Chapter 2: You touch my guy again and your done
The two months between the championship and the first official skate of the merged team’s preseason were a weird limbo. The victory felt hollow without a rink to defend. For Hunter, the time was filled with gruelling solo workouts and a tense, quiet summer at home where his mother’s worried glances felt louder than any cheering crowd.
Now, standing outside the locker room door labeled simply “Varsity Hockey,” the hollow feeling was back, laced with acid. The merger was no longer a commentator’s trivia; it was the scuffed tile under his sneakers. He could hear the muffled roar of voices inside—some familiar. Taking a breath that did nothing to steady him, he pushed the door open.
The room hit him like a wall. Steam from the showers hung in the air, smelling of cheap soap and damp concrete. The space was a chaotic jumble of bodies and bags, a territorial mess of blue-and-red Northwood gear shoved up against crimson-and-white Eastwood colours. The sound was a low, aggressive rumble of conversation, laughter that sounded a bit too forced, and the metallic slam of locker doors.
Then Hunter’s gaze travelled across the room.
Adam stood by his open locker, half-turned away, pulling a clean grey shorts from his bag. He was still shirtless, damp from the shower. Water droplets traced paths down the defined lines of his back, over the caramel tan of his shoulders, soaking into the waistband of his grey athletic shorts. Hunter’s throat went dry. He forced his eyes away.
As if feeling the weight of the stare, Adam turned.
Their eyes locked. The ambient noise in the room seemed to dip, just for a second. Adam’s green eyes were unreadable, cool. He didn’t smile. He just held the look.
The spell broke, replaced by a sharper tension.
Brady, Adam’s defenseman and known shit-stirrer, leaned against the lockers beside Adam, following his captain’s line of sight. A nasty grin spread across his face. “Well,” he announced, his voice cutting through the chatter. “If it isn’t the Northwood Kittens. Finally decide to join the big boys’ room?”
A few Eastland guys snickered. Hunter felt his team shift behind him, a collective stiffening.
Owen, always the first to bite, took a step forward. “You lost to us,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “You’ve still got the nerve to talk trash?”
Brady pushed off the lockers, his bulk squaring up. “That was a fluke. A lucky shot from a captain who plays like he’s scared of his own shadow.” His eyes flicked to Hunter, deliberate and insulting.
“Say that again,” Owen growled, his fists clenching at his sides.
“I said,” Brady enunciated, taking another step so they were toe-to-toe, “your captain plays like a scared little—”
“Wanna fight?” Owen snapped, cutting him off.
Brady’s grin widened. “Bring it.”
It happened fast. Owen lunged. Brady shifted his weight, fist pulling back. The room erupted into shouting, guys surging up from the benches.
But the punch never landed.
Adam moved like he was breaking up a two-on-one rush. He stepped in with a speed that was pure ice, his body slicing between Brady and Owen. One hand planted firmly on Brady’s chest, shoving him back a full step. The other arm shot out, forearm pressing against Owen’s collarbone, holding him at bay.
“Guys. Chill out.” Adam’s voice wasn’t a shout. It was a low, sharp command.
Hunter walked towards Adam, his jaw set, his strides eating up the space between the rows of lockers. Before Adam could turn fully, Hunter grabbed his arms, pulling them behind his back. He marched him forward three steps and forced him against a locker with a metallic bang that echoed.
"Are you crazy?" Adam said, his voice muffled against the painted steel.
Hunter got close, leaning in until his lips were almost against Adam's ear. The scent of his shower soap, that same clean, sharp scent filled Hunter’s senses. "You touch my guy again," he whispered, his voice a low, firm rumble that vibrated between them, "and you're done."
Adam broke out, twisting with a surprising strength, but Hunter was quicker. He put his hands on Adam's chest, shoving him back solidly against the locker a second time, pinning him there by the shoulders. Adam’s green eyes blazed up at him, wide with shock and fury.
The door burst open. "What is going on here?" Coach Briggs boomed, his face a thundercloud. He took in the scene: Hunter pinning the half-dressed rival captain, the entire team frozen around them. "You wanna fight? You're off the team.”
Hunter backed away immediately, his hands dropping to his sides. Adam pushed off the locker, straightening his shorts. They stood side by side, not looking at each other, their breathing the only sound.
