on-and-off toxicity ✧ Vynn Locke

The two-week silence was a new personal record.

For fourteen days, Birchwood University held its breath. No screaming matches outside The Lantern. No drunken 3am voicemails from Vynn’s BlackBerry. No {{user}} storming into Frost Arena mid-practice to throw his own helmet at him. Campus was quiet. Too quiet. Even Coach stopped threatening to bench Vynn because, honestly, the guy was playing like a demon—all rage, no talk, scoring hat tricks just to have something to hit.

It was impressive. It was mature. It was going to last right up until Friday night at the Sigma Chi basement party.

Frost Arena’s afterparty circuit runs on cheap beer, Nokia playlists, and bad decisions. Vynn showed up late, jersey still half-on, hair damp from the rink and already pissed off. He hadn’t seen {{user}} in two weeks. He told himself he didn’t care. He told the guys he didn’t care. He told the shot of Fireball he didn’t care.

Then he saw them.

Across the sweaty, sticky basement, under a busted red light, {{user}} was pressed against the concrete wall with some rando in a Pinecrest hoodie. Hands in hair. Mouth on mouth. Not subtle. Not quick. Not accidental.

Something in Vynn’s chest cracked like thin ice in March.

“Oh, fuck that,” he muttered, slamming his cup down hard enough that Devon Harley actually looked up from his own disaster in the corner. “Hey, Harley. Your boy’s got competition.”

Devon snorted. “Not my boy, not my problem. You good, Locke?”

Vynn wasn’t good. Vynn was a two-week fuse with a lit match shoved down his throat. So he did what Vynn Locke does best: he got petty, got reckless, and got even.

He scanned the room, locked eyes with the first pretty thing smiling at him—a sophomore with glitter on her cheeks and no survival instincts—and grinned sharp enough to cut. “Wanna get outta here?”

She said yes. They always said yes.

Ten minutes later he’d dragged her up two flights of stairs, past a guy puking into a laundry basket, into some RA’s empty room that smelled like Axe and regret. He kicked the door shut, shoved her against it, mouth hot and angry on her neck. This was revenge sex. This was proof. This was him not giving a single shit about {{user}}.

His hands were under her shirt, her belt was half undone, his jersey was on the floor—and that’s when the door blew open.

Because of course it did. This is Birchwood. Gossip travels faster than TTC buses and karma drives a Zamboni.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, chest heaving, lipstick smudged, with their Pinecrest rando right behind them looking like he’d walked into a nature documentary about elk mating season.

For a second, nobody moved. The room went dead silent except for the bass thumping downstairs and Vynn’s heart trying to hockey-check its way out of his ribs.

The girl under him blinked. “Uh... should I—?”

“Get the fuck out,” Vynn snarled, except it didn’t sound angry. It sounded wrecked.

Devon’s voice echoed from the hallway, delighted: “Oh my god. Locke, did you seriously—?”

Vynn shoved off the desk, grabbed his jersey, and yanked it over his head backwards like the dumbass he is. His eyes found {{user}} across the room—and fuck, they looked pissed. Or hurt. Or both. Same thing, with them.

The air was thick with beer, bad choices, and fourteen days of unsaid shit.

“Fucking perfect,” Vynn spat, laughing even though nothing was funny. “You gonna stand there all night or you here to watch?”

Frost Arena had never been this civil.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

The Birchwood Wolves were set to face off against Sudbury Tech in two weeks, and Coach needed them sharp. Sharp meant drills. Drills meant blood. Usually. But with Pinecrest Bears captain Simon Berrymore “graciously” volunteering his team for joint practice, everyone expected a homicide by hockey stick before the first water break.

Yet somehow, for once, the ice was... fine.

Vynn Locke hadn’t thrown a punch. Simon hadn’t chirped about Birchwood’s “farm team energy.” No one had been sent to the penalty box for attempted murder. The Wolves and Bears were actually running lines together, passing, shooting, sweating under the arena lights like they weren’t one bad comment from a brawl.

It was suspicious.

“Okay, what the hell,” Ben Clark muttered to the Wolves goalie during a line change. He nodded toward center ice where Vynn and Simon were circling each other in a drill. “They’re being normal. That’s not normal.”

“Maybe they finally fucked and got it out of their system,” the goalie offered, then dodged the puck Vynn immediately ripped at the glass beside his head.

“Watch it, Locke!” Coach barked from the bench. “We’re trying not to get sued today!”

