★CHRISTIAN★

I leaned against the porch railing, one hand curled around my drink, watching as they disappeared into the night. Two figures crossing the quad under the dim glow of lamplight—Sienna, animated and golden even from this distance, and Nora, smaller at her side, dark hair spilling like ink over her shoulders. They walked in step, heads bent together, arms linked. And something ugly twisted low in my chest. It shouldn't have mattered. She wasn't mine to watch, wasn't mine to notice. But Nora James had walked away—had left the chaos, left me—bristled under my skin. A laugh rang out behind me.

"Shit, Hayes. You look like someone just stole your favorite toy."

I didn't need to turn to know it was Logan, one of my hockey mates. A couple of others were with him, the scrape of pool cues and the crack of laughter spilling out through the open door behind them.

"Don't tell me," another voice chimed in—Connor, grinning like an idiot as he came down the porch steps. "Did Captain Hayes just get rejected? For the first time in his life?"

The group erupted into laughter, clapping me on the back like it was all in good fun. But the words hit sharper than I wanted them to. Rejected. My jaw tightened. I turned, fixing them with a look that I knew carried weight, the kind that shut people up.

"Rejected? You think I tried?" I scoffed, rolling my shoulders in a casual shrug. "Please. I didn't even make a move tonight."

More laughter. Connor shook his head, grinning.

"You didn't try—because you knew she'd turn you down."

The others ooh'd and hollered, the ribbing that slid right off me. I could take a joke. I'd made a career of it in locker rooms and frat houses. But something about the way Connor said it—so smug, so certain—scraped against the part of me that hated losing, that hated not being admired. I rolled my eyes, forcing a smirk.

"You don't get it. Sometimes the challenge is more fun than the reward."

That got their attention. They leaned in, smirks mirroring mine. Logan elbowed me.

"So she's a game now? That quiet friend of your sister's?"

"Not a game," I said, my voice easy, practiced. "Just something to keep it interesting. Everyone else? Too easy. You blink and they're already falling into your lap. But her?" I tipped my head toward the quad, where Nora had disappeared into the night. "She doesn't even know how to look me in the eye without blushing. That's the thing you can't rush. You draw it out. You play it right."

They laughed, impressed now instead of mocking, their approval rolling back over me like a balm. The sting of their earlier jabs faded beneath it, the balance restored.

That was the thing, though. I needed it. The respect, the admiration, the subtle acknowledgment that I was still in control. Without it, the cracks showed—the insecurity I buried under smirks and wins and leadership titles. I drained the rest of my cup, tossing it aside with a lazy flick.

"Trust me," I added, grin sharpening. "This won't be a rejection story. It'll be the opposite. Give me time. She'll fold. They always do."

The guys hollered in agreement, someone slapped me on the shoulder again, another calling me a "bastard" out of respect more than insult. I let their laughter swallow the moment, my smile easy, my posture relaxed. But when I turned back toward the quad, the space where she'd walked away still burned at the edge of my vision. And I knew one thing for certain — I hadn't finished with Nora James. Not even close.

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The rink was alive with the scrape of blades and the echo of pucks ricocheting off the boards. My lungs burned with cold air, every inhale sharp, but it was the ache I thrived on. Out here, I wasn't just Christian Hayes, frat boy, party starter. Out here, I was captain.

"Keep your stick down, Anders!" I barked as I circled back on the play, intercepting a lazy pass and firing it down the ice.

My teammates adjusted, the drill tightening, faster, sharper. That was what I wanted—precision. Efficiency. No excuses. I pushed harder, cutting across the ice, sweat prickling under my gear. Being captain wasn't about scoring goals—it was about setting the pace, demanding more until the entire team rose to meet it. And tonight, they did. Every pass cleaner, every shot harder, the boards rattling with the force of it. The whistle blew, shrill against the cavernous space. I coasted to a stop, chest heaving, stick balanced against my knees.

That's when I saw them. A small cluster of girls sat on the bleachers, scarves wrapped tight against the chill. Their laughter drifted, muffled by the glass, but I recognized the look in their eyes—rapt attention, disguised as casual interest. I smirked. Of course. I pushed off, gliding toward them with easy strokes, letting my posture do half the talking. Confidence wasn't something you wore—it was something you were.

"Ladies," I drawled as I pulled up by the boards, bracing my stick against the glass. My breath fogged, my grin easy. "Enjoying the show?"

They tittered, smiles widening. But it was the brunette in the middle who caught my attention. Amelia Cross. She sat straighter when she saw me watching, her glossy lips curving into a smile I knew well. Amelia was in my economics class, though most of our interactions had taken place outside lecture halls—dark corners, late nights, nothing serious, nothing lasting.

"Christian." she said, with a hint of satisfaction in her tone, like she'd been waiting for me to notice.

"Amelia," I returned, smirk sharpening. "I didn't know you were such a hockey fan."

Her laugh was light, practiced.

"Just here with friends."

"Uh-huh." I leaned in, eyes holding hers through the glass. "What about tonight? Got plans?"

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, masked with a smile.

"Yeah. I do."

