Page 7

Ice and Gravity

Dean

The first thing I notice when I hit the ice is that everything else gets quiet.

Not literally—there’s the usual sound of blades slicing, sticks tapping, someone yelling “Heads up!” from the far end. But the noise inside me? That goes still.

Skating does that. Always has.

I dig into the turn at the edge of the rink, knees tight, core locked, the movement so familiar I barely have to think. My body knows what to do before I tell it. It’s the only place where control doesn’t feel like work.

“Carter!” Coach yells from the bench. “Let’s move the breakout faster. Tell your line.”

I nod and signal the guys, circling back. My gloves are stiff from the cold, the air sharp in my lungs. Feels good. Clean.

On the next pass, Gavin glides up next to me, easy as anything, and bumps my shoulder with his.

“Puck’s not gonna flirt with you back, you know.”

I glance over. “Funny.”

He grins. “I try.”

Gavin’s got that whole golden retriever energy—messy blond hair, permanent smile, looks like he wandered in from a surfboard ad. But there’s weight behind it, if you know what to look for. And I do.

We’ve been tight since freshman year. He’s the only one I’ve ever told about Jesse. About why I changed majors. Why I train like I’m behind even when I’m not.

“You good?” he asks as we skate slow laps between drills.

“Fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

He waits. Doesn’t push.

I sigh. “Daphne ended it. For real this time.”

“Shit,” he says, not surprised. “Sorry, man.”

“Eh. I’ll live.”

Gavin’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Still sucks.”

“Yeah.”

We move through the rest of practice like we always do—tight passes, fast breaks, body checks that rattle teeth. But under it all, there’s that same old hollow echo.

Daphne was a good girlfriend. Smart. Kind. Cared. She said and did all the right things. She met my mom. Memorized my game schedule. Never once made me feel like I had to tone it down in public.

But in private?

That was different.

I never asked her to be submissive. Never demanded anything she didn’t offer. But when I touched her a certain way—held her wrists, told her not to move—she tensed. Smiled after. Said it was fine. But her eyes never matched her mouth.

And I knew.

I knew I was too much for her. Not because I was cruel. But because I wanted things she couldn’t give me.

Someone handing me control is the hottest thing in the world. Daphne didn’t. Not really. And I hated myself for wanting it anyway.

So I stopped asking. Pulled back. Tried to be what she needed. Fucked her as vanilla as I knew how.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Gavin claps a hand on my back after a final drill and coasts beside me toward the bench. “Beer later?”

“I’ve got lab stuff.”

He squints at me. “With her?”

I don’t answer.

“Oh, it is with her.”

I shake my head, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just… noting.” He nudges me again. “The way you talk about her is different.”

“She’s smart,” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s driven.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She doesn’t flirt.”

He stops skating, lets out a laugh. “That’s your third bullet point?”

I grin despite myself. “Shut up.”

But he’s right.

Nora isn’t flirty. She’s focused. Composed. Serious in a way that makes you want to mess with her—just to see what happens when she cracks.

And now I can’t stop seeing it.

The way her hands tremble slightly before she pushes her glasses up.

The way she holds her breath when she’s thinking.

After practice, I shower fast, change faster. Coach gives me the usual nod on the way out. Gavin’s still talking to the freshman goalie when I slip out, but I hear him shout, “Don’t overthink it, Carter.”

He means it as a joke.

But it hits harder than he knows.

Back in my room, I drop my gear bag and stretch my shoulders, bones aching in a good way. I open my laptop, glance at our project files, then close it again.

Nora asked me to meet her in her dorm room tonight. Not a study carrel, not the library. Her personal space.

She’ll sit across from me with her careful notes and clipped questions. She’ll act like nothing’s happening between us. And I’ll match her. Line for line. Boundary for boundary.

But a part of me—the part I keep locked behind every ounce of discipline I’ve built—wants to ask.

Wants to lean in, drop my voice, and ask her why she blushed. Why she looked at me like she saw something she wasn’t ready for.

Wants to ask what she’d do if I whispered, Get on your knees for me.

But I won’t.

Because I have a goal.

A timeline.

A future to build, one precise choice at a time.

I’m not here to chase after pussy.

I’m here to finish what Jesse didn’t get to.

And that has to be enough.