#over ice

Glancing at the other drinks, you look for any sign of something Rhys may have ordered after a text you received that he was on his way and sent in a mobile order. You haven’t heard the barista call his name, but other than the frap, there’s a steaming cortado that’s gone unclaimed. Perhaps his hasn’t been prepared yet.

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice startles you and your cup almost slips from your grasp. Something bumps your hip as he reaches forward and you shuffle out of the way of your frantic tutor.

A few strands Rhys’ dark, damp hair hangs across his brow, brushing the bridge of his nose. The urge to brush your fingers through it consumes you. You clutch your cup tighter and avert your gaze, right to the Frappuccino you were just envying that Rhys grabs.

You tuck your teeth between your lip, amused. When he sets those striking violet eyes on you, it takes all of your effort to keep your breathing even, but your body betrays you. Your heart kicks up in pace and the tingle that always accompanies his easy-going smile converges between your thighs.

You don’t care that he’s late. At this point, it’s expected for the captain of the hockey team to arrive late to your study session. You’ve began strategically arriving to psychology tutoring twenty minutes late, knowing you’d still beat Rhys.

Tonight, you’re glad you asked to meet at the coffee shop a few blocks from campus, tired of staring at the white walls of the library’s study rooms and allowing yourself to become distracted by people-watching through the glass wall. With the semester quickly coming to a close, you’ve witnessed a total of 3 students collapsing their heads into their books in frustration, one napper who must have been snoring loudly as many other occupants glaring in his direction—no, it wasn’t your tutor—and two girls snapping at each other over notecards.

Rhys brings his drink to his lips and your gaze zeroes in without your permission as they wrap around his straw for a deep sip. His tongue peeks out to lap the taste and you wrench your betraying eyes from the scene with a sharp reminder of exactly who he is, and that you’re just friends.

Mirth swims clearly in his violet eyes, and with that look, it’s much easier to draw yourself back into the present. It’s a shame you can’t ignore the heat in your cheeks.

You raise a brow, flicking your attention to the chocolate overloaded drink in his hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Rhys begins, and someone clearing their throat interrupts. You and Rhys scoot out of the fray as customers join the waiting crowd. Someone snags their drink from the counter and shoots toward the front door.

“I swear,” Rhys continues as you lead the way to the table you somehow managed to snag when you arrived. Your books are already spread across the wood surface of the table, organizing your notes and flashcards the way Rhys taught you. You’ve even managed to highlight most the important parts of your chapters and less of the entire paragraph. “This is the only thing keeping me from falling asleep on my feet right now.”

Your heart pinches with sympathy. He does appear more tired than usual, circles under his eyes, voice holding a groggy tone despite it being half past seven. Between being captain of the hockey team, a tutor, and a student himself, his schedule must be jam-packed, but no matter how many times you ask if you need to find a new tutor so he can actually get some sleep, Rhys refuses.

You won’t admit it, but his vehement protesting fills you with warmth. You don’t want another tutor, not really, especially when yours is so handsome.

You slide into your seat, taking a sip of your drink. You sigh. It’s made to perfection. Sweet and cold and perks you up just enough that not even the sight of your jumbled notes can deflate your mood.

Rhys’ apology draws you from your delicious drink. He’s sheepishly apologizing to the girl he accidentally whacked with the large duffle bag over his shoulder. When their gazes connect, the girls glare softens, and she begins twirling a strand of her strawberry blonde hair around a finger, batting her eyelashes.

A wave of envy creeps up your throat and you catch your gaze sharpening, so you avert your gaze. Rhys isn’t yours, and you can only pretend he is when his ex is around. Outside of those run-ins, you’re friends. Nothing more.

It doesn’t stop the sick feeling swirling in your gut at the sight of his attention on another girl.

The chair across the table creaks as Rhys settles into it. His frap slides onto the table with a heavy knock, and his bag slips from his shoulder to the floor, where he kicks it haphazardly under the table.

“Wow,” he says, clearly impressed as his eyes rove over your neatly set-up work space. You only did so since he was running later than expected. Next time, you’re going to show up half an hour later than the time agreed upon. “All ready to go?”

You refrain from mentioning the time. “Yep. I’ve been taking notes how you suggested, and you know I hate to compliment you,” you tease at the way his eyes light. Your heart stumbles at his pride. You press on before he can respond in jest. “But I think it’s actually helping me retain information.”

“Glad to be of service,” Rhys beams. He crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps bulge with the motion. You avert your gaze. “When’s your next test?”

You sigh. “I have a quiz the day before Thanksgiving break,” you hum, flipping open your agenda where you wrote down all of the important dates. Your shoulders deflate. There isn’t much time before the semester ends, and your grade isn’t anywhere close to where you want it to be. There’s no way you’ll get an A, and at this point, you’d just like to pass. “And then the final. Besides homework, I have to ace them both to get a C.”

“Any you will,” Rhys shakes his head assuredly.

“You think so?” You ask sheepishly, uncertainty creeping in.

Rhys pauses, drink halfway to his lips. He places the cup back down and for a fleeting moment you think he might reach across the table and take your hands because he has that look in his eye. The same one as the night you kissed.

Your name is gentle yet firm on his lips. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll pass.”

You can’t help that your thoughts immediately turn to his faults as your tutor. His distractions, his tardiness, his own busy schedule.

You shove the thoughts away as quickly as they form.

“Okay,” you nod softly. “Let’s do this thing.”

“Are you excited for break in a few weeks?” Rhys asks, grasping for anything to talk to you about. Despite you reassuring him you didn’t need an escort home, her refused to let you walk alone. For one, it’s dark, and second, he doesn’t want to stop spending time with you.

You shrug, and manage to keep your feet from dragging with the weight of what break brings. What it reminds you of. That if you do go home, it will be to an empty house, the traces of a once happy family lingering in the dark.

You can feel Rhys’ sidelong glance at you, his violet eyes softening with concern the longer you take to respond. Every so often, his arm brushes yours, sending a sluice of sparks to the bone. At least you can blame the goosebumps on your arm on the chill.

You don’t want his pity; you don’t need it. You’ve been on your own so long that you’re used to it. Mom’s long trips, working much harder in the past few years than you remember, and your dad…the picture you have in your dorm doesn’t do him justice, but it’s all you have. That, and his memory.

But there’s something about Rhys’ sympathy that has you feeling warm, comforted.

“I’m not going home,” is what you decide to go with, peering down at your shoes.

“You’re not?” You can practically hear the way his brows furrow.

“Mom has a business retreat in Oklahoma. I don’t mind, really.” The lie is sour on your tongue. “We haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving since…” You trail off, throat thickening at the thought of the last time you celebrated any holiday. Since your fathers passing, holidays haven’t been the same. You don’t think they’ll ever be the same again.

Tears prickle your eyes and you swallow thickly.

“I’m used to it.” You say as if you’re completely fine with the constant avoidance of your mother. She can hardly step foot in her own home, and you can’t blame her. If you lost the love of your life, you’d never want to go anywhere that reminded you of them.

But if there were children in the mix, you mind wanders, you would manage.

You can’t help but to fill the silence. You shouldn’t have admitted this. You should’ve just lied and told him you were going home, but now that it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. “And besides, it gives me a headstart to study for the final. If I’m going to pull off a passing grade, I need all the time I can get.”

You snap your mouth shut. All you’re doing is making yourself seem lonelier than you are. You swear, you’re fine. You’ll hunker down on the couch with a tub of ice cream and watch romcoms until you can recite them line for line. It will be fine. You will be fine.

The sudden urge to flee slams into you. Fuck. You glance to your right. You’re pretty sure if you jumped through the bush you’d come out with minimal scratches, and your dorm is only a few blocks away. You haven’t run in years, but your legs work well enough.

Before you can flee, Rhys says, “I’m not going home, either.”

This catches your attention. You blink, gaze finding his. Now he’s the one staring at the sidewalk, refusing to meet your eyes. “You’re not? But I thought you always spend this holiday with Mor’s side.”

You’ve only been hearing about it for the past two years you’ve been rooming with your best friend. Much opposite to your holidays, the entire Cunningham family comes together to drink and feast and play games. You wonder if Mor’s made anyone play TDB. The corner of your lips lift in amusement.

“Haven’t gone home for Thanksgiving break since I started here.” You can hear the longing in his tone. Your heart aches. His gaze is still pinned to the sidewalk, and when he refuses to meet yours, you refocus on the trail. There’s someone heading your way, and your heart slams in your chest when you recognize who it is. “We have one a game against one of our biggest rivals the night after. If you want to—” His words stick in his throat when you quickly reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers.

As if on instinct, his tighten around yours and he gives you a squeeze that makes something swoop low in your stomach.

Rhys’ breathing stutters in his chest. What the fuck is going on? He is in no way protesting your hand in his. In fact, he’s been thinking about this ever since your kiss in his room. Okay, he’s been thinking much raunchier things with you than holding hands, but this is still nice. Except that he has the urge to use your intertwined hands to pull you against his chest because surely, he can’t have been the only one to see fireworks when you kissed. He’s still cursing your roommate for barging into the room. He’s sure things would’ve gone further with you, and he hates the “just friends” rule you’ve put into place.

Violet eyes find yours, confused but smoldering. Your words stick in your throat at the heat in his gaze, and you want nothing more than to give into him, but he’s Mor’s cousin, and you can’t do that to her…again.

You nod slightly, down the pathway, toward Amarantha, who’s cat-like gaze has locked onto you.

Rhys face scrunches in confusion. He lifts his attention, only for his limbs to stiffen when he recognizes his ex-girlfriend closing in on you like a predator and you two are the prey.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking the disappointment off. Right. Showtime.

“Rhys,” Amarantha says sweetly. She clutches a book to her chest, using it to prop her perky breasts even higher. Her gaze flickers to your linked hands, then to you, where her smile puckers. She greets you, butchering your name.

You match her fake grin with one of your own. “Amara.”

Her face flattens.

Rhys squeezes your hand in amusement and there are those butterflies stirring in your stomach again. You squeeze back.

You go ignored as her attention slides back to Rhys. A thread of jealousy is tugged. You don’t want her here. You know Rhys doesn’t, either, but even his focus on her has you feeling possessive. He’s not yours to be possessive over, though, not really, so while she speaks, you work on unraveling the tightness in your chest.

“Are you ready for the game against the Predators?” She asks, moving to twirl a lock of deep red hair around her finger. She all but bats her eyelashes and you don’t realize your grip on Rhysand’s hand has tightened until his thumb begins brushing a soothing stripe across your skin.

Your fingers loosen immediately, and Rhysand squeezes tightly. He doesn’t want you to let go.

“Yeah,” he answers dismissively.

Amarantha doesn’t pick up on his apathy.

“My parents are coming into town for the break,” she explains. “They want to get out of the dreary Chicago weather. Maybe we’ll come by and watch.” Her attention switches to you, a wicked smirk on her lips. “Give you a crowd of support.”

You can’t help but bite. “That’s great, Amara. Maybe we can sit next to each other.” You’d rather shave your head than sit in the same arena as her, let alone beside her, but you want her to know you’ll be there supporting your boyfriend.

