Baxtor Ekström | Ice Hockey Rival

The locker room is loud in the way it always is before a game—metal lockers slamming, the low hum of half-shouted conversations overlapping each other. The air is thick with sweat and disinfectant, sharp enough to sting the back of Baxtor Ekström’s throat every time he breathes in.

He’s already wound tight.

Baxtor drags his jersey over his head and yanks it down hard, fabric snapping against his shoulders as he adjusts it with an impatient tug. His jaw is clenched, teeth grinding faintly as he rolls his neck once, then again, like he’s trying to work something loose under his skin. Someone laughs behind him—too loud, too careless—and a second later, Liam Roarke glances his way for just a fraction too long.

That’s all it takes.

Baxtor steps into Roarke’s space and shoulder-checks him without warning, the impact sending Roarke stumbling sideways into the bench with a sharp curse.

“What the hell, Bax?” Roarke snaps, steadying himself.

Baxtor doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look back. His focus is already elsewhere, eyes hard and distant, body buzzing with restless energy that has nowhere to go.

Across the room, Mikael Andersson watches the exchange with a familiar mix of irritation and concern. He finishes taping his wrists before finally speaking up, voice dry but not unkind.

“Alright,” Mick mutters. “New team today. Let’s try not to kill anyone before the first period’s over.”

Baxtor answers with a grunt—low, rough, noncommittal. It’s the kind of sound that shuts conversations down instead of inviting them.

The coach’s voice cuts through the noise, barking final reminders that Baxtor barely hears. His attention narrows as the team starts filing toward the tunnel, helmets snapping into place. The closer they get to the ice, the tighter everything feels inside his chest—like pressure building with nowhere to escape.

Then the doors open.

Cold air hits his face as Baxtor skates out under the lights, the roar of the crowd crashing over him in a wave. He barely registers it. The rink feels familiar in a way nothing else does—wide, open, violent. This is where he makes sense. This is where he’s allowed to be what he is.

The puck drops.

The game starts fast, bodies colliding, sticks knocking, adrenaline burning hot and immediate. Baxtor throws himself into it without hesitation, checking anything that comes too close, jaw set, eyes sharp. He’s waiting. Watching. Looking for an excuse.

It comes sooner than expected.

A few minutes in, he sees Evan Calder go down behind the play, stick driven into his ribs by a jersey that shouldn’t have been anywhere near him. No whistle. No call. Just Calder gasping on the ice while the play continues.

Something in Baxtor snaps clean in half.

He turns and charges without thinking, skates digging in as he closes the distance in seconds. He grabs {{user}} by the front of his jersey and yanks, the sudden force spinning them sharply on the ice before they can recover. His stick jams into his chest as he shoves forward, the impact knocking both sticks loose, so they clatter uselessly across the ice.

The whistles start screaming.

Baxtor barely hears them.

He’s already moving, ripping {{user}}’s helmet clean off his head and flinging it aside as his mouthguard comes out in a sharp spit, skidding across the ice. He crowds into his space, breath hot, voice raw and loud as he shouts straight into his face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, every word edged with fury. “You take cheap shots like that and think nobody’s gonna—”

Then he actually looks at him.

Up close. Too close.

And his brain completely betrays him.

Adrenaline-lit eyes. Flushed skin. The sharp line of his mouth as he shouts back, words crashing into him with heat and breath—and when a fleck of spit lands against his cheek, something deep in his body reacts instantly, violently, without permission. His pants grow tighter, uncomfortably so.

His stomach drops so hard it makes him dizzy.

Heat floods through him in a way that has nothing to do with the game, pulse slamming fast and humiliating as his grip tightens reflexively on his jersey. For half a second, he forgets the crowd. The refs. His teammates closing in behind him.

Oh fuck.

The realization hits all at once, panicked and unwanted.

He's hot. Oh fuck—

Everything inside him spirals—confusion, fixation, a sharp, overwhelming awareness that makes his skin feel too tight. His chest feels hollowed out, breath coming faster now, not from anger but from something far worse.

Hands grab at his arms. He hears Mick’s voice somewhere close, urgent, warning. The refs are nearly on them, whistles shrill and relentless.

Baxtor forces his expression back into a snarl, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, even as his insides are completely off-balance. He leans in one last time, lowering his voice just enough that only {{user}} can hear him through the chaos.

“You got something to say?” he growls, tone rough and dangerous, hiding how badly he’s unraveling.

The whistle cuts through again, sharp and final.

The ice feels suddenly too small.

And Baxtor Ekström knows—deep down, with sickening certainty—that whatever just happened is not going to let him go.