"You two," the coach jabbed a finger at them, "clean the equipment storage room after school. No help from anyone else." He swept his glare across the rest of the silent players. "All of you, get dressed and get out of my sight. Now!" He turned and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a final click.
The tension didn't break so much as it shattered into a hundred awkward pieces. Guys turned away, busying themselves with zippers and bags, muttering. Hunter stalked back to his own locker, Adam pulled a black t-shirt over his head, his movements stiff and deliberate.
The final bell had rung an hour ago. The school halls were tomb-quiet.
Adam walked with the mop in his hand, the other tucked in his pocket. Hunter had the metal bucket in his grip, his other hand also buried in his pocket. The slosh of soapy water was the only conversation between them. They turned down the narrow basement corridor leading to the old storage room, their footsteps out of sync on the linoleum.
“Come on,” Adam said, his voice flat, not looking back as he pushed the heavy door open. The room beyond was a cave of shadows, smelling of mildew, old rubber, and dust.
“I’m coming, just hurry up,” Hunter muttered, following him in.
The door swung shut behind them with a soft, decisive click, sealing them in the dim, silent space.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only light came from a single dirty window high on the wall, casting long shadows over stacks of moldy padding and discarded hurdles. The air was thick and still, smelling of concrete dust and forgotten sweat.
"Great," Adam finally said, his voice flat. He dropped the mop handle into the bucket with a clatter. "Let's just get this over with."
They got to work without another word. Hunter attacked a grime-encrusted table with a scrub brush and a bottle of industrial cleaner, the chemical smell burning his nostrils. He scraped at wads of fossilized gum underneath the chairs, his knuckles white with the effort.
Across the room, Adam crouched, gathering scattered papers from the floor. He crumpled them into a trash bag with sharp, efficient motions. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the scrape of furniture and the rustle of paper.
Adam filled the bucket at a rusty sink in the corner, the water coughing brown before clearing. He pushed the mop across the concrete floor in long, wet streaks, the soapy water turning grey almost immediately.
Hunter grabbed a feather duster from a shelf, sending clouds of dust motes dancing in the slanted light. He knocked down cobwebs that clung to the ceiling corners, their filaments sticking to his skin. He wiped the grime from the window, but it only smeared, leaving the world outside a bleary ochre blur.
They finished, sweat started dripping down their faces, tracing itchy paths through the dust on their skin. The room looked marginally better, but the heat was becoming oppressive, pressing down from the low ceiling.
Adam wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and walked to the door. He turned the handle. It didn't open. He jiggled it, then put his shoulder into it. Nothing. "What's going on?" he mumbled, more to himself than to Hunter.
He moved aside, gesturing vaguely. "You try."
Hunter stepped forward, gripping the handle and throwing his weight against the solid wood. It didn't budge. Adam shoved him out of the way. "Move." He kicked the door, a solid thump that echoed in the small room. The door didn't give. "This fucking door's been busted forever," Adam said, breathing harder now, a new layer of sweat gleaming on his neck.
Hunter pulled out his phone, thumbing the screen. No service. The icon was a stark, empty bar. "Fuck," he said, the word tight in his throat. He shoved the phone back into his pocket.
The heat was a physical weight now. Hunter grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling the damp fabric up over his nose and mouth. "Why's it so hot in here?" he mumbled, his voice muffled.
He walked over to the wall unit, an ancient air conditioner. A small digital display read 34 degrees. He pressed the power button repeatedly. Nothing happened. The fan remained silent. "Great," Adam said from behind him. "The AC is busted as well."
Adam walked over to a metal locker, grabbing the hem of his black t-shirt. In one fluid motion, he pulled it off over his head, tossing it onto the locker shelf. Sweat was evident on his chest and shoulders, catching the light.
Hunter looked at him, then quickly looked away, his eyes fixing on a stain on the floor. "Why are you taking your shirt off?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Adam let out a short, humorless laugh. "What, isn't it obvious? Cause I don't wanna get heat stunk." He turned and grabbed a chair, its legs screeching against the floor as he dragged it back to a table.
He dragged the chair to a metal table and sat on its edge, the muscles in his back tight. The dim light caught the sweat tracing the line of his spine. “Security guy will come around later then we can get out,” Adam said, his voice a monotone statement to the wall.