Fake boyfriend.

Her brows lift in surprise. Clearly, you’ve caught her off-guard. But as quickly as her surprise flashes, her eyes glint with venom, her features morphing into something a lot more dangerous.

“Oh, we’d be more than happy to save you a seat. Just one? Are mommy and daddy too busy for a holiday?”

It’s a low blow, and she knows it. As far as you know, she doesn’t know a thing about your situation, nor will she ever, but she’s plucked a nerve.

Before you can react, and most likely unintentionally give her ammo to work with, Rhysand speaks, his voice sharp with warning.

“Don’t bother, Amarantha,” he all but barks. With the anger coursing through your veins, you haven’t noticed the way his body has gone completely frozen beside you. “You’re not welcome nor wanted at the game.”

Her façade completely falls. “But Rhys—”

Rhys tugs your hand, ignoring his ex. Your chest fills with triumph. You can’t help but smirk. “Come on, darling. Let’s go.”

You sidestep Amarantha and continue on your path back to your apartment. Behind you, you hear a hearty huff and footsteps all but stomping away.

The more space you put between Amarantha, the more the fight falls from your shoulders. You don’t want to admit it, but her words stung, and now you’re reeling.

When you’re sure Amarantha is gone, you slip your hand from Rhys’, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as you approach your dorm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you can’t force yourself to look. Not when he sounds like he’s kicking himself.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Rhys,” you respond tiredly. All you want to do is go upstairs and crawl into your bed.

“Then why can’t you even look at me?”

You swallow hard and lift your gaze. The both of you slow to a stop in front of your building and your heart aches in your chest at the sadness in his violet eyes.

“There, I’m looking at you. Happy?” You ask, voice nearing a tremble. Tears build in your eyes. As much as you hate to admit it, Amarantha’s words have gotten to you.

“No,” he says softly.

You can’t look at him. Not when he looks like this, features all soft with concern.

Just as you’re about to dip your head again, Rhys catches your chin. He lifts your gaze back to his, thumb stroking such a soft and soothing line across your cheek you almost melt, releasing the tears so desperate to escape.

“Come to the game. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. But please, come to my house for Thanksgiving.” You open your mouth to protest, but Rhys continues. “No stakes. The boys and I usually order in and hang out. There’s no ulterior motive here, (Y/N).” You almost wish there was. “No one deserves to be alone.”

His words strike you like an arrow to the chest. No, no one deserves to be alone. Maybe you and Rhys have more in common than you thought. He is just as lost and lonely without his family as you are. The only difference is, he has an entire family, yours is missing by half.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to decide. “Okay,” you agree. You fight the urge to nuzzle into his hand, instead taking a step back. His arm falls limply to his side, and he still wears his concern on his face, but this is just a friend not wanting their friend to be alone on a holiday. Nothing more. “I’ll come.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

You get it…or at least you’ve been telling yourself for years you understand why she can hardly stomach stepping foot into the house. Why her posture deflates. Why her mouth tightens. Why her eyes are a near constant red with unshed tears.

Your eyes are a reflection of that this morning.

After agreeing to attend Thanksgiving with Rhys, you dragged yourself inside, Amarantha’s awful words already clawing down your walls as you waited for the elevator to take you to your floor. The dorm was quiet when you entered, both a blessing and a curse in their own right. You managed to make it to your bedroom and slump in your bed, burying your face into your pillow as your tears soaked the fabric with each rough, heavy sob escaping your lungs.

You haven’t cried like that since—you’ve always had to be strong. Your tears exhausted you, dragging your body into slumber before you could switch on your early alarm to be at the ice complex for your first day as assistant athletic trainer.

You’re fifteen minutes past due.

Scraping your hair into a ponytail, your fingers catch in your unbrushed hair as you all but sprint across campus. Your eyes are gritty with sleep, sinuses swollen from last night’s tears, and you’re pretty sure your leggings are on backward since you fumbled them on with a toothbrush clenched between your teeth and a dribble of toothpaste dripping from the corner of your mouth.

The morning air carries a chill that grows goosebumps on your arms as you quickly cross campus. You’re lucky you managed to slip on a bra; there wasn’t time for scouring for a sweatshirt.

This is not the first impression you want to make. You’ll just have to compensate for it with your duties.

If your heart rate wasn’t already firing at maximum capacity, approaching the looming ice complex would surely do it.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, already disappointed. You let Amarantha get the best of you, plucking a structural string, causing the mountainous emotions you’ve gotten so good at shoving deep inside crumbling.

A horde of hockey players makes their way to the entrance, a definite sign you’re late. Releasing a nervous breath, you pray Rhys isn’t with them. You don’t want him seeing you like this. “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.” You only half believe it.

When you lift your foot to begin ascending the stairs to the complex, you trip, untied lace still tucked beneath your other shoe.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut and brace, fully expecting the shock of the fall to reverberate up your wrists, for you to taste concrete, but impact doesn’t come.

Familiar arms catch you easily around the waist. Your eyes squeeze shut tighter, your tear ducts prickling with emotion as the scent of citrus and sea washes over you. You could melt into his arms, seeking the comfort your best friend’s cousin has offered you on so many occasions, but like every other time, you can’t. You can’t let yourself succumb to your desires.

So, you begin rebuilding the mountain of emotion inside of you, making sure the base is reinforced.

You’re easily lifted and placed back on your feet. Your eyes flutter open when his touch completely falls away. The feeling lingers like a brand.

“Morning, darling.”

Cracking your eyes open, you’re met with a blinding smile that does nothing to dull the drum thrashing in your chest. Rhsyand’s violet eyes shine with amusement, and you’d be lying if the sight of his happiness didn’t ease your nerves just a little.

“Morning,” you reply dumbly. The door to the building slams shut, startling you away from his trance-like presence. You remember exactly where you are, what you’re supposed to be doing, and what time it is. “Shit. I’m late.”

“Hang on,” Rhys tries to stop you, but you’re already pulling from his grasp and making sure your laces don’t catch again as you awkwardly race up the steps. He gains on you quickly, skipping stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Here,” you gesture ahead, not stopping. Your hand closes around the door handle at the same time Rhys’ does, but he isn’t moving with enough urgency. You tear it open and Rhys narrowly avoids a face full of swinging door. “It’s my first day as trainer and I’m late.”

“Trainer, huh?” He smirks. You notice his glittering eyes at your quick glance over, the mischievous smile he’s failing to hide, but you don’t have time to ponder what this means. You check the time on your phone.

Eighteen minutes late.

Ten minutes you might be able to talk your way out of. Five, no doubt. You could blame it on the extra-long stoplight on Gentry and Sixth, everyone knows that light was designed with traffic and not pedestrians in mind.

But nearly twenty minutes late? The trek from the football stadium on the north side of campus to the art school bookending the opposite isn’t even that long.

“Hey,” Rhys’ voice softens, and you’re too in your head to catch that he’s said anything at all, until he softly takes your wrist to stop your frantic pace.

“What?” You snap. Regret slams into you immediately. With a wince, you pause, but Rhys isn’t affected by your anxious projection.

You don’t expect him to tug you into the warm embrace of his arms. You’re stiffer than a ruler, and it takes a long moment before you melt into him, squeezing your eyes shut tight as comfort wells in your throat.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand down your back. It takes everything in you not to arch into him, not to roll onto the tips of your toes and kiss the reassurance on his lips. The breath you take is shaky at best. “You’re going to do great.”

Emotion is thick in your throat, all you can do is nod and croak out a soft, “Thanks.”

When you manage to scrape yourself off him, he hooks a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back to meet his eyes instead of gluing them to the floor like you want to. “Kick some ass.”

A small smile cracks your nerves. “You too.”

Rhysand winks, and you spin on your heel, straighten your shoulders, and bound for the athletic training room, walking over the threshold seconds before the twenty-minute mark.

Your heart leaps into your throat as everyone’s attention lifts. Kier—Head Athletic Trainer for the Velaris Bat’s hockey team—doesn’t look pleased with your lateness. A few others look up as you awkwardly shuffle into the room, fighting the urge to race back to your dorm and become a hermit until next semester. You don’t recognize the two assistant trainers, but your shoulders loosen slightly at the sight of James Attor’s wry grin.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you blurt as Kier abandons his conversation. His deep brown eyes verge on black and if the lights started flickering, you’d be out of here so fast a cartoon cloud of dust would be left in your wake. You’re not above begging for forgiveness. It’s embarrassing, yes, but so is the ruddy red of your cheeks. “I promise, it won’t happen—”

“She was with me,” a familiar voice cuts in from behind you. You startle, both you and Kier turning to where Rhys waltzes right through the door.

You’re struck for a moment at how Rhys appears as if he could own any room he enters.

You shove that thought away just as quickly as it appears.

“She was?” Keir raises a brow. The firm set to his jaw proves he doesn’t believe the captain.

But Rhys isn’t intimidated by the athletic trainer, not one bit. He nods. “We ran into each other as I was coming to see you for my wrist.” He holds his hand up and your eyes widen on the professionally wrapped arm. “Figured I could get on the ice quicker if (Y/N) helped me.”

“And yet you still made your way here,” Keir grouses. You chance a peek at the head athletic trainer but can’t make out his expression. You’re not sure if Rhys’ presence is making this better or worse.

You pray it’s better.

“Next time, I’d prefer you check in before working with a player,” Kier’s voice is gruff. He eyes Rhysand as if he doesn’t believe him, then gives him a dismissive wave, turning his attention to you. “James will show you where to put your things. Since you’re already well-acquainted with Rhysand and his injury”—he strays a look at said boy—“You can fill out his paperwork this morning. Then you can find me for your next assignment.”

You nod eagerly, choking back shame. “I’ll get to work right away, sir.”

Kier’s attention is already on someone else; you clearly dismissed. You don’t realize Rhys is still standing in the door, a tension to his body like he doesn’t want to leave. His violet gaze is concerned, but his jaw is set. Only you notice the minute grinding back and forth. “Rhysand, get to the locker room, Coach Devlin is expecting you.”

Before his gaze can meet yours for reassurance, you duck your head and zip toward James, who pulls out a resistance band from one of the many equipment drawers before stepping forward to meet you. You fall into step easily, trailing him across the room.

You chance a nervous glance over your shoulder, but Rhys is gone, the doorway empty.

“Some first day, huh?” James says with a sympathetic smile. He holds the door open to another room, a large office of sorts, and gestures to where his things are stored: backpack slung against the wall, his hoodie hanging on one of the four hooks attached to the awfully dreary, beige wall.

“You’re telling me,” you huff, quickly shucking off your own bag and looping it over the hook. You cross your arms and scrub your hands down the goosebumps pebbling your skin, willing them away. Between the chilly morning air, cool arena, and Kier’s intense stare, you’re as cold as ice.

Fitting, for the team you’re assisting.

“Not my best impression,” you grumble.

“Don’t worry about it,” James waves you off. “You didn’t miss anything you can’t pick up tomorrow. Filling water bottles and ice tubs, prepping towels and tape, turning on machines,” he gasps dramatically and a girl with a sharply cut bob lifts her head to frown. “How dare you!”