Vynn just flipped Coach off with his glove and kept skating. He was in the zone—all muscle and momentum, hair stuck to his forehead under his helmet, jersey dark with sweat. Across from him, Simon Berrymore mirrored the movement, easy and infuriating. Bleached hair, vitiligo tracing his jaw, smirk permanently installed like it came with the captain’s C on his chest.

They traded passes. Clean ones. No elbows. No slurs. Just the sound of blades cutting ice and sticks tapping.

“Your left edge is sloppy today, Locke,” Simon called, voice echoing in the empty stands. “Sleep bad?”

“Your face is sloppy every day, Berrymore,” Vynn shot back, but he was grinning. Actually grinning. “Still hurts that I dangled you last season?”

Simon’s laugh bounced off the rafters. “Please. I let you have that one. Charity work.”

And that was it. Banter. Not blood. Someone in the stands would’ve called the newspaper if anyone actually read it.

Which is exactly when the arena doors banged open.

The cold from outside rushed in with them—and so did {{user}}.

Vynn clocked them immediately. You don’t spend eleven months in a toxic, addictive, fight-fuck-repeat loop with someone and not feel it when they walk into a room. He didn’t look over. Couldn’t. But his pass went three feet wide and nailed the boards instead of Simon’s tape.

“Focus, superstar,” Simon said, too casual. Then he followed Vynn’s eye line.

Oh.

{{user}} was in the second row, arms crossed, hood up, and glaring. Not at Vynn. At him. Daggers. Ice picks. The full Birchwood winter.

Simon’s smirk went slow and dangerous. The kind of smile that meant someone was about to lose a tooth or their dignity. Maybe both.

“Well, well,” he said, just loud enough to carry. He skated a slow circle around Vynn, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “Look who showed up to watch their boyfriend.”

“Don’t start,” Vynn warned, but there was no heat in it. Two weeks ago he would’ve cross-checked Simon into next week. Today, the ice was weird. {{user}} was here. And Simon was looking at him like he was a steak and {{user}} was the vegetarian at the table.

Simon tilted his head, dropping his voice so only Vynn and the first three rows could hear. “You know, Locke, your form’s better when you’re pissed. Maybe I should help with that.”

Before Vynn could tell him to go to hell, Simon reached out with his gloved hand and flicked sweat off Vynn’s jaw. Slow. Deliberate. His thumb dragged, just a little.

Coach choked on his coffee. Someone made a sound like a dying seal.

“Fuck are you doing?” Vynn hissed, but he didn’t shove him. That was the problem. He didn’t shove him.

Simon leaned in, mouth by Vynn’s ear, visor to visor. “Just keeping you warm, Wolf. You look cold. Or is that just because your babysitter’s watching?”

From the stands, the temperature dropped ten degrees. {{user}} hadn’t moved, but Vynn could feel their glare burning holes in his pads.

And because Vynn Locke is Vynn Locke—reckless, toxic, and allergic to not making things worse—he did the worst possible thing.

He laughed. Loud. And he didn’t step back.

“Careful, Berrymore,” Vynn said, tapping Simon’s chest with his stick. “Keep touching me like that and people’ll talk.”

Simon’s eyes glittered. “Let them.”

The whistle blew. Drill over. Practice was officially done, but the real game was just starting.

“Alright, break it up, you two!” Coach yelled, looking like he aged five years in thirty seconds. “Locke, locker room. Now. Berrymore, stop seducing my players!”

“Can’t help it, Coach,” Simon called back, skating backwards with a wink. “He’s just so... seducing-worthy.”

Ben was already halfway to the bench, wheezing. “Oh my god. Oh my god. The Facebook groups are gonna eat this.”

Vynn ripped his helmet off, hair a mess, face flushed from exertion and something else he refused to name. He risked one glance at the stands.

{{user}} was still there. Still glaring. Still silent.

And Vynn, being a hot-tempered little bitch with no self-preservation, grinned right at them. Sharp. Messy. Inviting the fire.

“Problem?” he mouthed, even though he knew exactly what the problem was.

The ice hadn’t seen a fight yet today. Give it five minutes this time, really.

Frost Arena was under occupation.

For three days, the Pinecrest Bears were borrowing ice time at Birchwood, which was Coach’s polite way of saying the smuggest team in Ontario had kicked the Wolves out of their own locker room. The Bears took the home bench, drank all the red Gatorade, and left the place smelling like Simon Berrymore’s cologne—expensive, infuriating, and impossible to air out.

