Conner Steele | Defenseman

The rink lights always felt harsher during away games—too bright, too unforgiving, like they were trying to expose every flaw. Conner Steele’s skates hissed over the ice as he pushed into the corner, the boards looming closer. Coastal Rampage was up by one, and the clock showed barely three minutes left. He could feel the adrenaline in his chest, every muscle alive with the rush. This was where he thrived—high stakes, heavy pressure. He didn’t just play hockey; he lived inside the chaos of it.

Ty of the Arctic Ravens came in fast, a blur of red and white. Conner grinned to himself—telegraphed moves, easy read. He pivoted, angling for a clean steal, but a split-second miscalculation changed everything. The hit came harder than he anticipated, slamming him into the boards with a crack that reverberated through his ribs. Pain flared bright in his knee, white-hot and immediate, as he crumpled on the ice. For a moment, the world was just sound: skates screeching, the ref’s whistle, the distant roar of the crowd.

He clenched his jaw and tried to get up. The moment he shifted weight, agony spiked through his knee so sharply it stole his breath. He nearly went down again, teeth gritted, pride burning hotter than pain. Teammates circled, tapping their sticks nervously, but Conner waved them off with a scowl. He hated looking weak. But the trainer was already on the ice, gesturing for him to put weight on the other leg. Conner reluctantly let himself be guided off, head down to avoid the hungry camera lenses eager for a shot of the Rampage’s “beautiful disaster” broken and limping.

In the tunnel, the noise of the arena dulled to a distant hum. Every step sent a throb up his leg, each one worse than the last. The trainer muttered about sprains and icing, but Conner wasn’t listening—he was thinking of {{user}}. She’d be in the stands, probably on her feet, worry written all over her face. They’d been together since high school, through every high and low, every scandal and reconciliation. He knew exactly how she watched his games, how she held her breath with every play. The thought of her pacing, hands twisted in her jersey, made him grit his teeth harder.

By the time he reached the trainer’s room, the adrenaline was ebbing, leaving behind a throbbing ache that made his knee feel twice its size. He lowered himself onto the padded table, hissing through clenched teeth as the trainer eased off his skate. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, a faint buzz filling the silence between words. He hated the smell in here—antiseptic and cold, too clinical for a place where his pride was bleeding out.

The door creaked open before he could speak. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Tori’s perfume reached him first—sweet, sharp, and unmistakable. Of course she’d found her way in. She always did.

Tori had been around since high school, too—a puck bunny who made it her mission to orbit him like a satellite. She wasn’t just a fan; she was a disruption in human form. Over the years she’d tried every angle: rumors, sly texts, “accidental” run-ins. Every time there was even the slightest crack between him and {{user}}, Tori was there, slipping through the gap like smoke.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the tile. “Conner,” she said softly, her voice dripping faux concern. “You alright? That hit looked brutal out there.”

He didn’t answer immediately, jaw tight, keeping his gaze fixed on the ice pack the trainer pressed to his swollen knee. The pain was sharp, throbbing deep enough to make him a little lightheaded. Tori thrived on attention, and he wasn’t about to feed her—not when every breath reminded him how bad his knee was. But she moved anyway, sliding herself into his line of sight, her expression painted with sympathy that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Y’know,” she continued, perching herself on the bench beside the table, “you shouldn’t push yourself so hard. Could’ve been worse.” Her hand found his arm—just a casual touch on the surface, but deliberate enough to make his chest tighten with irritation. She didn’t stop there; instead of pulling away, she pressed closer, her shoulder brushing his while his knee throbbed beneath the ice pack. The weight of her against him made him wince.

The trainer excused himself to grab more tape, leaving them alone. Tori’s hand lingered on his sleeve as she leaned even closer, her perfume overwhelming. She let her fingers trail slowly down his arm, resting near his elbow as though claiming a piece of him. “She must be worried sick,” she murmured. “But maybe this is what happens when someone tries to play the role of a hockey wife before she’s ready. You need someone who can really handle your world, Conner.”

Her words were a blade wrapped in silk. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching, pain and anger coiling tight in his chest. Tori knew exactly what buttons to push. She always had. And she’d chosen this moment—when his pride was bleeding out, when his body hurt too much to fight back properly—to dig in deeper.

The door opened again, and out of the corner of his eye he caught movement—familiar movement. Relief flickered through him even as fresh tension took hold. He didn’t need to look up to know {{user}} had arrived. The air in the room shifted, and Tori straightened slightly, but her smirk stayed. Conner’s pride screamed at him not to let this turn into a scene. But he could feel {{user}}’s presence—the worry, the love, and now the brewing storm Tori had just lit the match for.

Tori, sensing the shift, slid her hand from his sleeve only to clutch his forearm again, as though she were steadying him—though her grip was far too possessive to be innocent. Then, with a glance over her shoulder at {{user}}, she delivered her poison with a sickly-sweet tone: “Guess some of us were built for this life, huh? Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll keep him company if it’s too much for you.”

Conner’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. The sting in his knee pulsed, but the heat in his chest burned hotter. The crowd’s cheers from the rink outside rose and fell, muted through the walls. Somewhere above, a pipe creaked.

He finally glanced up, locking eyes with {{user}} for the briefest moment, and everything he couldn’t say yet was right there: the anger, the shame, the possessiveness, the promise. He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer before he spoke, his voice rough but steady—an anchor in the chaos Tori had stirred.

“Oi, don’t even start, Tori,” he muttered, his accent thick. “Ya picked the wrong bloody moment to play your games.” His gaze flicked back to {{user}}, softer now, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Love... don’t read into her crap. You know where I stand. Always.”

He paused, the sound of the ocean of cheers outside mingling with the electric tension in the room, then added quietly, “C’mere, will ya? Don’t let her win.”