For the first time since last night, you crack a smile.

“Honestly?” Your chest flutters with excitement. “I can’t wait.”

James smirks and taps his temple. “I’ll remember that.”

As he shows you the ins and outs of assisting the team, your shoulders begin to melt away from your ears. You fill out the report on Rhysand’s wrist, heart picking up in speed as you bluff through the observed symptoms and injury section.

You’re introduced to Amren, a graduate student whose razor-sharp eyes and monotonous voice had you fearing you did every tape job, documenting, and concussion test wrong when a few players stumbled into the room from a seemingly rough morning practice.

You’re sure Kier partnered you with the no-nonsense woman purposefully, but it only has you working harder to prove yourself. You’re learning a lot with Amren, and by the time you’re nearly finished at the training facility for the morning, you’re exhausted but proud.

“Since it’s your first day, I’ll save you from typing reports,” James says when he finds you, passing off a bottle. You smile gratefully and sigh in relief as the ice-cold water wets your mouth. “But don’t think you’re getting out of it next time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you respond tiredly, wiping at your brow.

Kier calls your name from across the room. He’s perched on the edge of a massage table, arms crossed over his chest, brows flat and eyes blank, no giving away any insight to what he’s calling you over about. Amren stands beside him, and even with the trainer sitting, her short height only reaches his shoulder.

“Good luck,” James mutters, snatching the bottle from you. You want to fight for it back because all the moisture has suddenly abandoned your mouth. “I’ll catch you later.”

Swallowing hard, you make your way over to them, lifting your chin and sucking in a deep breath through your nose.

“Hi,” you greet. Your fingers twitch at your sides as the sudden urge to wring them together arises. Their stoic manners are admirable and intimidating as fuck.

“Amren told me you did well today,” Kier says, jaw grinding as if it physically harms him to speak a compliment. You’re pretty sure you catch a bead of sweat forming at his brow. “She says you have a lot of potential.” Your gaze flickers in her direction, but she’s no longer paying attention to the conversation, tucking her short hair behind an ear as she types something out on her phone with her free hand. “Nice work.”

You nod eagerly. “Thank you, sir.”

He eyes you one last time before dismissing you. You leave for class reinvigorated and with the biggest smile on your face, that grows into something shy when you find Rhys waiting outside the facility for you with a Velaris Bats sweatshirt that he helps guide over your head as the chill bites into your arms. As the fabric slides across your face, the biggest grin breaks through, teeth and all.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

It’s been the busiest six months of his life. Between rigorous hockey practices and homework, mixed with tutoring sessions that always seemed to run longer because he just couldn’t seem to say goodbye to you, Rhysand’s been running on fumes. And now his low energy has started bleeding into his classes, hence why his eyes keep fluttering with exhaustion.

Rhysand shakes his head and slides his phone from his pocket, checking the time. Ugh, he still has ten minutes, and then it’s onto the next thing in his long list of to-dos for the day. He has weight training with his team, and then he has a research paper to find sources for, and then, maybe then can he fall face first onto his mattress and pass out for the night.

The damn paper can wait to be started until tomorrow.

He doesn’t even realize he’s zoned out until his phone vibrates in his hand. The girl sitting beside him shoots him a look from the corner of her eye. He offers her an apologetic look, but not that apologetic because she’s the one who spent the first six minutes of class relentlessly organizing her colorful pens across her desk while he was still actively trying to listen to Professor Hybern. The rampant click, click, fucking click of her retractable pens as she tested the colors across the top of her notebook page tested his fucking patience. He was close to moving seats entirely, but class had begun and she was blocking his exit to the aisle.

He's trapped between the wall and her, but what’s a little payback between classmates?

Rhysand opens his texts. He hopes it might be you, but even after the conversation you had during your last study session together, you’ve still been giving him the cold shoulder. He’s found out quickly that you’ll reply to messages regarding studying and occasionally an off-hand comment about what you’re doing, but nothing else. He’s tried everything from flirting to joking, pleading. He’s invited you to parties and games, but nothing. No response. You’re much more stubborn than he ever gave you credit for, but dammit, he’s going to be friends with you, one way or another.

He almost groans when he sees the three messages from Amarantha. As much as the both of you tried, she still isn’t believing that you’re a couple, and it’s probably because you haven’t attended that last home game, nor the party that followed. Rhys hadn’t allowed her to corner him, though, sticking to Azriel’s side throughout the night.

He must say, leaning up against the wall while his own party rages around him isn’t as interesting as Azriel makes it seem. Rhys quickly found himself abandoning the party to wander aimlessly around his neighborhood, the entire time spent wondering what you were doing.

Rhys would never admit this out loud, but he considered standing outside your window in hopes to catch a glimpse of you.

He talked himself out of that quickly.

He ignores the messages from his ex, eyes brushing over your name. His heart tightens in his chest. He can still feel your lips against his, how they parted so easily for him. The soft noises you made as his hands wandered up the soft skin of your legs, wrapped tightly around him. His cock twitches at the thought and he blinks, hard, glancing at the girl beside him. She doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or if she does, she thankfully keeps her eyes to her notes.

There’s a new message from his sister. Rhys clicks into the thread.

Araphel: Hey. You coming home for Thanksgiving break?

He frowns. He hasn’t been home since freshman year because his team always has a game, so why would this year be any different?

Rhys: I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it this year, A. Everything alright?

Araphel: No worries.

But that’s exactly what Rhys does. Something is definitely up with his sister, something she doesn’t want to talk about over text. Something he doesn’t have the time to dig further into because the room flickers dark for a split second while the slides switch at the front of the room, and he’s drawn away from his phone.

It’s now he realizes he missed writing notes about the last slide. Rhys swallows a sigh. Only a few more minutes until class is over, then he’ll get his quiz back, pick up a coffee, and meet his team at the weight room.

He’ll text his sister later, he decides, locking his phone and stuffing it in his pocket. He picks up his pen and quickly scribbles down the information at the front of the room, trying to keep his notes as legible and organized as possible.

His mind wanders to you. What are you doing for the holiday break? If you’re hanging around campus, would you want to come to his game? The extra days off of class would give you ample time for studying, and maybe he can even convince you to come over to his house, or he can go to your dorm. Mor always travels back to Phoenix for the holidays, so she wouldn’t be around if something were to naturally happen…

He knows you’d want to hang out. He’s irresistible, for one. It’s only a matter of how hard you’re going to fight against what you want. And he thinks he knows that answer to that, too. You’re going to fight pretty damn hard against your desires.

He’d never curse his cousin’s name, but right now, he’s pretty close. Why did she have to put a no-pursuing-her-friends rule out there? Of course, Rhys is going to want what he can’t have. The thrill of breaking such a rule just makes the forbidden fruit that much sweeter.

“Mr. Cunningham.” He jumps, head snapping out of the clouds. He swivels in his seat, ignoring the girl beside him who fails to hide her smile in her notebook. Rhys manages to keep his eyes from rolling, turning his attention to Professor Hybern, who holds out a paper to him.

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly, taking the quiz. He didn’t even realize Professor Hybern had stopped talking. The projection on the screen has switched again, showing his outline for his final paper is due next week and for no one to leave until they have received their quizzes back. The TA is on the other side of the room, handing out more.

He settles back into his seat as Professor H continues up the aisle. The girl noisily packs her pens away, and Rhys might be annoyed if he didn’t just flip his paper over to see a C+ written and circled in red. There’s also a question mark, insinuating this is unlike you, and it is.

This isn’t good.

His brows furrow in confusion. Shit, he’s never done worse than a B in this class, so this is new. It proves he’s been slacking more than usual. Everything he’s been trying to dip a foot into this semester is finally starting to take its toll: hockey, tutoring, partying.

If his grades start suffering, coach will be on his ass about it. He wants to be a good role-model for the players on his team. He wants to lead them into victory in the Frozen Four this year. He needs to focus. And that means not thinking about you during class. It means focusing on his own studies. It means being a good captain and not abandoning his friends at hangouts or parties.

Rhys sighs and stuffs his paper into his bag. The girl beside him is still packing up, and he won’t ask her if he can sneak by, because with the looks she was throwing his way, she probably wouldn’t move anyway.

Just like the rest of the things in his life, he’s stuck.

“How are things with Amarantha going?” Cassian asks, casually, and Rhysand’s arms give out.

He squeezes his eyes shut. The last thing he’s going to see in his very short life is the rack of weights falling. He didn’t get to graduate or win the championship or experience anything more than a kiss with you. This is it. What a sad way to go out.

Azriel curses, and the bar never slams into his chest. Never crushes his bones. Rhys peeks an eye open just in time to see his broody teammate lifting the bar back onto the rack, a deathly glare pinned on Cassian.

Rhys nods in thanks to his friend. His heart is beating so hard in his chest, adrenaline pumping, that he barely remembers Cassian’s question. When it pops back into his head, he scowls. “Things with Amarantha?” Rhys sits up, swiping across his forehead with the back of his arm, collecting sweat. He stares up at his friend, confused. “What things? There are no things?”

“Woah,” Cassian holds his hands up in surrender. “Dude, chill.”

“No, I will not chill.” He’s worked up now, could probably add another plate to the bar with how much fire fills his veins. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cassian shrugs, shuffling back to his own bench. He picks up his free-weights and settles onto the bench. If he thinks Rhys isn’t going to question him while he’s the one with something heavy in his hands, he’s sorely mistaken.

“Cass,” Rhys grits. He really doesn’t have the energy for this. He’d forgone coffee in favor of calling his sister, but she wasn’t giving anything about why she wanted him home for the holiday so badly away. He’s even more confused than before, and by the time their conversation ended, he’d only had time to change into his gym gear before weight-training started.

Coach grunts from somewhere across the gym, but the noise spurs Rhys into motion anyway. He doesn’t need to be caught slacking in hockey like he has been in his classes. He stands from the bench when Azriel motions for his own turn, laying back. Rhys takes up position to spot his teammate.

“That’s not what she was saying last weekend,” Cassian mumbles between breaths. His muscles glisten, straining with each press of his arms up. He’s the only one to have whisked his shirt off as soon as he stepped over the threshold into the gym. He probably wouldn’t be wearing one at all, if it weren’t for Coach’s rule about being fully clothed while walking from the locker room to the gym.

“The fuck?” Last weekend? When was this? Where was this? And who was she talking to?

Rhys opens his mouth to ask when it hits him. The party. The one he left because you weren’t there. Amarantha must have been spouting off about him and he hadn’t been there to deny any of the allegations.

Fucking hell. This is the last thing he wants to deal with.

He grinds his teeth. “What did she say?”

Cassian glances at Azriel, who shrugs, as if telling him ‘You got yourself into this mess, you get yourself out.’ Cassian rolls his eyes, then sets his weights down to face Rhys more fully.

“I don’t remember everything she said,” he starts, and Rhys really doesn’t like the sound of this. Confront Amarantha. He adds it to his never-ending list. “But there was some giggling over how you’d gone back to her apartment to get her coat for her.”

Rhys groans and threads his fingers through his dark hair. He’d left the party that night because he couldn’t get you off his mind, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near Amarantha.

