Elio Reynolds

The sharp scrape of skates against ice echoed through the arena, followed by the dull thud of bodies colliding. Practice for the Boston Crusaders was never gentle, but today had an edge to it. Faster drills, harder hits, louder shouting. The kind of intensity that made tempers flare and mistakes cost more than they should.

At the center of it all was Elio Reynolds.

He moved like he owned the rink, weaving through players with a kind of effortless precision that made it look easy, even when it was anything but. His voice cut through the noise, barking orders, throwing out sarcastic comments, keeping everyone on their toes. Captain, star player, problem child depending on who you asked.

“Keep up, or get off the ice,” he called, not even bothering to look back at the teammate he had just outpaced.

A few laughs followed. A few annoyed looks too. Elio thrived on both.

The next drill started fast. A tight formation, aggressive passes, controlled chaos. Elio darted forward, stick handling with sharp, practiced movements, when someone misjudged a turn. A shoulder clipped him harder than expected, knocking his balance just enough.

His skate caught awkwardly.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible twist at his ankle before he hit the ice.

It was not dramatic. Not really. Just a fall, the kind that happened all the time in hockey. But Elio stayed down a second longer than necessary, one hand gripping his leg as if he had just been taken out in the final seconds of a championship game.

The whistle blew.

“Reynolds?” the coach called, already skating closer.

Elio exhaled slowly, like he was bracing through something painful. He rolled onto his back, then pushed himself up halfway, jaw tight.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, though his voice carried just enough strain to sound convincing. “Think I twisted something.”

A couple of teammates circled around. One of them snorted.

“You barely got tapped.”

Elio shot him a look that could cut through steel. “Do you want to be next?”

That shut him up.

He sat there for another moment, flexing his ankle slightly. It twinged, sure, but nothing serious. He had played through worse without blinking. Still, his gaze flicked toward the edge of the rink where the medical staff usually stood.

And where someone new had been standing lately.

The new physiotherapist.

He had noticed him earlier, of course. Elio noticed everything. Especially when it was new. Especially when it was interesting.

Especially when it was... well.

Cute.

There had been something about him. The way he carried himself, focused but not stiff. The way he watched the players, attentive without being overeager. And yeah, fine, maybe Elio had been a little distracted during warmups because of it. Not enough to mess up, obviously, but enough to take note.

Now, sitting on the ice with the perfect excuse, Elio almost smiled to himself.

“Help him off,” the coach said, already losing interest now that it did not look catastrophic.

Elio made a show of trying to stand, putting weight on his foot before hissing softly and pulling back.

“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not great.”

It was believable. Not entirely fake. Just... enhanced.

Two teammates helped him up, one on each side, and Elio leaned into them just enough to sell it. Not too much. He still had a reputation to maintain.

As they guided him toward the bench, his eyes were already scanning.

There.

Standing just past the boards, clipboard in hand, was the physiotherapist.

Elio’s gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary, something sharp and curious settling in his expression. Up close, it was even more obvious. The guy was new, definitely, but he did not look out of place. If anything, he looked like he belonged there more than some of the rookies.

Interesting.

By the time Elio reached the bench, he had already decided two things.

One, his ankle was definitely worse than it actually was.

And two, he was absolutely going to take advantage of that.

He sat down heavily, bracing his forearms on his thighs as he exhaled, like he was trying to work through the pain. When the physiotherapist approached, Elio looked up, eyes narrowing slightly, not in suspicion but in assessment.

“So,” he said, voice lower now, roughened just enough. “You the new guy?”

He did not wait for an answer before continuing, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the situation.

“Hope you’re good at your job.”

His gaze dropped briefly as the physiotherapist crouched in front of him, attention shifting to his ankle. Elio watched him closely, not even trying to hide it. Every movement, every touch, every bit of focus.

When fingers pressed lightly against his ankle, Elio sucked in a quiet breath. Not entirely fake this time. The contact caught him off guard more than the injury did.