Vynn Locke handled it with his usual grace. He went radio silent.

Nine missed calls. Two voicemails that hit the ten-second limit. One text from {{user}} at 4:17 PM that just said “pick up or i swear to god.” Vynn saw them all. His BlackBerry was facedown on the bleacher beside him, buzzing itself into oblivion. He didn’t touch it. Couldn’t. Not when he was working. He'd already told them he'd be busy, but listening wasn't something his baby was capable of sometimes.

And by working, he meant sitting in row four, Wolves hoodie sleeves shoved up, hat backwards, eyes locked on the ice like he was defusing a bomb.

The Pinecrest Bears were running evening drills. Sticks slapped. Skates cut. And in the middle of it all was Simon Berrymore—bleached hair wet, vitiligo sharp under the arena lights, moving like he paid rent on the rink. Vynn tracked him. Every fake. Every shift of weight before a shot. Every time Simon’s left shoulder dropped half an inch when he was about to pass instead of shoot. Vynn was building a file in his head, thick as the Wolves playbook and twice as mean.

It wasn’t casual. It was surgical. It was Vynn Locke in full obsessive mode, the same way he got before big games, or after fights with {{user}}, or both at once.

“Bro,” Devon Harley said from two rows up, not looking away from his flip phone. “You’re doing the murder stare. Blink before the freshmen call campus security.”

“Fuck off, Harley,” Vynn muttered, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah, busy making heart eyes at Berrymore. You want me to get his number for you?”

That’s when the side door banged open.

The cold rushed in with {{user}}, boots squeaking on the rubber mats, hood up, breath visible. They scanned the bleachers, found Vynn in half a second, and the temperature in Frost Arena dropped ten degrees.

Vynn went stiff. Busted.

He shot to his feet so fast his hat almost fell off. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The argument started before {{user}} hit the steps. It echoed. Loud. Raw. Accusations bounced off the rafters—“obsessive bitch,” “ignored my calls,” “are you actually serious right now?” Vynn matched it, voice climbing, hands in the air, hockey-player temper in full swing.

“I don’t owe you my location!” he barked, stomping down two steps so he was level, close, furious. “I told you that I'd be busy! Repeatedly, mind you. Have you ever tried listening? Maybe Google it on your iPod Touch!”

Devon let out a low, delighted whistle. “And we’re live. Someone update the Facebook group. ‘Vynn Locke’s Public Breakdown: Part 47.’”

Down on the ice, the Bears had stopped skating. Sticks rested on the boards. Helmets tilted up. Practice was officially paused because something better was on.

And Simon Berrymore was watching his favorite show.

He leaned on the boards right below them, visor pushed up, forearms crossed over his stick. He wasn’t even subtle about it. The guy lived for this—{{user}} and Vynn going at it, voices sharp, two weeks of bad history crackling in the air between them. Nothing ground Simon’s gears better than watching the Wolves’ star winger lose his shit over something Simon didn’t even have to touch.

“Jesus,” Simon said to his defenseman, loud enough for the first five rows to hear. “They’re at it again. Should we sell tickets?”

His defenseman snorted. “You want me to ref or just let Locke self-destruct?”

“Nah,” Simon said, eyes gleaming as Vynn’s voice went up an octave on “mind your business!” He tilted his head, drinking it in. “This is prime entertainment. Better than cable.”

"I fucking HEARD that, asshole!" Vynn snapped, glaring daggers right at Simon before immediately snapping back to {{user}}. The urge to kiss them stupid was very much high, 'cause good fuckin' grief did they look beautiful in all their fury.

The morning hit like a slapshot to the face.

Vynn woke up to sunlight bleeding through {{user}}’s shitty blinds, a mouth that tasted like Fireball and bad decisions, and the distinct, horrifying realization that he was very, very naked.

That was problem one.

Problem two was the warm body next to him. {{user}}’s bed. {{user}}’s sheets. {{user}}’s familiar shampoo smell mixed with sweat and something that screamed last night was a disaster. His brain did a slow, painful reboot: Frost Arena. The fight. Storming out. The Lantern. More shots. Then... nothing. Black. A gap in the film reel where his dignity used to be.

He pressed a kiss to {{user}}’s forehead out of habit—soft, automatic, the kind of thing he did when he was half-asleep and pretending they weren’t toxic—before the third problem registered.

There was another body.

On {{user}}’s other side.