Apparently, she’d taken that to her advantage.

“And…” Cassian continues sheepishly and Rhys almost wishes Azriel didn’t save him. “She said something about how she doesn’t think your relationship with (Y/N) isn’t real, which is funny, because I didn’t even know you were in one with her.”

The entire room seems to go silent. Rhys can feel his friends’ gazes on him, waiting for an answer.

“As far as Amarantha knows, we are,” is what he finally mumbles, lifting his head from his hands. All he can think is, you’re going to kill him.

Azriel and Cassian share a glance. “I think you have some explaining to do, captain.”

Ugh. He hates when they call him that. But they’re his friends, and he doesn’t take kindly to the betrayal in their eyes. He needs to come clean.

Rhys takes a deep breath. He’s not ready to air his relationship out right here in the middle of the gym, but he owes it to his friends at least. He knows that if he explains, they’ll keep their mouths shut. He can’t have Mor finding out about this. If she does, his neck is on the line, and since you’ve been so adamant in your worry about the same thing, he feels like he’s betraying you, too. “I—”

“Rhys—” Balthazar cuts in.

Rhys whirls. Fire ekes into his voice before he can stop it. “What?”

His goalie’s steps falter. His features pinch in confusion, and Rhys’ shoulders lose their defense when he sees the dark circles under Balthazar’s eyes.

It seems like he’s not the only one on the team who’s sapped of energy.

“Sorry, B,” Rhys sighs. Standing, he shoots Cassian and Azriel a pleading look. They both nod in response, understanding to stay silent until he can explain. Relife falls over him like a raincloud, but not for long. He strides closer to his teammate, placing a hand on his shoulder. It does nothing to wash away the thread of worry in Balth’s brown eyes. Fuck. He’s been a shitty captain, hasn’t he? He should be making more time to talk to his teammates, not avoiding them in favor of his cousin’s best friend. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Balthazar replies distractedly. He shakes his head, floppy chestnut hair flying. “Coach wants to see you.”

Rhysand’s stomach drops faster than the bar had slipped from his grip.

He plasters on a fake smile and claps Balthazar on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. If you need anything…” He trails off. ‘I’ll be around’ is what he should say, but that would be a lie.

He needs to get better at this whole captain thing.

“Thanks, Rhys,” Balthazar nods anyway, and takes the spot Rhys vacated, spotting for Azriel.

“What kind of coach would I be if I didn’t check in with my captain?” Coach asks, but it sounds rhetorical, so Rhys doesn’t answer.

He sits in the chair across from his coach. It feels like he’s in the principal’s office, about to get in trouble. It feels all too similar to the last time he’d been called in here, though that time, he’d been offered the role of captain of the Velaris Bats.

He wonders if this time, Coach is going to take it away from him. It’s a silly thought, but a possibly outcome nonetheless.

“How’s my team looking for the rest of the season?”

Rhys is stunned. He’s the coach, he knows exactly how the looks. Is this some sort of test?

Rhys’ response is immediate. “Strong, coach.”

Coach Devlin gives him a look before he returns to shuffling the papers scattered on his desk. “This is a place you can speak your mind, son.”

He swallows hard. His mind is frazzled, but he tries his best to sift through the unnecessary drama he’s been dragged into, past the images of you, racking his mind for what upcoming games they have.

“I think we have a chance at making it to the Frozen Four this year, Coach.” It’s true, the Bats only need to beat the Badgers and the Sealions to enter the tournament. They’ve already slaughtered the Wasps in a 5-1 game. “The Badgers have the best defense. From what I’ve seen, if we go aggressive on our offensive break-ins, we should be able to create a power-play. Those Badgers are hot-headed, and will have no trouble hooking or tripping to keep us from getting to the net.”

Coach Devlin looks at him like he’s never seen him before. Rhys has been giving as much attention to the game as he can. It’s his senior year. He knows scouts are watching the team. Velaris Hockey have made a name for themselves in the time Devlin’s been coach. He has a decent chance at being drafted. He hopes.

Devlin looks at him over the brim of his glasses, giving Rhys his full attention. It should worry him, the scrutiny of his coach, but he’s used to being watched. Putting on a show. And hockey is what he knows best.

“And the Wasps?”

“They’re a little trickier.” He leans back in his seat to think. Now that he’s thinking about his team, the sport he loves, everything else that he thought was going to make him explode outside seems irrelevant. In the grand scheme of things, nothing outside of this room, this facility, matters. “They’re strong and confident,” he begins.

“So are my boys,” Coach defends. He accentuates his statement with the slam of a closed fist to his desk.

“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Rhys placates. “They’re cocky, which leads to turnovers. And our team is quick. We can easily slip through the Wasps gaps to take control of the puck. If we skate fast enough, we can get men by the net and they won’t even know what hit them until the pucks in the back of the net.”

Devlin contemplates. Rhys wipes his sweaty palms down the thighs of his jeans. He hopes he’s said the right things.

Eventually, his coach answers. “I like the way you think, boy.” Rhys almost melts into the chair in relief. “We’ll push agility drills this week.” He nods to himself, tugging on a random paper and jotting notes down.

Rhys takes his as his cue to leave. “Sounds good, coach.”

“You’re doing good work out there, boy,” Coach calls. His head is still buried in his work, so he doesn’t see the grin threatening to overtake Rhys face. He manages to keep it under wraps. “Keep it up, and keep your head on straight.”

It’s the most praise he thinks he’s ever gotten from Coach Devlin, and he’ll take it. Pride surges in Rhys chest as he stands, showing himself out. “Yes, sir.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

You’ve felt just as sick as Gwyn was the night of her birthday all week long. For more reasons than one.

For one, you kissed one of your best friend’s cousin. For the second time. After she deliberately told you not to, and you agreed. For two, Rhysand hasn’t stopped trying to contact you since the incident, which you haven’t been able to stop thinking about. You haven’t answered him once, too worked up about the possibility of word somehow reaching Mor.

And the worst part is, you don’t even know if Gwyn remembers what she witnessed that night. Your legs around his waist, his hands gripping your butt. Mouths fused together, so tightly, so desperately. You had no intentions of stopping yourself, couldn’t if you wanted to. You’ve been thinking about his mouth pressed against yours since the very first time you kissed, and with a few drinks in your system, your confidence was off the charts. There was no one to stop you from taking what you wanted, what you both wanted, until your roommate barged through the door to catch you in the act.

You’ve been skirting Gwyn, walking on eggshells around your apartment, spending as much time as you possibly can outside your dorm, tucked between stacks of books in the library, hiding out in the commons. You’ve even gone as far as finding a dingy diner named Rita’s to hunker down and try to instill psychology into your brain. It’s mostly empty, and you’ve sort of befriended the waitress, or maybe she feels bad for you, growling down at your books in a futile attempt at studying, because the Shirly temples she delivers to your table somehow never make it onto your bill.

You’ve even managed to find a new tutor, though she’s about as good at teaching you as Rhysand is.

“I’ve already told you,” she points to the diagram in your textbook with the tip of her pen a little more forcefully than you’d like. Frustration furrows your brow, and you manage to keep your glare aimed at the book. “The cerebrum is the part that starts and manages conscious thoughts, and the cerebellum is the part that processes and regulates signals between other parts of your brain and body.”

It sounds like she’s read it straight from your textbook. Wait a second. You squint at the highlighted text right beside the photo. She is reading this right off the page!

You could fucking do that. You have, and you’re still just as confused. You need some real-life fucking examples, or you’re never going to pick this up. You have a practice quiz on Thursday, and even though it doesn’t count toward your grade, you want to do well.

Do well on the practice, ace the exam.

Simple.

Or, it would be if you could fucking understand.

You set your jaw, grinding your teeth. Rhysand would be so much better at explaining how all of these brain functions work. He’d even give you real life examples and flash cards to help you out. Emerie is doing none of that. She’s spent about half of the hour you’ve been here scrolling through her phone, and you’re pretty sure you’re just prone to having easily distracted tutors.

What have you put out into the universe to be gifted this back?

“Okay, I think I get it now,” you lie. If anything, you can come back to this. Emerie’s phone lights up on the table beside her and you slyly check the time. 8:30. Gods, when did it get so late? One minute, you were tucking your drawing pad in your cubby after the life drawing class you signed up for and the next moment, you’re seconds away from stabbing your pencil into your eye in the middle of the study room at the library. “Can we move onto the next thing?”

But Emerie isn’t even listening to you anymore. She’s frowning down at her cellphone, completely engrossed. Her face scrunches in the same disappointed look you’ve seen from her thrice tonight before she begins tapping a response.

You’re almost impressed at the number of letters she punches in in such a short amount of time. You’d hate to be the person on the other end of the phone with the essay of a message she seems to be writing. It must be almost as bad as being on the other side of her tutoring skills.

You decide to use the reprieve to check your own phone. There’s a message from your mother, something about a conversation she had at the convention her work sent her to. You don’t really understand what she’s talking about, so you click out of the thread with an air of disappointment. There aren’t any other texts.

Rhysand’s name calls to you like a siren. You hover over the chain, sadness curdling your stomach. You made the right decision to cut him from your life, but you’d be lying if you said it was easy. You’ve missed his flirtatious nature, the feeling of being wanted by someone, even if it was just for fun. You miss how helpful he was in your tutoring sessions, even if he was late on more than one occasion. You miss his violet eyes, gleaming with mischief as he teased you. You missed the curve of his wicked smile, the way they slotted perfectly against yours—

The door to your study room opens, drawing your and Emerie’s attention.

Your breath hitches as the very boy you’d successfully avoided for five days and counting saunters through the door like he fucking owns the place.

Your heart stammers in your chest at the sight of him. You don’t know how he found you, tucked away in the most discreet room in the library you could find. You would have invited Emerie over to your dorm room to study, if it weren’t for the whole avoiding your roommate’s thing you have going on right now.

Rhys looks just as fuckable as he did the last time you saw him. A waffled, white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. The sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, offering you the perfect view of his forearms. To your dismay, he’s not wearing those sweatpants you love to see him in, but the dark wash jeans that fit snugly around his hips do just as much justice. A Velaris U snapback sits backwards atop his dark hair that curls around the edges post shower. You swallow hard, trying very hard not to think about how he’d look in the shower, toned body on display and water cascading down his muscles, down between thick thighs and dripping off the tip of his cock.

You clear your throat, cheeks heating as Rhys tilts his head. There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth, like he knows exactly where your mind went, because he’s thinking the same thing. His eyes trail slowly across your face, down your chest and torso to where the table hides the rest of your body.

Good thing, so he doesn’t see the way you have to clench your legs together.

“And who are you?” Emerie questions, but with her dry tone, you don’t think she really cares all that much.

You do, however.

“I’m her tutor.”

Emerie’s caramel eyes flicker between you and Rhys with a flash of intrigue. You hold your breath carefully as she decides if the captain of the hockey team looming over you is enough hot gossip to stay for the show. Anyone would be interested in watching this play out, but your new tutor seems less than interested in Rhys’ interruption.

