, pressing my forehead into the mattress like it might somehow rid me of the way she's taken up residence in my head. My body aches, my chest is too tight.

This isn't normal.

This is so not fucking normal.