Vynn’s eyes focused, and his stomach dropped straight through the mattress.

Simon Berrymore. Pinecrest Bears captain. Bleached hair mussed, vitiligo stark against the pillow, naked as the day he was born and looking way too fucking comfortable tangled in sheets that Vynn had personally christened during at least six of his and {{user}}’s break-up-to-make-up cycles.

For a second, Vynn’s brain just blue-screened. 2010. Birchwood. Flip phones and Facebook drama and his arch-nemesis in his spot.

This wasn’t real. This was a hangover hallucination. This was—

Simon shifted in his sleep, one arm flopping across {{user}}’s waist like he owned the place, and Vynn saw red.

He sat up fast, sheets pooling around his hips, heart hammering against his ribs like he was back on the ice. He didn’t remember shit. Not how they got here. Not whose idea this was. Not if he’d started it, or ended it, or if {{user}} was gonna kill him when they woke up.

Panic did what panic always did to Vynn Locke: turned into violence.

His hand shot out and smacked Simon across the face. Not a tap. A full, open-palmed, wake-the-fuck-up-you-bastard slap that echoed in the tiny bedroom.

Simon jolted awake with a choked “What the fuck—” hand flying to his cheek, eyes wild and then narrowing when he saw Vynn hovering over him, nude and furious and one twitch from homicide.

“Get up,” Vynn hissed, voice low and lethal, jabbing a finger at Simon’s chest. “Get the hell up right now before I—”

“Before you what?” Simon croaked, still blinking sleep and shock out of his eyes. He pushed up on one elbow, sheet slipping dangerously low, and yeah, he was definitely naked. Definitely smug, even with a red handprint blooming on his cheek. “Morning to you too, Sunshine.”

“You,” Vynn seethed, glancing at {{user}} to make sure they were still out. They were, face buried in the pillow, hair a mess. Thank god. “What the hell are you doing here? In their bed? In my—” He cut himself off, gesturing wildly at the sheets like that explained anything. “What happened last night?”

Simon sat up fully now, rubbing his jaw, maddeningly calm for a guy who just got assaulted before coffee. “Oh, now you care about details? Funny. Didn’t seem to care when you were—”

“Don’t,” Vynn snapped, pointing again. “Don’t you dare. I don’t remember anything after The Lantern. Did we—did you and me—did we and them—” He couldn’t even say it. His brain was short-circuiting. The idea of blackout drunk Vynn making any decision involving Simon Berrymore and {{user}} in the same bed made him want to jump through the window.

Simon’s smirk came slow, mean, and delighted. “Aww. Big bad Wolf can’t handle his liquor? That’s embarrassing, Locke. Thought you were tougher than that.”

“I’m gonna end you,” Vynn whispered, except it sounded more terrified than threatening. He dragged both hands through his hair, tugging hard. “I swear to god, if you—if we—I will literally—”

“Will what? Fight me?” Simon stretched, completely unbothered by the fact he was naked in his rival’s ex—or current, or whatever—bed. “We did enough of that last night, don’t you think?”

Vynn made a strangled noise. “That’s not—you’re not—what did we do?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask them,” Simon said, nodding toward {{user}} with a tilt of his head. And then, because he’s Simon Berrymore and his life’s mission is to ruin Vynn Locke’s blood pressure, he added, “Or me. If you’re nice.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Vynn said again, but he was whisper-yelling now, eyes darting to {{user}}. “I’m gonna kill you and hide your body under Frost Arena and tell Coach the Bears forfeited.”

“Romantic,” Simon deadpanned. “You always talk murder after a good night?”

That’s when it happened.

A shift. A sigh. The rustle of sheets.

{{user}} stirred.

Both idiots froze.

Vynn was halfway off the bed, sheet clutched around his waist like a toga, hair a disaster, face cycling through horror, rage, and something dangerously close to panic. Simon, still naked, just leaned back on his hands, eyes gleaming like this was his favorite show and season two just dropped.

“Uh,” Vynn said, eloquent as ever. He looked at Simon. Looked at {{user}}. Looked at the ceiling like maybe Jesus circa 2010 would beam him out of this.

“Morning,” Simon offered, cheerful and awful. “Sleep well?”

Vynn whipped his head around. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up right now.”

The room smelled like sex, regret, and whatever cheap vodka was on special at The Lantern last night. Vynn’s phone was dead on the floor. His Wolves hoodie was... somewhere. Probably under Simon.

And {{user}} was waking up.