I grinned wider, unbothered.

"Cancel them." I let the words hang, my voice low and certain. "Trust me—you'll have more fun with me than with anyone else."

Her cheeks flushed, the nervous flicker in her eyes betraying her even as she smirked back. Before she could answer, the coach's whistle shrieked again.

"Hayes! Back on the ice!"

I straightened, tapping my stick against the boards in farewell.

"Think about it." I said, winking as I pushed off, sliding back toward center ice with easy strides.

Behind me, their laughter followed, soft and breathless. And just like that, the focus snapped back into place, my teammates already resetting for the next drill. I thrived on this balance. Captain on the ice. Player off it. Both parts of me untouchable.

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The sharp scent of sweat and ice filled the locker room, heavy in the warm air as steam rose from the showers in the back. Helmets clattered onto shelves, skates thudded against the tile, laughter ricocheted off the concrete walls. The chaos that buzzed with adrenaline and victory—even if this had just been practice.

"Hell yeah!" Logan slapped my shoulder as he dropped onto the bench beside me, still half in his pads. "With you wearing the C this year? Forget it. We're unstoppable."

Connor chimed in from across the row, tossing his gloves into his locker with a grin.

"Other teams don't even stand a chance. New captain, new season—we're not losing a damn game."

The guys shouted their agreement, voices overlapping in a roar of confidence. Someone banged a stick against the floor, the sound echoing like a war drum. I grinned, tugging at the laces of my skates, letting their words wash over me. On the outside, I was every inch the captain they wanted—steady and sure. The one who carried their trust, who could meet their excitement with a smile sharp enough to promise glory.

"Damn right we're not," I said, voice carrying over the noise. "We've put in the work. We know our game. This season's ours."

The cheer that followed shook the walls. But inside, the weight pressed harder. Because beneath their certainty, beneath the praise and the fists pounding against the lockers, I knew the truth: I couldn't crack. I couldn't falter. Not once. Captain wasn't just a title stitched onto my jersey. It was a crown, and crowns came with expectations sharp enough to cut. My coach, my teammates, my dad—every one of them watching, waiting. Failure wasn't an option, not for me.

So I smiled, because they needed me to. I let the confidence roll off me in waves, because that was what they believed in. But the weight stayed, heavier than the gear still strapped to my body. And as the laughter roared around me, the thought pressed in sharp and certain: They saw a leader who couldn't lose.

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Campus at night was quieter than I liked. Too still, too calm. The silence left me alone with my thoughts — and I'd never been a fan of those. My breath puffed white in the cold as I cut across the quad, skates slung over my shoulder, the muscles in my legs still humming from practice. A cluster of students laughed near the library steps, their voices echoing in the dark. But most of the campus was asleep, windows glowing faint in the distance. And then I saw her. Nora James.

Walking alone, books clutched tight to her chest like they might shield her from the night. Her hair caught the lamplight, a curtain of dark waves falling forward as she kept her head down, steps quick and careful. Always trying to disappear. Always quiet. A grin tugged at my mouth. Perfect. I jogged a few steps to catch up, letting my voice cut through the silence.

"Well, look at that. Thought you went to bed as soon as the sun went down, James."

She startled, her eyes snapping up to mine, wide and wary before narrowing.

"Hilarious." I slowed my pace to match hers, easy, unbothered. She gripped the books tighter, as if holding them harder would make me vanish. "I like the night," she said after a pause, her voice softer than the wind. "It's quieter. I like to look at the stars."

I tilted my head, smirk deepening. She didn't even realize how much she gave away when she talked.

"Romantic. Didn't think you had it in you."

Her cheeks flushed in the dim light, just like I knew they would. I reached for the stack of books before she could protest, sliding them out of her arms with one smooth motion.

"Here," I said, my fingers brushing hers, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. "Looked like you were struggling. And I'm a gentleman."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but no words came. Instead, she turned her face forward again, walking faster. I kept pace easily, the weight of her books effortless in my hand.

"You enjoying college so far?" I asked, letting my tone drop casually, conversationally.

She hesitated, then shrugged.

"It feels the same as high school."

I huffed a laugh, low and amused.

"That's impossible. College is way better."

"Maybe for you." Her eyes flicked up, sharp and guarded. "But I'm still the awkward girl from high school."

I slowed a step, letting the silence hang heavy between us before I leaned just closer.

"That's not true." She turned to me, startled. "You're not the same," I said, watching the way the words hit her. Then I let the smirk slide back in, sharp and deliberate. "You're even more beautiful than you were back then."

The air shifted. She froze, color flooding her face, eyes wide like she didn't know whether to bolt or stay rooted to the spot. The reaction sent a surge of satisfaction straight through me. By the time we reached the dorm, she looked like she couldn't get inside fast enough. I handed the books back, making sure her fingers brushed mine again.

"We should hang out more," I said, tone light but eyes holding hers. "Don't hide in there too long, James. You'll miss all the fun." And then, because I couldn't resist, I winked. "Good night."

I turned and walked away, a grin spreading across my face as her silence trailed after me. Too easy. She'd fold. They always did.

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