Maybe she thinks you’re a lost cause, you think as she silently begins packing her things without so much as a mumble or an apologetic glance in your direction. If she is thinking there’s no hope for you in psychology, she’d be right. It’s been over an hour of working through the questions you got wrong on your last test and all you’ve managed is one corrected answer and a whole lot of mind-wandering to the boy who currently stares at you like you’re across from him in a faceoff. His brows are flat, eyes sharp, mouth drawn in a firm line.

“You’re not,” you insist vehemently. Maybe Emerie will stay if you refuse to give your attention to Rhys. Your warning glare does nothing to deter him. He doesn’t falter. His shoulders don’t wither under your harsh look. He stands tall, straightens his shoulders even, and stands his ground.

Rhys’ lips quirk when your tutor stands. Your attention is diverted to Emerie as she slides her backpack over her shoulder. “Emerie, please—”

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head solemnly. Rhys’ triumphant smirk quickly disappears when you whirl his way. You’re about to give him a verbal lashing when Emerie slows by his side. She holds her hand out and your jaw continues its descent toward the floor as Rhys proceeds to tug out his wallet and hand her a wad of folded bills.

His trickery slides down your spine like an ice cube down your shirt. What the actual fuck? He paid Emerie to get you here, all because you’ve been avoiding him? A part of you is flattered, but the feeling is smothered by his cunning. You knew Rhys was sly in the rink, but you didn’t know that extended into his daily life. Not like this.

“Thanks, Rhys.” Emerie shoots you a ‘what can you do?’ look and shoves her way from the room. Your shoulders fall in defeat, your mind reeling. Has she ever even taken a psychology class? You want to slam your head into the open book on the table. Surely, that will be more help than the hour you just wasted as an unknowing pawn in Rhysand’s little game.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Rhys starts, and flames course through your veins. You can feel the path they inch to your cheeks, anger flushing your skin bright red. How dare he? How dare he pay someone to pretend to tutor you so he can ambush you?

Good, then I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. You give yourself a mental pat on the back. You’ve made it nearly an entire week without reaching out to Rhys no matter how many times you typed out responses went unsent or fell asleep to your text threads. Small wins.

“And you’ve just ruined my night,” you snip back, slamming your book shut. The test you’d been working through is trapped between the pages, squashed in half, but you’re too annoyed to care. An off-center crease on your paper will be something to distract you from studying later. “I can’t believe you faked me out like that! Is she even in psych?”

Rhys winces and that’s all you need to know. Frustration presses hot behind your eyes, prickling your sinuses as it tries to escape. You could explode on him right now, but you bite your tongue. He doesn’t deserve your words or your tears.

“Not technically, no,” he answers sheepishly, but you’re much too angry to think about how cute Rhys is when his face scrunches in concern like that. You avert your eyes and chuck your book into your bag. “Was she any help?”

Of course she wasn’t any help. Although, that means the single question you reworked and corrected is either another small win or you need to double-check your work.

You don’t deign Rhys with a response.

“Look,” he says when you exchange your pencils in the front pocket of your bag for your headphones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to show up this late but watching film ran late, and I swear I was going to help you study, darling, after I had the chance to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” you reply stubbornly. You can’t even look at him right now.

“We do,” he argues. He rounds the table and plants a hand on the back of your chair, keeping you from sliding back to make your escape.

You can feel his breath on the back of your neck. You can’t turn to peer over your shoulder because you know it will bring you face-to-face, maybe even so close your lips might brush. You fight the shiver that crawls up your spine at the thought, the warmth that pools between your legs.

“Please, Rhys,” you sigh. Your gaze is drawn to his broad body like a magnet as he lowers himself into the freshly unoccupied chair. Staring at you with those determined, violet eyes tugs at the wound in your chest you’ve been trying to plaster shut all week. “Can we be adults about this?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, kicking his chair back on its hind legs. “You start.”

You pin him with an unimpressed look.

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes. “You can’t tell me that kiss didn’t mean anything to you.”

“It didn’t,” you respond all too quickly. The fact that your eyes have fallen to the table again doesn’t help your façade.

In truth, the kiss meant more than it should have. You haven’t felt that sudden rush in a long time. You were left buzzing afterward in more ways than one, could still feel the shape of Rhys’ lips against yours all the way back to your dorm that night, could still see that hungry look in his eyes. Even the sight of Gwyn retching into the toilet afterward didn’t chase that image away.

“Liar,” he argues.

“It can’t mean anything, Rhys!” You bite. You cross your arms tightly over your chest and stare at the table, swallowing tightly.

The silence that falls is heavy. His stare is heavy. Everything is fucking heavy.

Suddenly, you’re exhausted. All you want to do is slink your way home and curl up beneath your blankets and avoid everyone for a little bit longer. You hadn’t expected Rhysand to drop in on your tutoring session, nor set up your tutoring session for you. It’s late, and your test is in two days, and you don’t feel any more confident in the material than you should.

You don’t want to fail another exam. You need his help.

After a beat of silence, Rhys asks softly, “Why?”

“Because Mor is my friend,” you repeat for the umpteenth time. You force your gaze to Rhys and your chest aches at the concern on his face. He’s normally so rugged and cocky, winking and smirking, to see him like this needle’s holes in your chest. “And I won’t ruin our friendship over a guy.”

“I can handle Mor,” Rhys says like all of this is so easy. Maybe for him, it is. He’s her family, and she can’t stay made at him forever. You on the other hand, have no such ties. If she found out that you went behind her back to be with Rhys…you don’t know how you’d recover from that. You know Mor, and you know that while she’s confident on the outside, your betrayal would scar her deep inside. “Just give me a chance.”

“It’s not that simple, Rhys,” you respond with a sigh. You wish it were. You wish you could slide from your chair onto his, straddle him and hold him close, let him console you with pretty words and soft kisses until you’ve relaxed enough to keep studying.

You’d love to see him outside of school, outside of hockey, where you can have all of his attention, but there are too many factors that play into being more than friends with Rhys. You need to pass this class, and he has so much on his plate you don’t even know how he has the time to sleep, let alone date.

“It could be.”

You shake your head. You would give him the chance, but you don’t know how. Your fears rear their heads and bare their teeth. The loss of a relationship with one of your best friends in the entire world.

You couldn’t do that to Mor.

Rhys must see your inner turmoil. He plants his chair back on the ground and places a gentle hand over yours to stop you from wringing them together anxiously. Oh. You didn’t even know you were doing that.

Emotion pricks your sinuses as the warmth from his hands spreads throughout your body. He strokes a thumb across the back of your hand, and your bones ache with the need to flip your hand and intertwine your fingers with his. But you can’t. You can’t do any of it.

His eyes are soft when you’re able to look at him.

“It won’t happen again, I swear,” he promises, though there’s a sad twist to his mouth that tells you he doesn’t quite believe it’s possible. He’s telling you right now that he wants more, but he’ll give you the time that you need, as long as you need it.

You don’t tell him that this is going to last a lifetime.

“We can…we can be friends,” Rhys says like he doesn’t like what he’s agreeing to. You don’t like it very much, either. “Just…don’t replace me as your tutor.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

But you don’t have time to think about that. You need to study. Laying down the law with Rhys had left you more than exhausted. You hadn’t wanted to study, the air between the both of you thick with awkwardness. All you wanted to do was go home. You made plans to meet up on Sunday to study, since Rhysand had a rare day of no practice. He promised to help you for as long as you needed.

You blink, confused. You even go so far as to back out into the hall to make sure you have the right room. Yep. Room 254. This is the right place.

Tentatively, you step inside, eyes immediately catching on the double chocolate chunk cookies that are cooling on the counter. Despite your terrible night, your mouth waters at the sight. When you first met Gwyn, she’d always have these cookies on hand. She made them for every occasion, you swear you gained five pounds from the number you ate in the first week of living together. It’s been a while since she’s made them, and you didn’t realize how much you’ve missed the chocolatey goodness until this very moment.

The room is empty. She must’ve gone to her room, and there’s no sign of Mor, either. You let your backpack slide off your shoulder and hastily kick off your shoes, eyes latched onto the cookies. Surely, she won’t miss one, right? You have to try. You’d lie down your life for one of these cookies, that’s how delicious they are.

You feel like you’ve broken into your own dorm with how stealthily you try to cross from the door to the kitchen. You trapeze around the living room, avoiding the coffee table littered with magazines and two half-burnt candles, past the cream-colored sofa that’s as soft as a cloud, curtesy of Gwyn’s family.

You wince as the water crashes loudly into the sink filled with measuring cups and bowls streaked with traces of cookie dough. You don’t have time to groan about the loss of sugary dough you would’ve more than happy to lick from the whisk, washing your hands as quickly as possible.

You toss the towel to the other side of the counter. Your mouth waters at the perfectly round, fluffy cookies sitting, waiting for you like a prize. You’re a hairsbreadth away from victory being yours when you’re interrupted in your robbery of sweet treats.

“Freeze!” A shout startles you. You jump in your spot, though you contemplate disregarding the warning for a taste of the sugary dessert within you reach. You eye the glistening chunks of chocolate that peek out from the perfectly cooked dough and swallow hard. Lifting your gaze, you meet the very turquoise you’ve been avoiding all week. “Hands where I can see them!” Gwyn calls, raising her hands in a finger gun, as if she’s seconds from taking you out. You’d deserve it, really, for what you’ve done, for what she walked in on.

Reluctantly, you raise your hands, but don’t step away from the cookies.

You have to face the music at some point. And right now, might be that moment.

If you get a cookie out of it, you’d consider yourself lucky.

“Secret agent Sugar,” you tease. At the sparkle of amusement that lifts the corner of your roommate’s mouth, you continue joking. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

“Hey, that cake betrayed me,” Gwyn grimaces, and just like that, the playful air surrounding you is replaced by the guilt. She’s referring to the night of her party. The wine you and your roommates had been drinking wasn’t the only thing that made a reappearance after she walked in on you in Rhysand’s arms.

You drop your arms at the same time as Gwyn holsters her pretend gun and walks further into the room. “Yeah, it was totally the cake,” you force a playful grin and hope it doesn’t come off as a grimace.

Gwyn rolls her eyes and stalks to the oven. You didn’t realize that there was another batch inside, and you seriously consider sneaking one of the cookies off the cooling rack in front of you and retreating to your room before she turns back around from checking how the current batch is cooking. “I’m still never eating cake again. Cookie cakes for the rest of my years,” she comments, deeming the batch done. You don’t know how she does it, knowing when they’re done by sight alone, but you don’t question her methods because the cookies always come out softer than your pillow.

“Is that what the cookies are for? A redo of your birthday?” You ask, carefully gauging her reaction for any sense that she remembers what happened between you and Mor’s cousin in the middle of your failed prank. You’d been more than distracted from finding the trophy Gwyn wanted to steal.

Gwyn crinkles her nose, probably remembering her hangover the following day. While you were sick with the thought of her mentioning something to Mor, Gwyn was couch-ridden for most of the day, arms clenched around her stomach and three bottles of different flavored electrolyte drinks and crackers scattered all around her. “No, though we are celebrating something.”

