The whistle blew, its sharp, shrill ring echoing off the rafters of the Horizon Center.
"Alright, gentlemen!" Coach Miller shouted, clapping his hands together as the team skated toward the center circle. "For the next hour, this ice belongs to Coach Vance. The front office wants agility, edge work, and speed. So wrap your heads around it and pay attention."
A low murmur passed through the rows of black-and-gold jerseys. Liam stood near the center dot, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid and commanding. He had traded his cream sweater for a sleek, fitted black athletic jacket that zipped tightly up to his throat. On his feet were his pristine white figure skates, their specialized freestyle blades catching the bright overhead stadium lights.
Standing right at the front of the pack, leaning heavily on his hockey stick, was Jaxson.
The captain’s dark hair was wild and damp with sweat from their early warm-ups. His dark eyes locked onto Liam, tracking the smooth, effortless way the smaller man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There was a challenging, arrogant tilt to Jaxson's chin. He was a straight guy who ruled this rink with brute power, and it was clear he still thought figure skating was nothing more than theatrical spinning.
"The floor is yours, pixie," Jaxson muttered, loud enough for the team to hear. "Show us what you've got."
Liam didn't break eye contact. A cold, sharp smile touched his lips. "Gladly, Captain. Since you have the turning radius of a cargo ship, you’ll be my first demonstration."
A few of the rookies choked back snickers. Jaxson’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening on his hockey stick until his knuckles turned white. He skated forward, his heavy hockey blades digging deep, loud ruts into the ice, stopping bare inches from Liam.
"Watch your mouth, Vance," Jaxson lowered his voice, his chest expanding as he tried to use his sheer bulk to crowd Liam’s space. The familiar scent of wintergreen and raw testosterone washed over Liam, thick and suffocating. "Don't get cocky just because the cameras aren't flashing."
"I'm doing my job, Thorne," Liam whispered back, his eyes flashing defiantly. "Now slide your stick over to the bench. You won't need it. Today, you're learning how to actually use your weight."
Jaxson threw his stick toward the bench with an irritated clatter. He turned back around, spreading his legs into a wide, stable hockey stance. "Fine. What am I doing?"
"A standard sequence of deep-edge inside mohawk turns," Liam said, skating a slow, flawless circle around Jaxson. "Most hockey players use their upper bodies to force a change of direction, which bleeds your speed. Figure skaters use the core and the deep hip socket. Like this."
With a sudden, explosive burst of power, Liam pushed off. He tore down the length of the rink, building immense velocity in just three strides. Then, without sacrificing a single fraction of his speed, he flipped his body backward, his blades carving a deep, silent, razor-sharp arc into the ice before he smoothly transitioned back forward. It was a display of absolute control, grace, and terrifying speed.
He glided back to a stop right in front of Jaxson, spraying a tiny, precise dust of ice over the captain's skates.
"Your turn," Liam challenged. "Match my arc."
Jaxson scoffed, digging his edges in. He charged down the ice, his massive thighs pumping with brute force. He hit the turn, but instead of the fluid transition Liam had demonstrated, Jaxson forced it with his shoulders. His heavy hockey blade caught a rut, making a loud, violent screeching sound against the ice, and his massive momentum sent him stumbling wildly before he managed to catch himself against the plexiglass boards.
The locker room banter from earlier completely died out. The team watched in stunned silence as their untouchable captain nearly ate the ice.
Jaxson’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He turned around, his eyes turning completely feral as he skated back toward Liam. "The ruts are too deep. My blades are wider than yours, it's a structural issue—"
"It's a balance issue," Liam interrupted calmly. He skated directly into Jaxson's space, refusing to let the captain make excuses. "You're fighting the ice instead of letting your weight carry you. Stand up straight."
"I am standing straight," Jaxson growled, his breathing heavy, his chest heaving against his jersey.
"No, you're leaning forward because you're used to carrying forty pounds of armor," Liam said. Before Jaxson could protest, Liam reached out.
He placed both of his bare hands firmly against Jaxson’s waist.
Jaxson violently flinched, his entire body going completely rigid. His dark eyes widened, snapping down to where Liam’s slender fingers were pressed against his hips.
Liam froze too. The moment his hands touched Jaxson’s hips, a sudden, blinding jolt of electricity seemed to snap through the fabric of their clothes. Jaxson’s body was incredibly hot, solid as a brick wall, and beneath Liam's palms, he could feel the captain's core muscles violently contract.
Liam’s heart did a strange, chaotic flip against his ribs. He was straight. He had touched women's waists a thousand times during ice choreography and felt nothing but professional focus. But touching Jaxson—feeling the raw, heavy, masculine power of the captain’s body beneath his fingers—made Liam's throat go completely dry.
"Vance," Jaxson rasped, his deep voice dropping an octave, sounding rough and suddenly breathless. He didn't push Liam away. Instead, his eyes locked onto Liam’s face, a dark, dangerous, and completely confused heat flaring in his gaze. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Fixing... fixing your posture," Liam stammered, his voice trembling slightly as he forced himself to maintain his professional mask. He squeezed Jaxson’s hips firmly, guiding the massive athlete a fraction of an inch backward. "Feel that? Your center of gravity needs to be right here. Over your heels. Not your toes."
Jaxson didn't move. He stood perfectly still, trapped by the touch of a man half his size. His eyes drifted down to Liam's lips, his jaw working silently in a state of sheer, internal panic. He was fiercely straight. He liked women. So why was his pulse hammering like a war drum just because his new male coach had his hands on his hips?
"Cap?" Miller’s voice called out from the blue line, breaking the spell. "You need us to run the drill or what?"
The loud call snapped them both back to reality.
Liam violently pulled his hands away, stepping back a full three feet, his cheeks burning with a hot, furious blush. He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Jaxson's intense, searching gaze.
"Yeah," Jaxson choked out, his voice rough as he finally tore his eyes away from Liam, turning toward his teammates. He cleared his throat loudly, trying to shake off the bizarre, terrifying fog that had just clouded his mind. "Line up! Follow the pixie’s instructions. If I see anyone leaning forward, you’re doing laps."
As the team began the drill, Jaxson skated to the back of the line. His hands unconsciously drifted down to his own hips, right where Liam’s fingers had just been resting. The skin beneath his jersey was still burning, a lingering, magnetic heat that refused to fade.
He stared at Liam, who was currently instructing a rookie at the other end of the rink. A dark, anxious knot formed in Jaxson's stomach.
This was supposed to be a corporate lie. A fake relationship for the cameras.
So why, for a single, terrifying second, had he wanted Liam to keep his hands right where they were?
