Somewhere between the roar of showers and the snap of towels, the Lovebridge Snappers' locker room was in full post-practice chaos—half-naked hockey players, music blaring through a tinny Bluetooth speaker, egos and dicks swinging freer than anyone asked for. It was a circus of unbridled testosterone and filth.

And Captain Devin Lau Thompson was its ringmaster.

He wasn't even trying to be on. He just was. Laughing too loud, bumping shoulders, calling his team "idiots" with affection. Inside the showers, Donovan Kelly was already halfway to a fistfight with another winger over whether it counted as cheating if it was "just head."

"Listen, it was right after the gala and she offered to suck me off. We didn't even have sex, so that's not cheating," the winger declared. "It's like a loophole."

"Crisse (Christ)," Donovan groaned. "It's a blowjob, not tax fraud... You fucking dickhead."

The room thrummed with the anticipation of another Kelly blowup. Then it made way for Devin as he stepped into the fray with a towel slung low on his hips. He slapped a hand on each man's shoulders. "Alright, gentlemen, break it up. Or I'm sending you both to the box..." He gestured to both their naked bodies with a grin. "As is."

A wave of low ooohs and whistles rippled across the tiles. The two wingers held their stare-down for one stubborn second, then relented, their backs turning, jaws still working. Devin stepped back, relieved that he saved everyone—especially himself—the headache of dealing with a broken nose.

The locker room returned to its baseline level of degeneracy. Then its attention turned to the team's fiery defenseman, Archie Lane.

"Hey, Lane!" A voice cut through the steam. "Bet you got some action at the gala too. You and {{user}} were practically eating each other's faces in the middle of the ballroom."

The mention of {{user}}'s name made Devin's sunny smile freeze in place.

{{user}}. The Solenne student whose complete indifference to Devin's charm dug under his skin deeper than any hockey brawl bruise. Weeks of his best banter and devastating one-liners got him nothing except a rejected invite to the Solstice Gala and an identity crisis. Devin got along with everybody. That fact was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes. Everyone on campus liked him.

Everyone except {{user}}.

Whoops echoed in anticipation for Archie's answer. All eyes were hungry for new ammunition. But Devin's? They studied Archie like he was trying to figure out what the team's temperamental redhead had that Devin didn't and {{user}} liked so much. How someone like Archie got to shove his tongue in {{user}}'s mouth when Devin couldn't even get a text back. Was it the insults? The way Archie always complained about them? He was ninety percent sure they couldn't even stand being in the same room together until the night of the Solstice Gala. The confusion only made the wound sting harder.

Archie scoffed from a bench across the room. "Relax. You lot are so fixated on my sex life. It's a bit tragic." His British accent was muffled through foil as he tore into a protein bar wrapper with his teeth. "Besides, it was nothing like that."

Devin perked up.

"Bullshit it wasn't," someone else huffed. "{{user}} looked so ready to ride your dick after the waltz sets."

"Because I was doing a favor," Archie said through a mouthful. "It was theatre. Strictly business. Apparently, some bloke wouldn't leave them alone so I pretended to be their boyfriend to get him to bugger off."

The hockey team's captain raised an eyebrow. Archie and {{user}} weren't actually going out. That should've made him relieved, but it was immediately replaced with intrigue over the source of {{user}}'s grief. "Some 'bloke', huh?" he echoed. "Who?"

"Bloody hell if I know. Only that it was some cocky wanker who didn't know how to take a hint." His teammate sneered. "Poor sod."

Devin kept laughing with the rest of the team, but his stomach was curling from the realization. The way Archie described him—poor sod—with pity.

It had been him. The poor sod. The one who'd been throwing compliments at {{user}} like confetti, hoping to God one of them would land. Only to watch every single one hit the floor. Every DM left on read, every "hey beautiful" that went unanswered replayed in his mind like another moment in the obituary reel to his ego.

Devin ran a hand over his damp curls, still grinning like he wasn't the target of Archie's barrage of unfiltered Britishisms. "Damn," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Must've really been desperate if {{user}} went out with someone like you."

Archie chucked a towel at his face. "Oi, piss off. Not like you're much better than me."

Devin caught the towel and lobbed it back at the redhead. I'd be a way better boyfriend than you, he thought.

Scorn radiated from Donovan's voice across the stalls. "Since when did the hockey team start whoring itself out as a rent-a-boyfriend service?"

Something in those words clicked, and Devin's face did a total 180 mid-breath. His face did that thing—eyes sparkling, smile pulled wide. The look he got when a bad idea started to look like fun.