You rack your mind for what you could be celebrating. It’s not Mor’s birthday, that isn’t for three months, and it sure isn’t yours, unless your mother lied about the month and day you were born. You’re certainly not celebrating anything to do with psychology, though maybe you should plan a party if you pass. It’s more likely you’ll be throwing a funeral for your GPA with the way things are going lately, though.

“We are?” You question, tapping the counter with your finger in contemplation. Gwyn slips her hand into the oven mitts. A wave of heat blasts out of the oven when she opens it to pull the tray of cookies out. She shuts the door just as quickly, setting the sheet on top of the stove to cool. She punches the off button to turn the oven off and then she’s removing the mitts and leaning her hip against the counter to meet your gaze. She doesn’t seem like she remembers, otherwise you’d think she’d have mentioned something already, since Mor isn’t in the room. Gwyn’s not one for confrontation, though, she might keep this secret to herself no matter what. Your guilt only weighs heavier on your shoulders. You need to know if she knows, you just don’t know how you’re going to find out without bringing it up yourself. “And what are we celebrating?” You glance toward Mor’s room, the door shut tight. Unusual for your outgoing roommate. You twist your fingers together. “And where is Mor, anyway?” You need to know how much time you have before you make your escape.

Yes, you’re a coward, a big one.

As if she’s been summoned by the word ‘celebration,’ Mor’s door opens. She peeks her head out, looking like a floating head. Her long, blonde hair cascades in soft waves, and her brown eyes are alight with a smug excitement.

“Did someone just ask what we’re celebrating?” She questions.

Gwyn shakes her head in amusement. She cuts you an exaggerated look, raising her hand as if to whisper to you, but her voice level is loud enough for Mor to hear by the doorframe she continues to hide behind. “She’s been waiting for you to get home all day. Wouldn’t stop telling me we needed something special for dinner tonight, but wouldn’t tell me what the cookies were for.”

Mor frowns from the doorway. “Well, if you’d just let me speak, we’d already be celebrating!” She protests, but doesn’t step further into the room. Whatever she’s hiding, it must be good.

You glance at Gwyn, who only shrugs in response. “Is whatever Mor’s hiding better than the cookies?”

Laughter bubbles from her throat. “No, probably not.”

“Hey!” Mor snaps, face contorting into an exaggerated pout. She even goes so far as to stomp her foot. “Gwyn doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Of course, my surprise is better.”

“Okay…” You trail off, waving Mor into the room. “Can you please tell us what we’re celebrating? These cookies aren’t going to eat themselves, and I’m about two seconds away from breaking what little control I have left.”

“I was trying to build the anticipation,” your roommate remarks.

“It’s killing me,” you reply. Not the anticipation for whatever she’s going to bring out of her room, but for the cookies calling your name.

“You’re no fun,” Mor sighs. Before you can refute, she continues. “Remember our little prank last weekend?” Your playfulness shrivels in your stomach. Uh-oh. This might not end as well as you thought it might.

Has she found out about you and Rhys? You look to Gwyn, but she isn’t shooting you a look of accusation, instead tucking a strand of her red hair behind her ear. She grimaces and mutters, “No.”

Your shoulders drop. So, she doesn’t remember a thing? That’s as good for you as it was bad for her.

You nod, unable to speak.

“Well,” Mor says smugly. She inches her way out of her room until only her arm is hidden behind the wall. “While you two were busy…” She shoots Gwyn a sympathetic smile. “Cleaning up, I found this.” She brings her other arm into the room, and clutched in her fingers is the very thing you set out to steal from the hockey house that night: their beloved trophy.

Holy shit.

Mission accomplished.

“You didn’t,” Gwyn gasps, but she’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. You guess her throwing up was a good distraction after all. By the time you’d gotten your arm around Gwyn’s waist to keep her from falling into the mess, a small crowd had amassed. Rhysand quickly jumped into captain mode, shooing people away and he ordered Balthazar to assist you in helping Gwyn to the bathroom. His brows were furrowed in a deep frown as he all but scooped Gwyn into his arms, cradling her gently to his chest. You know she and Balthazar have a strained relationship, though you don’t know why, but Gwyn wasn’t protesting, probably didn’t even know who was helping her out.

As you trailed behind them, you noticed Azriel striding down the hall, arms filled with towels to help clean up the mess. You hesitated, but he waved you on to follow your friend with a nod. You were grateful for the silent, brooding hockey player with a caring heart.

Mor hadn’t been anywhere to be found, and when you pulled your phone out to message her while Balthazar held Gwyn’s hair back for round two, your screen had lit up with a text saying she’d escaped and to meet her back home. You thought it was because she also wasn’t feeling great, not because she’d found and successfully snuck the trophy from their home.

“Where did you find that?” You ask, moving closer as she sets it in the middle of the counter. You and Gwyn stare at the trophy in awe, as utterly entranced as the boys must have been when they won the thing. It gleams gold. The light reflects off of the hockey player on top, posed to strike the puck into the net.

“I found it in Cassian’s room,” Mor explains with a roll of her eyes. Yeah, that would be the obvious place it would be. “It was buried under a mound of clothes and hockey pads.” Her nose crinkles and she shudders as she remembers something. “Smelly hockey pads. You have no idea what I had to dig through to get this.” She turns her back on you and Gwyn, pulling open the fridge. She returns with the milk. You grab three cups from the cupboard behind you, sliding them over to Mor, who fills them up.

“Are you sure we should be touching this, then?” Gwyn grimaces, eyeing the trophy like it’s no longer a prize, but diseased. “Maybe you should wash your hands.”

You splutter a laugh while Mor does just that. She sidles up to Gwyn, nudging her with her shoulder. Gwyn responds in jest, and the three of you fall into a fit of laughter.

You can’t believe you actually have their trophy. You wonder how long it’s going to take them to notice it’s missing, and how they’re going to react.

You imagine Rhysand’s face, twisted in confusion. His brows would scrunch together, forming a line between them that you always want to smooth out with your thumb. His eyes would narrow, his thick, dark lashes dimming the vibrant color of his eyes. And his lips…they’d purse in thought, pressing into a pout that makes something warm converge between your legs.

“Helloooo,” Mor waves a cookie in front of your face, breaking you from your trance. Your cheeks flare with embarrassment and guilt. Fuck, you need to stop thinking about Rhys. Starting now. “Earth to roomie!”

She and Gwyn have their glasses of milk raised, cookies in their other hands.

“Shit,” you fumble for your own glass and a cookie, appetite lost. Okay, not completely lost. The cookie looks delicious. “Sorry.”

“What were you thinking about, anyway?” Gwyn asks, concern laced across her features.

“Yeah, you were grinning like a lovesick fool,” Mor comments offhandedly.

“Uh,” you scramble for something to say. Think, think, you scold yourself. Psychology? No, why the fuck would you be smiling about your failing grade? You couldn’t pass your smile off as a potential new fling, that would open up way too many questions. You decide to go with the truth. Or, half of it, at least. “I just can’t believe our plan actually worked. I was thinking about the boys’ reaction when they find out their trophy is missing.”

Matching grins swallow your roommates’ faces. “Here, here!” Mor hoots, raising her glass in cheers. You and Gwyn follow suit.

“To the real winners!” Gwyn tacks on with a wicked glint in her eyes. She eyes the trophy with pride, and you wonder for a moment exactly why she has a problem with the hockey boys. But then you take a bite of the soft cookie, chocolate bursting on your tongue, and all is forgotten.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed Mor to pick out your outfit, but it’s definitely going to be your last, you try to remind yourself. The handful of times you’ve thought this exact thing before is laughable, and you’ve never once remembered. She’ll continue to cut the hems of shirts and alter skirts into even shorter skirts until the end of time, probably.

She’s been the crafty type since you first met her. Anything that she could add personality to was subject for a good old shot of “Mor’s Touch:” clothing, home décor, even the cocktails she mixes—which often go from something as simple as a Dirty Shirley and turning it into a cherry-passionfruit with a hint of lime drink, mixed with tonic instead of Sprite and garnished with a frilly umbrella stuck through three Maraschino cherries because “one is simply not enough.”

You agree, and you’d never admit to your eccentric roommate that it’s the most delicious drink you’ve ever had. Goes down like lemonade and has you going from a corner-stander to someone in the center of the dancefloor in two drinks flat.

You wish you had one right about now to get you through the night.

Your mind wanders to Gwyn back at the dorms, wondering what she’s going to be getting up to tonight. You don’t need to wonder, you know how your red-headed roommate prefers to spend her nights, curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels within reach, and her laptop in her lap, creating fantasy worlds for her characters to live in some day.

A surge of pride for your roommate fills your energy tank. Sometimes people truly do find exactly what they were made for in life, and Gwyn was born to write. You’ve only read a few snippets she’s been willing to share, but you can’t fathom forming sentences the way she does, creating worlds and characters from her mind alone, seeing a vision in your mind so clear that it would be a crime not to share it with the world.

You’re not sure you’ve ever loved something that much, but Sports Medicine is pretty damn close. Psychology, is not.

You shiver as the cold of the arena hits the sliver of skin that’s exposed itself once again while you were taking a sip of your drink. Goosebumps pebble in response, coursing over the entirety of your body within seconds, causing you to shiver.

You should’ve fought Mor harder about bringing your jacket, but at least she left you sleeves, her shirt has been cut into a tank that hardly reaches the bottom of her ribs, and there’s a deep cut down the collar, creating a perfect ‘V’ that shows off her incredible tits.

You’d know, you’ve seen them before.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You two look so good,” a girl gushes, steps into you and Mor’s path, halting you from your first steps down the stairs to your seats. She’s chipper, a camera poised in her hands, the thick strap around her neck. He shiny, chestnut hair is braided into two tails, draped across her shoulders.

Behind her thin-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement as she peruses you and your roommate up and down, admiring your outfits.

“I told you,” Mor murmurs, elbowing you in the side before raising her voice to answer. “Thank you so much! I spent all day on these, and this one doesn’t appreciate my hard work at all. It’s a refreshing change of pace to hear a compliment instead of ‘Mor, don’t you think this is a little too much?’” You scrunch your nose at Mor’s terrible impression of you. Too nasally, too annoying.

The photographer laughs like it’s her full-time job, and you scowl.

Way to throw me right under that speeding bus, Mor.

“Do you mind if I take your picture for the team’s social media account? You two would make a great first slide in a carousel for school spirit,” she gets this faraway look in her eyes as if she’s picturing it now. “The interaction you’d get us,” she sighs dreamily. “I might even get promoted.”

You groan internally when Mor perks up even further. “I think I love you,” she blurts, pupils heart-shaped. “Do you want to sit with us? We have an extra ticket.” She’s bought one for Gwyn, hoping she would join in on this sporty girl’s night, but your other roommate had been adamant about her dislike of the sport, and had gotten a pass while you were dressed up like a doll and dragged out of the dorm.

The girl’s laugh is like a windchime, soothing and melodic. “I wish I could, but duty calls,” she waves her camera around in answer. “Maybe I’ll catch you at one of the after parties, though. Here, you can give me your Instagram and I’ll DM you after tagging you in the photos.”

She and Mor exchange socials and names. Feyre. It’s unique and suits her well.