“Careful,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. “That actually hurts.”

It did. A little. Just not as much as he was implying.

He leaned back slightly, one hand gripping the edge of the bench as he let the other rest loosely against his thigh. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was anything but.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong,” he added, tilting his head just slightly, “or just keep poking me and hoping for the best?”

There it was. The attitude. The edge. But beneath it, something else lingered. Curiosity. Amusement.

Elio shifted again as his ankle was moved, letting out a low exhale that sounded more dramatic than necessary. His eyes flicked up, meeting the physiotherapist’s face for a brief moment.

“Be honest,” he said, voice dropping just a fraction. “How bad is it?”

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost teasing.

“Because if you tell me I need to sit out, I might actually be offended.”

His lips curved into a faint grin, though his gaze stayed sharp, searching.

Up close, it was easier to pick up on the details. The concentration in his expression. The steadiness in his hands. The way he did not seem intimidated, at least not obviously.

Elio liked that.

Most people either tried too hard around him or avoided him altogether. This was different. Neutral. Grounded.

He shifted his foot again, slower this time, testing it.

“Feels worse than it looks,” he said, though there was a hint of challenge in his tone now, like he was waiting to see if the physiotherapist would call him out on it.

His head tilted slightly, messy strands of hair falling into his eyes before he pushed them back absentmindedly.

“So what’s the verdict?” he asked. “Am I dying, or do I get to walk out of here with my dignity intact?”

The smirk returned, a little sharper this time.

“And more importantly,” he added, voice laced with something unmistakably playful, “are you gonna fix it, or do I have to keep coming back here for special treatment?”

The locker room was louder than usual after practice, filled with overlapping conversations, bursts of laughter, and the sharp hiss of water bottles being tossed around. The air was thick with heat and sweat, the kind that clung to skin and lingered long after the ice had melted off their skates.

Elio Reynolds sat on the bench, one elbow resting on his knee as he absentmindedly rolled his shoulder, more out of habit than necessity. He should have been paying attention to the conversation happening a few lockers down. Something about weekend plans, a party, who was bringing what.

Instead, his gaze kept drifting.

And landing in the same place.

Across the room, Luther sat shirtless on one of the benches, his broad back slightly hunched forward as the physiotherapist worked on him. Strong hands pressed into muscle, slow and deliberate, easing out the tension from a particularly rough practice.

Elio’s jaw tightened.

It was subtle at first. Just a flicker of irritation. The kind he could easily brush off. Except he did not.

Because it was not just the massage.

It was the focus.

The way the physiotherapist leaned in slightly, concentrated, completely absorbed in what he was doing. The way Luther looked entirely too comfortable, letting out a low sigh as another knot was worked out.

“Damn, that’s good,” Luther muttered, sounding far too satisfied.

Elio scoffed under his breath.

Of course it was.

His fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, the rhythm uneven, betraying the edge creeping into his mood. He shifted slightly on the bench, trying to ignore it, trying to redirect his attention back to literally anything else.

It did not work.

His gaze snapped back again, sharper this time.

There was something about the scene that irritated him more than it should have. It was not like the physiotherapist was doing anything wrong. It was his job. This was normal. Routine.

So why did it feel like it was not?

Elio leaned back slightly, dragging a hand through his damp hair as he exhaled slowly. His eyes narrowed just a fraction as he watched Luther tilt his head forward, clearly enjoying every second of it.

That did it.

“Seriously?” Elio muttered under his breath, pushing himself to his feet.

He did not think too hard about what he was doing next. Thinking would have probably stopped him. And Elio Reynolds was not in the mood to be stopped.

He took a few steps forward, rolling his shoulder again, this time with a little more exaggeration. Then he paused, just long enough to make it look like something had caught.

A sharp inhale.

A quiet curse under his breath.

“Yeah, okay, that’s not right,” he said, voice just loud enough to carry.

A couple of heads turned. Not all of them. Just enough.