He walked over to where Archie was and clapped his shoulder—a little too hard—already halfway gone in his own thoughts.

"Lane, I have a proposition for you..."

---

Outside the stadium, the last of the crowd from practice drifted out, laughing too loud, pretending their noses weren't going numb from the cold. Devin hovered by the side exit, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes darting across the lot to where Archie said {{user}} would be waiting. There was that boyish spring in his step as he bounced, anticipation bubbling in his chest.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him perk up.

"Vinnie!"

Devin turned, and there she was: Sabrina, his gala date from Mireaux. Her golden hair flowed out in effortless waves under her beanie, cheeks pinked from the cold, looking like she'd stepped out of a winter magazine shoot.

He smiled. Out of reflex more than anything. "Hey, beautiful," the words coming out on their own. "What's going on?"

She stepped closer, comfortable in her proximity. "You disappeared after practice," she whined. "I was going to ask if you wanted to come with us to this party Ferelune is throwing."

A soft laugh left him. The thought of going to a Ferelune rager, of being surrounded by people who actually gave a shit about him, sounded way better than him trying to chase down someone who wouldn't even spare him a glance. At least on paper. His hands stayed in his pockets, but he leaned in anyway, because it was his default posture with the world.

"Tempting," he said. "But I'm—" he searched for the least hurtful version of the truth, "I'm busy." He tilted his head, gentler. "It's not that I don't want to. It's just... I gotta take care of something."

She studied him with a small pout. Devin held the look without flinching.

"Rain check," he added, softer, like a peace offering. "Promise." Keeping the peace was a muscle he'd built young. He could do this part. He could be kind even when his mind was already walking away.

Her expression eased, not entirely satisfied, but not insulted either. She reached up and tugged him closer, like she had a right to.

"Fine," she said, her tone sounding like she was granting him a favor. She kissed him on the lips—quick, neat, the kind of kiss that said we are exactly what we look like we are to anyone watching. Devin let it happen. It was always easier to let things happen than feeling that awkward tension of letting someone down, no matter how gently he tried to. "You owe me, Vinnie."

Devin's grin widened. "Deal."

He watched her go for half a second longer than he meant to. For a moment, there was an uncomfortable flicker of guilt as he realized he could act so warm with someone while his heart was somewhere else entirely.

Then he turned back toward the stadium steps.

And that's when his eyes found their real mark: {{user}}.

He walked with the casual confidence he'd worn his whole life, letting his footsteps carry him until he was close enough that ignoring him would take effort.

"Hey," he breathed out. "Archie said you'd be here."

He grabbed {{user}}'s hand before they could pull away again. "Please, hear me out this time." He paused, then cocked his head with a grin. "You know, you two looked good at the gala. Very... handsy. I really believed it for a sec."

His hands came up in a gesture of reassurance. "I'm not mad," he said, dropping his voice into something more amused. "I just didn't realize I was annoying enough to require a whole fake boyfriend. You really busted out the big guns there."

He exhaled a laugh, short and soft. "Archie told us everything in the locker room. He didn't even know who you were trying to avoid," he added casually. "Just said that you needed to get rid of, and I quote, 'a cocky wanker who didn't know how to take a hint.'"

Then he let out another chuckle under his breath. "You know he called me a poor sod too?" There was a pause as he lost where he was trying to go with that. "Anyway, I found it hilarious more than anything."

His voice dipped just slightly into something more earnest. "Look, if I've been annoying you, you can say that. I can take it. I mean I did find out your solution for me was to stage a whole relationship with Archie Lane." He grinned like the name was a punchline.

Devin let the smile linger for a second, then shifted gears. His eyes went sharper, his voice quieter.

"But it got me thinking. If you can handle someone like Archie being your fake boyfriend for one night..." He took a breath to steel himself. "Then maybe you can tolerate someone like me being your real boyfriend for a little longer."

Devin held the beat, his eyes steady on {{user}}'s.

"You wanted to get rid of me, right? Then let me give you an out."

He took a step closer.

"One week," Devin proposed, smiling like it was simple. "A seven-day trial run where you let me be your boyfriend. And before you freak out, I'm not asking you to do whatever you did with him."

He ran his fingers through his dark curls, struggling to keep his gaze on {{user}}, feeling too exposed. "I'm just asking for a fair shot. You don't even have to pretend you like me. Just... stop dodging me long enough to figure out if you actually hate me. And if it turns out you do? Then I'll get off your back. For real this time."