Time folded in on itself in the heat.
Hunter grabbed his phone from his pocket, checking the time. Two hours had passed. The screen’s glow was sickly in the stale air. He stood up, the legs of his chair screaming against the concrete. He went over to the door, banging on it with the flat of his palm. “Hey! Anyone here?” he yelled, the sound swallowed by the thick door.
He banged again, harder, the impact jolting up his arm. Nothing. He turned around, wiping sweat from his face with a furious swipe. His grey t-shirt was plastered to his chest and back, a dark, soaked map of his discomfort.
“Aren’t you hot in that?” Adam said from his perch on the table. His eyes were on Hunter’s shirt, a clinical assessment. “Or are all Northwood guys too much of a coward to take their shirt off?” he finished, the challenge lazy but precise.
Hunter looked at him. He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the hem of his soaked shirt. He lifted it over his head in one rough motion, tossing it onto a stack of old mats where it landed with a damp slap.
The air felt no cooler on his skin.
He crossed the space between them. He put a hand on Adam’s chest, fingers splayed against the damp skin, and pushed. Adam slid off the table, his back meeting a tall locker with a hollow boom. “Northwood has no cowards,” Hunter said, his voice low and rough.
Adam looked at him, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. He leaned in a little, his gaze dropping to Hunter’s mouth. Hunter looked down at Adam’s. The air changed, charged and silent, the only sound their ragged breathing in the close, hot dark.
They looked up at each other. The moment stretched, taut and fragile.
A sharp metallic creak sounded above them. They both looked up at the rusted air vent in the ceiling.
Adam looked back at Hunter, his green eyes glinting. “Step on me, try climbing out the vent,” he said, his voice a dare. Then his smirk deepened, loaded with a different meaning. “Or you like being on the bottom?”
Hunter’s hand moved from Adam’s chest to his shoulder. He pushed down, hard. Adam’s knees buckled and he hit the concrete floor, landing on his knees between Hunter’s feet. Hunter looked down at him, his own breath catching. “I never bottom,” Hunter said, the words leaving him like a confession he hadn’t planned to make.
Adam laughed, a soft, breathy sound that wasn’t cruel. He looked up, his expression shifting into something open and dangerously inviting. “Fine,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Someone’s clearly eager to be on top.”
Hunter stared down at him, Adam’s words hanging in the thick air. The challenge was a physical thing between them, a third presence in the sweltering room. Without breaking eye contact, Hunter turned and grabbed the top edge of the tall, rusty locker.
He hoisted himself up, muscles straining, and planted his foot squarely on Adam’s shoulder.
“Hold still,” Hunter grunted, reaching up toward the vent cover. His fingers brushed the dusty metal slats.
Adam buckled under the sudden, unbalanced weight. His knee hit the concrete and he pitched forward.
Hunter fell, landing hard on his side with a jarring thud. Adam went down beside him, his back slamming against the unforgiving concrete with a breath-stealing smack.
For a second, they just lay there in a heap, the wind knocked out of both of them. The dust they’d stirred up swirled in the dim light.
Hunter moved first. He rolled over, his legs landing next to Adam’s knees as he pushed himself up into a crouch. He bent down, one hand smacking Adam’s shoulder, the other gripping his lower hip through the fabric of his jeans. The contact was electric, a jolt that bypassed thought.
“You got jelly legs or what?” Hunter said, his voice rough but quieter now, stripped of its performative edge.
Adam looked up at him, chest heaving. His green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the shadows. He didn’t speak.
Then he moved, fast as a breakaway. He grabbed Hunter’s forearms, his grip iron-tight, and shoved.
Hunter’s back hit the concrete, the impact shuddering through him. Adam was on him in an instant, knees landing on either side of Hunter’s hips, caging him in. He leaned down, their faces inches apart. His breath was hot on Hunter’s skin.
“You started first,” Adam said, the words a low, ragged accusation that felt more like a confession.
They both scrambled up, shoving away from each other like the concrete had become electrified. They stood apart, chests rising and falling in unsteady rhythm. The only sound was their hard, synchronized breathing in the silent, hot room.
Shit. Dammit.
The realization was a cold splash in the heat, followed immediately by a flood of heat of a different kind. A tight, aching pressure. He saw the same furious recognition mirrored in Adam’s eyes.