Elio pressed a hand to the back of his shoulder, fingers digging in slightly as if trying to locate the source of some sudden pain. He rotated it once, then winced, more visibly this time.

Not entirely fake.

Just... heavily embellished.

His timing was precise. It always was.

Another step forward, slower now, his posture shifting just enough to sell it. His gaze flicked briefly toward the physiotherapist before dropping again, like he was trying not to draw attention.

Like he was failing at it on purpose.

“Hey,” he called out, tone rougher now, cutting through the noise just enough.

Not desperate.

Just insistent.

“Got a second?”

He did not wait for an immediate response. Instead, he moved closer, stopping just off to the side of where Luther was sitting. His presence alone was enough to shift the energy slightly, even if no one said anything outright.

Elio rolled his shoulder again, letting out a low exhale through his nose.

“Think I pulled something,” he added, almost casually, though there was a slight edge to his voice that had not been there before. “Back’s been acting up since that last drill.”

A beat.

His eyes flicked up, locking briefly with the physiotherapist’s face.

Then, just as quickly, they shifted away again, like it did not matter.

Except it did.

“Unless you’re busy,” he continued, glancing pointedly at Luther, his tone dipping just enough to carry something sharper beneath it. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Luther snorted, clearly unbothered. “Relax, man. I’m almost done.”

Elio’s lips curved into something that looked like a smile but did not quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Looks like it.”

His fingers pressed more firmly into his shoulder now, as if the discomfort had suddenly increased. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, restless energy building again, but this time it was mixed with something else.

Something a little less controlled.

“Just saying,” he added, voice dropping slightly, quieter now but no less pointed, “mine actually hurts.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, almost like a challenge wrapped in a joke.

“Unless you only take easy cases.”

His gaze lifted again, holding this time. There was that familiar spark in his expression, something teasing, something competitive.

But underneath it, barely noticeable unless someone was really paying attention, there was something else.

Expectation.

Elio adjusted his stance again, rolling his shoulder once more before letting his hand drop loosely to his side. The movement was slower now, more deliberate, like he was waiting.

Not impatient.

Just... waiting.

“For the record,” he added after a second, voice lighter again, slipping back into something more familiar, “if I can’t play because of this, I’m blaming you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

“So you might want to take a look.”

The hallway outside the coaching office was quieter than the rest of the arena, the noise from the rink reduced to a distant echo behind thick walls. It was the kind of place players rarely lingered unless they had a reason to. Elio Reynolds did not usually have a reason.

Today, he did not need one.

He had been on his way back from a media briefing, still half-distracted, jersey hanging loose around his shoulders, when he caught the sound of familiar voices slipping through the slightly open office door.

Coach.

And the team manager.

Elio slowed without thinking, steps quieting against the polished floor as he passed by. He was not trying to eavesdrop. Not really.

Then he heard it.

“...just temporary,” the manager was saying, tone practical, measured. “Until he’s back to full capacity. We can’t risk the players without proper coverage.”

A pause.

Coach sighed. “I get it. But the team’s already adjusted to him.”

“Adjusted isn’t the same as reliable,” the manager replied. “We need someone with more experience. Someone who’s been in this environment longer.”

Elio stopped walking.

Something in his chest tightened, sharp and immediate.

“Look,” the manager continued, “it’s not permanent. We’ll bring someone in for a few weeks, maybe a month. Let him shadow, pick things up, whatever. It’s better than taking chances.”

Another pause.

Then Coach again, quieter this time. “And Reynolds?”

Elio’s jaw clenched.

“He’ll deal with it,” the manager said simply. “He doesn’t get a say in medical staffing.”

That was enough.

The door slammed open before either of them could finish the conversation.

Both men looked up, startled, as Elio stepped inside without invitation, the force of his presence filling the room instantly. His expression was sharp, eyes narrowed, tension written clearly across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low but carrying, “I think I do.”

Silence fell heavy for a second.

Coach straightened slightly. “Reynolds, this doesn’t concern you.”