After adding your own Instagram on her phone, you hand the phone back, posing with Mor. Of course, knowing your roommate as you do, it’s not just one picture that Feyre takes. They’re both beaming, and one picture turns into ten. Ten poses, nine sips of your drink because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Eight frantic smiles, seven internal sighs, and six side-eyes from passerby, trying to find their seats. Five giggles from friends, four embarrassed blushes, three warnings that you are so done with this, two people ignoring you, and one announcement overhead signaling the start of the game in a few minutes.

“So nice to meet you, Feyre,” Mor calls as you begin guiding her away. You have no clue where you’re going, but any movement closer to any empty seat is better than the photoshoot you just had in the middle of the walkway. With a parting smile at the photographer, Mor continues, like she’s all for standing there all night instead of supporting her cousin on the ice. “Message me!”

“Clingy, much?” You grunt at the poke to the arm that gets you.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I’m going to replace you,” she scoffs with a brush of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. You swear, the guys sitting in the front row swoon. “Besides, you can never have too many friends. It’s not possible.”

You’re pretty sure it is possible to have too many friends, but you keep that thought to yourself. You suppose you have one more spot in your life for a friend, but if the pictures turn out terrible and are blasted on the Bat’s Instagram, that spot might disappear. You’re already feeling mortified enough from the public display of taking photos.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what you decide to go with. “Now, where are our seats?”

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mutter wearily, squinting to see what’s happening on the ice. You might not know anything about hockey, but you know malicious intent when you see it. It’s in the way that the Penguin’s player leans closer to the Bat’s center, nudging his shoulder as he speaks, his slimy grin growing with each jab.

The game’s been fun so far, much to your surprise. The crowd surrounding you is all for the team, chanting songs that you need to learn immediately because they’re so much fun. The music that blasts around the stadium during every break is on-point, not too old of songs and not too overplayed like at the one football game you’d been dragged to last year (also by Mor, but not because of a family member on the team, because of an entirely different member.)

“Is that my cousin?” She asks, brown eyes sharp as she examines the players. Their fronts are to you, no seeing the names painted across the back of their jerseys. You refrain from mentioning how Mor should at least know her own cousin’s number—since their written on the sleeves—but you keep that thought to yourself when her red painted nails tighten around the box of popcorn, crushing the flimsy cardboard. The strain of the muscle in her jaw matches the boy on the ice’s, you notice with a fleeing glance at your roommate.

Tension coils your gut. You find your fingers wrapping around the edge of the seat you’re perched in, gripping the bleachers so tightly that you swear you feel the cool metal warming and warping.

You’re not the only two who have noticed the shift in the moods of the players on the ice, parts of the crowd are beginning to rise from their seats, cheering growing from a low rumble to a thunder of screams, caws, and jeering.

The puck is barely a millimeter from the referee’s hand before sticks are thrown to the ice, gloves following as the two players slowly begin to circle each other. It looks like something out of an animal documentary: two predators about to snap at each other’s throats in a fight for the territory.

The anticipation of them going blow for blow lights a fire deep within your belly, your core perking up for attention.

You shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t get getting turned on by the idea of two boys about to knock each other’s teeth out. Should be thinking about your best friend’s cousin like this at all.

Shooting a guilty glance at your roommate, you breathe a soft sigh of relief that’s swallowed by the shouts of the crowd when you see that Mor hasn’t picked up on your sudden shift in mood—both mentally and physically.

All the players on the ice slide back to make room for the brawl that’s about to break out and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, almost overpowering the arousal as you wonder why no one is attempting to stop them.

There isn’t time to voice your concern, isn’t time to do anything except bolt to your feet with a gasp so harsh it sears your lungs when the Penguin’s player is the first to swing. Your heart is lodged in your throat, your breathing holding in your throat as you watch in anticipation. He lashes out with a curled fist so fast that by the time you blink, it’s over.

His hit doesn’t land.

There’s no time to feel the relief trying to rush through your veins because the Bat’s center is retaliating, throwing himself forward after swiftly dodging the attack. He grabs the other boy by the collar of his ice blue uniform and hauls him into his closed fist.

His opponents helmet goes flying off with the snap of his head backwards. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright, snagging a handful of the Bat’s jersey to try and steady himself.

You look to the benches flanking the ice, wondering why no one is joining the fray. It’s now that you realize it’s not that they don’t want to help their teammate who is quickly ducking away from another fist, it’s because they can’t.

There’s a boy standing nonchalantly, hazel eyes pinned on the scene before him. He looks eager almost, leaning so casually against his stick, chin propped on the edge of it like he’s watching the newest action movie from the best spot in the house.

Even the goalie seems to be unconcerned, taking the few moments he has to take a swig of water and adjust his helmet, squatting low and shooting side to side in his box, as if trying to keep limber for when the game resumes.

One of the refs is attempting to hold back a burly boy who seems much too large to be skating at all. His helmet has also been shucked off, revealing long, shoulder length wet hair that clings to his face and neck like a bee on honey. His gloves are abandoned on the ice too, and his stick has skidded to a stop upon hitting the sideboards nearby. You can’t make out the words he’s shouting, but with the feral grin you make out, you know they’re fighting words. With each bark he seems to be inching closer, like the full-grown man in the stripes trying to hold him back is nothing more than a soft breeze, and his is a twister barreling right through.

When he shakes his head, you catch sight of a bloodthirsty grin that has a shiver sliding up your spine. He’s enjoying this?

“Mor,” your worry tries to escape, only for the words to stick in your throat as more noises join the fight, loud as gunshots. Both the Bat’s and the Penguin’s players are rapping their hockey sticks against the boards separating their benches from the ice, war cries falling from their lips.

They’re all enjoying this.

“That is my cousin,” Mor screeches, her perfectly plucked brows pulled tight as she tries finally makes out the number on the back of the jersey that’s gripped so tightly in the offending players grip that you’re pretty sure the stitches are popping with the force. “Kick his fucking ass, Rhys!”

Casting a frantic look to your roommate, you realize that not even she seems to be fazed by the fact that her cousin is in the middle of a fight that could very seriously end badly, especially with the knives on the bottoms of their feet.

But, if everyone’s rooting for their player to win this battle, you can too.

As gruesome as the scene before you is, you wish you had a better seat, somewhere with a better viewpoint than all the way on the other side of the ice. You can’t to be able to hear the threats they’re growling at each other, your attention completely enraptured now that you’ve shoved your worry to the wayside.

With his newfound hold, the Penguin’s player strikes again, and this time, his hit slams across Rhys’ jaw. His head snaps to the side with the nasty hook and his helmet slips to the ice, the sound eaten up by the goading of the crowd.

They swing around, unsteady on their skates as each of the boys tries to topple the other over. You catch a glance at his face. It’s hard to see, and his shaggy black hair is splayed across his face like a spiderweb, keeping you from making out his features. You catch the blood dribbling down his chin, the anger etched in the clench of his jaw as he grits his teeth, managing to twist himself into a position where he has the upper hand on the Penguin’s player: a headlock.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Rhys pound his fist into the other boy’s face once, twice, three times before his opponent’s feet fall out from under him. Rhys releases his hold, allowing the boy to slip lamely to the ice.

“Atta boy, Rhysie,” Mor shouts, once again shoveling popcorn into her mouth with a grin so bright it could melt the ice in the rink before you. She turns to you, golden brown of her eyes glowing with excitement. “Our parents would be so proud.”

She turns back to the scene before you can voice your confusion on that statement, tucking away the information that if you win a fight in hockey, it’s a great accomplishment.

You watch Rhys as he’s escorted by referees who guide him towards the penalty box. He’s examining his knuckles, not caring that he’s abandoning his equipment as he goes, grimacing as the adrenaline begins to fade. He pokes at them, frowning at whatever he feels.

You pray they’re not broken.

The rest of the players seem to be getting back to the game, like one of their teammates isn’t being casted away on an island across the ice. Okay, so it’s just another bench and he’s not that far from them, but you’re shocked that this is the end of the fight, both players carted into separate timeout boxes away from their teams.

Rhys plops down on the bench, pulling a water bottle from a hidden holder, washing the blood from his knuckles before examining them for a second time. You watch him flex his fingers, twist his wrist this way and that. You can’t seem to keep your eyes off him, even with the game picking back up and Mor shouting cheers when the Bat’s manage to steal the puck right from the drop, carting it down the ice with a speed that rivals a racecar.

He must be satisfied with his examination because Rhys is throwing his head back, and it’s almost as if he’s squirting the water from the bottle directly onto you with the way that the apex of your thigh’s wet at the sight of him. He sips the water, holding the bottle a few inches from his face, and you watch the water cascade down his chin and over his throat, bobbing with each swallow. It mixes with the blood from his split lip and slides into the collar of his gear.

You swallow harshly, suddenly parched.

When he’s had his fill of the drink, he moves the bottle further back, using the spray to wash his hair away from his face, and your breathing shallows. It’s as if the hand he’s using to squeeze the life out of the bottle is constricting around your throat, because suddenly, you recognize the sharp of that jaw, the curve of those eyebrows and the straight of his nose. All his angular features come together in the perfect picture of hotness, knocking the breath fully from your chest when he straightens his chin, looking out onto the ice to watch his teammates score the last goal of the second period.

He's the boy from this morning: the overachiever, the one who called you darling.

Mor’s cousin.

Rhysand Cunningham.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

Two months ago, at the beginning of the semester, psychology had seemed like a breeze. The lectures were easy to listen to and intriguing, and you had no trouble following along with the professors’ slideshows as you took detailed notes of everything on the screen. Your assigned readings were completed in a similar state, though they weren’t graded but included important information you’d find on the tests.

Somewhere along the line, your grade slipped, and you don’t remember if it had been between studying for Biology or reveling in your newfound freedom away from your parents, partying and enjoying a true college experience with your roommates.

Whatever happened, the repercussions are hitting you right in the face, the taunting letter you have never seen before on any of your assignments throughout all your years of learning.

If your parents saw this, they would bring the entire house down with their scolding.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You studied, even if the word is a loose term for what material you used. Things started piling up this month, with it being a new semester and all. You didn’t schedule out the time to focus on psychology when the classes you were really interested in—Introduction to Nutrition and Kinesiology—took first and second place for your attention. Plus, with the number of social events your best friends—who are also conveniently your roommates—invited you too, it was almost impossible to say no. Friends are a vital part of the college experience and you were in desperate need of some fun after having spent the summer lounging at home with your parents.

You found a psych support group that met at the library once a week to study together. It wasn’t anything like you thought it would be, a bunch of clueless students with grades similar to yours. All they seemed to want to do with your precious time was bitch and moan about the professor instead of actually trying to conquer the areas of study for the upcoming test.

And now the consequences of your actions have made themselves known.

Grumbling, you shove the test into your binder before shutting it with a snap that does nothing to ease your frustration. A few students still trail from the room, though most bolted right after being released. Some linger at the bottom of the lecture hall where the professor sits, answering their questions.

