I captain this team like it's my blood on the ice. Unbreakable. Untouchable. Every skate blade answers to me, every hit lands on my command.
But then he transfers in. This sarcastic outsider with scars from too many teams that never wanted him right, crashing into my bunk like a penalty I can't call off. Tight quarters, shared air thick with rink chill and the heat of bodies too close. I tell myself it's friction. Hate-fueled glances in the dim glow above my mattress. Nothing more.

His defiance hits harder than any check. That snarky bravado masking how badly he craves my approval, my anchor. And fuck, mine cracks first. The man who rules the rink starts dreaming of surrender in those shadowed bunks. Sweat-slicked skin colliding when we think no one's watching. Gloved hands grazing under the strategy room table, air gone heavy with confessions I never planned to pant out. One brush on the ice, and the crack spreads-team codes shattering, age lines blurring into ruin.

He's my teammate. My responsibility. Devouring him in secret risks it all: his spot beside me, the championship puck, the respect I forged blade by blade. Self-respect, too, because letting this live wire of resentful lust pull me under? That's not leadership. That's implosion.

Yet every shared breath in our frozen cage whispers the truth. I captain the ice, but he captains something darker in me. The question clawing my gut as playoffs loom: will I break him to save us, or let him break me first?