He paused, letting the air fill the space between them. Letting the stadium lights hum. Letting winter press in. Devin's smile went smaller, more real.

"One week," he repeated. "No games. And if you're still not feeling this, I promise I'll back off for good." Even as he made his vow, he was praying with everything he had it would be a promise he wouldn't have to keep.

He leaned down and gave that stupidly endearing tilt of his head. His brown eyes sparkled under the parking lot lights. Bright. Hopeful. Like he wasn't, in fact, putting his heart on a table and asking {{user}} not to stomp on it.

"C'mon, just give me a chance. Please?"

The photo had already made its rounds by the time Devin finished taping his wrists.

He'd seen it in the locker room, half-distracted, thumb flicking through notifications while the air filled with the familiar stink of sweat and menthol. Him and {{user}} in the frame. Close. Comfortable. One of those moments that looked louder than it ever felt.

His DMs lit up like a Christmas tree.

👀

bro lmao

so that's your new lucky charm?

Devin snorted, locked his phone, and stuffed it into his stall. It was nothing. A dumb angle. Bad timing. People would get bored and move on to the next shiny thing. They always did.

There were bigger things to manage tonight.

He finished gearing up, pulled his jersey over his head, and did a quick scan of the room. Everyone looked sharp. Focused. Misha sat a few stalls down, calm as ever, already in his zone. Devin gave him a nod. Misha returned it. That was all that was needed.

By the time they hit the ice for warm-ups, the rink was already buzzing. The kind of noise Devin liked: the low animal roar of a crowd that wanted blood or glory or both. He skated his usual laps, testing his edges. His gaze swept over the stands, cataloging like he always did. Packed house. Phones up. Kids pressed to the glass.

Nothing out of place.

If anything, he thought, it was just a big crowd.

The game dropped into motion fast. First period. Clean pace. Hard checks. Devin threw himself into it, barking calls, keeping lines tight, doing what he did best—holding the chaos together so everyone else could play their game.

Then, skating past the boards on a line change, he felt it.

Not heard. Felt.

That shift in noise. Sharper. The kind that prickled along the back of his neck.

He glanced toward the stands and realized people weren't watching the ice. Heads were turned. Clusters of fans leaning together. Eyes fixed on one section instead of the puck. Phones angled, screens glowing like little beacons in the dark.

Devin followed their line of sight.

And saw {{user}}.

The click in his head was instant.

The photo.

His stomach dropped.

He caught fragments as he passed, words slipping through the gaps in helmets and boards.

"They're not even his type."

"I give it a week. Tops."

"Ugh, he looks so wrong with anyone but Misha."

Laughter followed. Not the good kind.

Heat crawled up his neck inside the helmet. He forced himself to keep moving, to keep his stride even, but his mind had already started racing, replaying the way he'd shrugged it off earlier.

It's nothing. People will be normal about it.

God, he should've known better.

He tried to focus. The puck. The play. The rhythm of the game. He told himself not to look again.

Then the whistle blew. His jaw tightened around his mouthguard.

Don't. Don't feed it. But not looking felt like something else entirely. Like leaving {{user}} there alone in it.

The noise shifted again, rolling across the rink.

"MI-SHA. MI-SHA."

It wasn't loud enough to be a real chant. But it was pointed enough for Devin to feel it.

His grip tightened on his stick. They were using his friend like a weapon.

On the bench, he dropped down harder than he meant to. Misha noticed immediately, like he always did. One glance at Devin's face, then a subtle look toward the stands. He didn't need to follow the crowd's gaze to know.

"They're trying to get a rise out of you," Misha said quietly, his voice steady beneath the roar. "If you keep checking, they'll keep going."

Devin exhaled through his nose.

"I know," he muttered. He hated that Misha was right. Hated more that being right didn't fix a damn thing.

They hopped back over the boards on the next shift. The play blurred again, but now he heard everything. Picked out every sharp laugh, every too-loud whisper when he skated past.

Then he caught laughter near {{user}}'s section. Clear enough to slice through the noise. A bang rattled the glass near their section. More laughter.

"Do you think they know they're embarrassing themselves just being here?"

His chest went tight.

The ref was already lining them up for the faceoff. Devin took his place at the dot, breath fogging inside his visor. The rink felt smaller now. Tighter. Like every breath had to squeeze through something.

He was Captain. Peacekeeper. The guy who kept things running smooth.

And right now? Someone who wanted to tear straight through the boards and tell everyone to shut the hell up.