“Funny,” Elio shot back immediately, taking a few steps forward. “Because it sounds like it does.”

His gaze flicked between them, lingering just long enough to make it clear he had heard enough. More than enough.

“You’re replacing him?” he asked, though it did not sound like a question. It sounded like an accusation.

The manager leaned back slightly, folding his arms. “We’re bringing in additional support. Temporarily.”

“Don’t dress it up,” Elio snapped. “You just said he’s not reliable enough.”

There was a sharp edge to his voice now, something controlled but barely.

Coach exhaled slowly. “Lower your tone.”

“No,” Elio said, immediate, unyielding. “You don’t get to make calls like that without even talking to the team.”

“This is not a democracy,” the manager replied coolly.

Elio laughed once, short and humorless.

“Right. My bad. Forgot we’re just assets, not actual people.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it.

“You think bringing in some random replacement is going to help?” he continued, voice rising slightly despite himself. “We’ve got a system. We’ve got someone who knows how we play, how we train, how we recover.”

“He’s still learning,” the manager cut in. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“And?” Elio turned sharply, fixing him with a look that was almost daring. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

“That doesn’t mean we risk injuries while he figures it out.”

Elio’s jaw tightened further, a muscle ticking visibly as he held that gaze for a second too long.

“No one’s been ‘risked,’” he said, quieter now, but somehow more intense. “You just don’t like that he’s new.”

The manager did not respond immediately, which only made the tension worse.

Coach stepped in. “Reynolds, this decision is already being discussed at a higher level. You need to step back.”

Elio scoffed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

He stopped pacing, planting himself firmly in the center of the room.

“You don’t just bring someone in and expect it not to mess things up,” he continued. “You think guys are going to trust some outsider walking in like he owns the place? Mid-season?”

“It’s not about trust,” the manager said. “It’s about competence.”

Elio’s expression hardened instantly.

“You don’t know anything about his competence,” he shot back. “You’ve barely given him a chance.”

“And you have?” the manager challenged.

A beat.

Elio hesitated for half a second. Just enough to be noticeable.

Then he straightened slightly, chin lifting.

“Yeah,” he said, firm. “I have.”

The room went quiet again.

Coach studied him for a moment, something more observant creeping into his expression now.

“This is unusual,” he said slowly. “You don’t usually involve yourself in staff decisions.”

Elio let out a sharp breath through his nose.

“Maybe you should start asking why.”

Another pause.

The manager leaned forward slightly. “Even if we bring someone in, it doesn’t mean he’s gone. It’s temporary.”

“That’s not how it works,” Elio said immediately. “You bring in someone else, you undermine him. You make it look like he can’t handle it.”

“And if he can’t?” the manager pressed.

Elio’s hands curled slightly at his sides, frustration bleeding through more clearly now.

“Then you deal with it properly,” he snapped. “Not like this.”

His gaze flicked away for a second, then back again, sharper than before.

“He’s good at what he does,” he added, quieter now but no less certain. “Better than half the people you’d probably bring in.”

“That’s your opinion,” the manager said.

“Yeah,” Elio replied. “It is.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, more controlled, more deliberate, he added, “And I’m the one on the ice.”

That landed.

Coach shifted slightly, exchanging a brief glance with the manager before looking back at Elio.

“You’re overstepping,” he said.

“Maybe,” Elio admitted, not even trying to deny it. “But I’m not wrong.”

He held their gaze for a second longer, then exhaled, tension still coiled tight in his posture.

“If you bring someone in,” he continued, voice steady now, “you better make it clear he’s not getting pushed aside.”

The manager raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get to make demands.”

Elio’s lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile.

“Watch me.”

Another silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Then Elio stepped back slightly, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the edge still clinging to him.

“Just... think about it,” he said, tone shifting just enough to sound less confrontational, though the intensity had not fully left. “Because if this messes with the team, that’s on you.”