I’m hard.
They looked at each other’s lips. The world contracted to the small, damp space between their mouths.
Hunter leaned in. Adam met him halfway.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, all frustration and years of staring across the ice and that stupid, consuming rivalry. Hunter’s hands came up to cup Adam’s jaw, rough and desperate. Adam’s fingers tangled in Hunter’s hair pulling him closer.
Adam broke the kiss, shoving Hunter back a step until his shoulders hit a locker with a hollow clang. He didn’t pause. His mouth was on Hunter’s chest, a hot, open-mouthed press over his chest, then lower, tracing the line of his abs. His teeth scraped lightly over a hipbone.
Hunters head fell back against the metal with a dull thud.
Adam’s fingers fumbled with the button of Hunter’s jeans, then the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud. He pushed the denim down over Hunter’s hips. Hunter’s hands were moving too, clumsy and urgent, working the button and zipper of Adam’s jeans, shoving them down.
The fabric rasped as denim pooled around their ankles, trapped there by their sneakers. The air was thick with the smell of concrete dust and their own sharp sweat. They were left in just their boxers, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide their arousal.
They kissed again, a desperate, hungry reclaiming of mouths. Hunter’s hand slid down from Adam’s jaw, over the damp heat of his neck and chest, past the waistband of his grey boxers. His fingers found him, gripping him fully, and Adam gasped into Hunter’s mouth, the sound swallowed whole.
Adam’s own hand mirrored the movement, pushing past the elastic of Hunter’s black boxers. His grip was sure, firm, and Hunter moaned, a broken, low sound that vibrated against Adam’s tongue. They moved against each other’s hands, a frantic, seeking rhythm, their foreheads pressed together, sharing each ragged breath.
Hunter’s thumb moved, a rough circle over the tip and Adam shuddered, his free hand clutching at Hunter’s bare shoulder, nails digging in.
Adam groaned, Hunter’s own breath came in ragged pulls, He felt Adam’s other hand slide up his back, fingers splaying against his spine.
Adam tightened his grip around Hunter, his whole arm tensing, fingers digging in with a deliberate, claiming pressure. Hunter groaned, his hips jerking once into his hand, a sharp, uncontrolled surge.
Hunter groaned, his hips jerking once into Adam’s hand, a sharp, uncontrolled surge. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word shuddering out of him.
They kissed hungrily, their pace quickened, stroking each other faster. It was no longer exploratory. Hunter’s thumb swiped his tip again, and Adam bit down on Hunter’s lower lip in response.
The world dissolved into the desperate sound of their breathing, Hunter’s free hand clawed at the locker behind him for purchase, finding none. His vision blurred, focusing only on the feel of Adam’s calloused palm and the violent green of his eyes staring back, unwavering.
Then Adam’s hand was gone.
The sudden absence was a shock, a vacuum where there had been dizzying pressure. Hunter blinked, his body screaming for that touch back. Before he could process it, Adam was moving. He dropped to his knees on the hard concrete.
Adam’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Hunter’s boxers. He pulled them down in one decisive tug.
The cooler air hit Hunter’s skin. He shuddered.
Adam wasted no time. He took Hunter’s cock in his mouth, all at once, deep.
Hunter’s head flew back against the locker with a dull, metallic thud. His eyes slammed shut. A ragged, punched-out sound tore from his throat. “Shit,” he groaned, the word cracking.
Heat enveloped him, a wet, perfect tightness that short-circuited every thought in his head. His hands, which had been braced against the locker, now scrabbled for purchase, fingers curling against the cool, pitted metal. Every nerve ending was screaming, focused entirely on the point where his body disappeared into Adam’s mouth.
Adam’s tongue moved, a slow, deliberate pressure that made Hunter’s knees buckle. He caught himself, his legs trembling. A low, continuous groan hummed in Adam’s throat, the vibration traveling straight up Hunter’s spine.
He forced his eyes open, looking down. The sight was unreal. Hunter’s hand moved almost without his permission, landing in Adam’s hair. He didn’t push, just held on, his fingers tightening in the damp strands.
Adam glanced up, his green eyes meeting Hunter’s. He picked up the pace, his mouth working with a focused intensity that felt like a physical claim.
Hunter’s breathing became a series of sharp, broken gasps.