You have about a million-and-one of your own but you’re too worked up about your grade to go down there and hash it out with Mr. Hybern. His peppery colored hair is perfectly coiffed on this terrible day, his beard trimmed close to his jowls. His gleaming, golden skin makes you think that maybe he’d spent his weekend grading tests out in the sun, and you have half a mind to stomp your way down the stairs and demand a second review of your test.

It wouldn’t solve your irritation, and it would certainly be embarrassing if in fact your F is correct.

Placing your binder, notebook, and pens back into your bag, you zip it, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way to the exit, holding your chin high because if there’s one thing you’re not going to do, is cry over your terrible, awful grade in public.

The waterworks will just have to wait until you’re locked in your private bedroom in your shared dorm.

There is good news. It’s Friday, which means you can snag the pint of your favorite ice cream that your roommates won’t dare touch because ‘no ice cream that’s worth it should have fruit in it, that’s like asking for a steak on your spaghetti.’ You have no idea what Mor—one of your roommates—was on about when she brought up the awful comparison, and in reply all you’d done is scooped out a chunk of cherries embedded into the creamy, pink goodness and stuffed it into your mouth.

With it being the weekend, you can also wallow well into the night without having to worry about hiding your puffy eyes in the morning. You’ll have all day tomorrow to figure out a plan of action, once you allow yourself the time to properly grieve and process…and maybe have a drink or two.

You shoulder through the heavy lecture hall door with your head down, hiding the red stain to your cheeks. So, maybe you’re not going to hold you head high as you trail back to your dorm, but you will not cry.

The door swings open and you barely catch the noise of surprise before you’re barreling into something that’s akin to a brick wall. Your breath leaves your body in a whoosh and your balance slips out from under you, arms flailing as you fall.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact, but it never comes.

Slowly, mortified because you know exactly what’s cushioned your fall, you peek your eyes open, carefully meeting a sapphire gaze that surely would take your breath away should you have any left.

This close, you can see the perfection of his angular features: a long, straight nose, high cheekbones under the dusting of pink that caresses his own face. His lashes are dark as charcoal, the same color of his hair that looks as soft as silk.

Whatever it is that has you entranced by his beauty, the sentiment seems to be mutual. Those bright eyes trace across your features, carefully drinking you in. You don’t know if you’re thankful that your face is already as red as the marker on your test or if you want him to see the way your cheeks go molten.

There’s a warmth against your hips that you don’t notice until he speaks, his hands that have a solid grip around you, keeping you steady to his chest. His whispered breath brushes across your lips. “By all means,” he teases softly, “Take your time.”

“Oh, my Gods, I am so sorry,” you squeak, rolling off his chest. You can hear his chuckling as you scramble to climb to your feet, but your knees are so weak at the sight—and touch—of the most handsome man you’ve ever seen lifting gracefully to his feet, holding a hand down to help you up.

You try not to notice just how big his hand is in yours, and for the second time today, you fail.

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” he says, displaying an easy grin that makes your heart stutter in your chest. The door opens with a loud click and the both of you startle. His hand comes down warmly on your spine, ushering you out of the way of the student that’s beaming grin falters into apology at the idea of almost running you down, already on the phone with someone and gushing over their test result.

It’s hard to reign in your glare.

The student’s conversation seems to jolt the man out of his stupor. He blinks, shaking his head as if to rid him of a spell you might have cast on him, or maybe he’s testing to see if he has a concussion from the fall.

When he returns his attention to you, it takes everything in your power not to melt into a puddle beneath that gaze.

“Is Mr. H still passing out tests?” he asks, and you swallow the sourness that accompanies the name of your professor. You and he are not on good terms right now, not that this boy knows that.

“Yeah,” you answer, remembering you saw him sitting on his throne (desk chair) with his loyal citizens (students) kissing his feet (talking through their tests). “I think so.” Then, because you’re pretty sure you would remember a face like his if he were in your lecture, you ask, “Are you in this class?”

“No,” he answers with a scoff that tells you he breezed by this class. “I took Psych 101 freshman year, but I have Professor Hybern again for Cognitive Psychology and I need to turn in my paper early.”

Turning in a paper early? What is he, some kind of genius?

“Oh,” you answer lamely, “Cool.”

His answering grin cracks open the casing of the butterflies you didn’t know were living in your stomach, taking off in a flurry of emotion.

He shrugs like he couldn’t really care less about any of it, but to you, the fact that he’s managed to pass Psych 101 at all is an impressive feat, though you don’t know why he’d sign up for even more torture. “Sure. Look, I’ve got to run, but are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s nice of him to ask if you’re okay when he’s the one who had his back painted to the floor only moments ago. “Yeah, I’m fine, but I should be the one asking you that. Are you okay?”

His laughter is rich and warm, and you want to melt into it. Before you have the chance to make even more a fool of yourself in front of this handsome stranger, he answers. “I’ve been checked harder, darling. You have a nice day now.”

“Thanks, you too,” your words trail off as he catches the door on its next outswing, ducking inside without waiting for your response.

Jeeze, he must really be in a rush, then.

It’s when you exit the doors to the psychology building that you curse yourself. You should’ve gotten his number, his name at least. You could’ve invited him over for something more distracting and yummier than the ice cream you’d planned on demolishing.

At least you have something better to think about tonight than your test.

With a heavy sigh, you allow your backpack to fall off your shoulder. Now that you’ve arrived back to your dorm, you’re suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever.

The walk home from class had been nice, your time spent thinking about the boy you’d run into. The broadness of his shoulders you didn’t seem to notice until he turned away, stretching wide beneath his tight t-shirt. The bulge of his biceps beneath said t-shirt, flexing as he pulled the door open for himself. The shape of his ass in those snug jeans.

The sight of that is what had your eyes nearly popping from your head. What’s he doing that gives him such a bubblicious ass? Squats? Lunges? You can do those. You choose not to, but if there’s a guarantee that you’d have an ass like that, you’d start right this second.

Tucking your lip into your mouth in concentration, you plant your hands on your hips, making your way to the refrigerator that your ice cream is housed in, lunging your way there.

It’s not that far, the communal space in your shared dorm is small, but your heartrate is elevated by the time you’re two lunges away from your prize: your ice cream.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Mother!” You shout as the voice of your roommate breaks your concentration. Your knees wobble and your thighs shake, unable to hold you up from the burst of exertion you used. You clearly need to get into the gym more, another thing to add to your already busy schedule. “You scared me!”

Mor rolls her chocolate-brown eyes, sliding into one of the stools at your counter. It’s not built for it, the laminate countertop doesn’t hang over the island far enough for your legs to fit, but you and your roommates thought they were cute, nonetheless. You can suffer having to hunch over your knees to reach your cereal bowls in the mornings in favor of having more space for company to sit.

When you haul yourself off the ground, you take in your roommate. She’s wearing some kind of jersey, one you’ve never even seen in her wardrobe before, and you probably spend more time in there than her because she has every item of clothing you could ever imagine. The top she’s wearing now totally clashes with everything that screams Mor: silk scarves, tight bodice tops, leather pants, and what she has on now isn’t even red, a color that’s a staple in her closet.

“Well, if you were paying attention,” she scolds playfully, flipping open the compact in her hand, checking her makeup in the tiny mirror. She makes a few faces that would make you chuckle if you didn’t notice how she looks like she’s ready to go out, and that means she’s going to try to drag you with. “You would’ve heard me walk into the room. I am wearing heels, you know.”

Of course you know. Mor doesn’t do sneakers, only when it’s five in the morning and the sun is still sleeping, the perfect time for working out where nobody will catch her. Maybe I should join her, you think, mind wandering back to that boy’s butt.

“Why are your cheeks all red?” She asks, planting her palms on the counter and leaning towards you, eyes narrowed in inquisition.

“Nothing,” you wave her off, reaching for the door to the freezer. It’s the last thing between you and the cherry chunk ice cream calling your name.

Before you can open it more than an inch, it slams closed, Mor’s sharp, bright red fingernails splayed out to stop you.

Damnit, how does she move so silently?

“What do you think you’re doing?” You question each other at the same time, biting back your smiles at the mistake.

She answers first. “Why do you look like you’re about to get the ice cream, put your pajamas on, and wallow in bed all night?”

“Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” you cross your arms over your chest defiantly. “So, if you’ll excuse me…” You trail off, hoping she’ll step away and leave you to your peace.

She doesn’t. That’s not Mor.

“I had a rough day!”

“You say that every day,” she whines, stomping her heel-clad foot. “Don’t you even want to know what I’m inviting you to tonight?”

“From the look of your clothes, no, I don’t want to know what you’re doing tonight, Mor, and no, I don’t want to join you, either.”

Your roommate scrunches her nose, tipping it towards the ceiling. “I’ll have you know that this outfit is cute.”

“Yeah, if the definition of cute changed to ‘not pleasing or appealing to look at.’”

“You take that back,” Mor shouts, full naming you.

As your lips part in apology, because that was rude of you, your other roommate pads out of her room. Her reading glasses are perched up on her nose, blue eyes round and wide, and it always looks like she’s looking around the room in wonder. She has a blanket thrown over her shoulders and looks every bit of cozy you wish you were.

“Gwyn,” you sigh in relief at the sight of her. “Please, help.”

“I already said no,” she offers you a sympathetic wince. “I don’t think there’s any getting you out of the hockey game, sorry babe.”

Now it’s your jaw that falls to the floor. No, it falls through the floor and about five more floors down, hitting the lobby with a crack that echoes through the building.

You whirl on Mor. “Hockey game? Since when have you been interested in hockey?”

“Since my cousin got named team captain this year,” she says smugly, and you don’t know why she’s acting vain, it just means that he’s captain of the douchebags now, even you know that. Mor turns, showing off the back of her jersey. The number one stands out like a beacon, and you brush her blonde hair over her shoulder to read the smaller patches spelling out what is in fact, her family name.

Cunningham.

“Think of all the parties we’ll get into,” she says over her shoulder, and she does have a point there. The athletes at your college are a group of students that you don’t ever interact with, nor do you care. Mor is all about connections though, and if she wants to go to the hockey game, then it looks like you’re going with her.

You wonder what excuse Gwyn used to get out of it. She looks mighty comfy right now, slinking over the plop down on the couch and turn on a movie.

“Why do we have to go to the game? Can’t we just go to the parties?” You ask, grasping for anything to get out of this. You don’t want to go sit in the cold arena and watch a bunch of guys wearing full-body padding slide up and down the ice. Why couldn’t her cousin have been on the baseball team? They have nice, tight uniforms.

“Because,” Mor emphasizes with a glare, spinning to face you once more to give you the full effect of her irritation. “I’m a good cousin, and if we don’t attend the games, we’re going to be blacklisted from the parties,” she grumbles, the fight leaving her a little bit. “I’ve already argued about it with Rhys, I don’t want to have to argue with you too.”

It’s with your sigh that Mor brightens. “Fine. I’ll come with you, but I’m not going to be happy about it. And don’t expect me to cheer.”

Her squeal pierces the sound barrier. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Mor grabs your hand, dragging you towards the empty single room that’s left in your dorm. She uses it as an extension of her closet until someone else gets placed with you. So far, you’ve been lucky, living here since freshman year, just the three of you. “Great! I got you a shirt!”

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