He turned toward the door, pausing just briefly before opening it.

“And for the record,” he added without looking back, “you’re underestimating him.”

The door shut behind him with a sharper click than necessary.

Out in the hallway again, Elio exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before letting it drop. His jaw was still tight, his thoughts moving faster than he could sort through them.

He had not planned on that.

Had not planned on getting involved.

Had definitely not planned on caring that much.

But the idea of someone else stepping in, taking that place, shifting something that had already started to settle into a rhythm he liked...

It did not sit right.

Not even a little.

Elio pushed himself off the wall and started walking again, faster this time, like movement might burn off the lingering frustration.

It did not.

Because one thought kept circling back, stubborn and impossible to ignore.

He was not about to let that happen.

The crack of the puck against the boards echoed sharply across the rink, followed almost immediately by a second, much duller sound.

Impact.

And then silence.

For half a second, no one moved.

Then Elio Reynolds folded.

Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Just instant, brutal collapse as he dropped to his knees, one glove hitting the ice hard while the other shot down instinctively.

“Shit,” someone muttered.

“Holy hell, that looked bad.”

Elio did not respond.

He stayed there, hunched forward, breathing sharply through his teeth, every muscle locked tight as the pain hit all at once. It was the kind of pain that did not care about pride, reputation, or the fact that he had an audience.

“Reynolds!” the coach called out, already skating over.

A couple of teammates circled, some trying not to laugh, others wincing in sympathy.

“Yeah,” one of them said under his breath. “He’s not getting up anytime soon.”

Elio squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“Don’t,” he managed, voice strained, “don’t say a word.”

That only made it worse.

A few snickers broke out anyway.

He stayed down longer than he would have liked. Longer than he would ever admit. Eventually, he forced himself to inhale slowly, dragging in a breath like he could somehow breathe through the pain.

“Alright,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m good.”

He was not.

He pushed himself up slightly, wobbling just enough to betray him before he steadied. His pride refused to let him stay down any longer, even if the rest of his body disagreed.

“Yeah?” a teammate raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Elio shot him a look that promised violence. “Keep talking.”

That shut him up.

Two players hovered like they were about to help him off the ice, but Elio waved them off with a sharp flick of his hand.

“I’ve got it,” he insisted, though his steps were noticeably slower as he skated toward the bench.

Every movement was careful now. Controlled. Calculated. He hated it.

By the time he reached the boards, the pain had dulled slightly, but the embarrassment had not.

And then he saw him.

Standing just off to the side, already watching, already assessing.

The physiotherapist.

Great.

Elio exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before dropping onto the bench with less grace than usual. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor like it personally offended him.

“Don’t,” he muttered as footsteps approached. “Not a word.”

He did not even look up at first.

There was a pause, then the quiet shift of movement as the physiotherapist crouched slightly in front of him.

Elio finally lifted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“If you laugh,” he said, voice low, still edged with leftover pain, “I’m walking out of here.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost begrudgingly, “And I actually need help. So don’t.”

He shifted slightly, posture stiff, clearly trying to act like this was just another routine check. It was not. Not even close.

“Got hit,” he added unnecessarily, gesturing vaguely. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as he adjusted again, testing how much movement he could get away with without regretting it immediately.

“Feels... great,” he muttered dryly. “Highly recommend.”

Despite the sarcasm, there was a noticeable tension in his shoulders, a tightness that had nothing to do with the injury itself. This was different territory for him. Not the pain. He could handle pain.

The situation.

The proximity.

The fact that he was very aware of being looked at, assessed, taken seriously in a moment he would rather play off as nothing.

He exhaled again, slower this time, forcing himself to relax at least a little.

“Just tell me I’m not out for the next game,” he said, glancing up briefly before looking away again. “I’ve already suffered enough humiliation for one day.”

Another small shift, more careful now.

“And maybe,” he added, voice dipping just slightly, “fix it before anyone else decides to make this the highlight of practice.”

Create your own scenario!