Chapter 122: He’s fit, Coach

Tuesday morning arrived with the sharp, biting scent of fresh ice and the familiar weight of gear back on my shoulders.

​Stepping into the rink for the 8:00 AM practice felt different today. The locker room was already a chaotic mess of clinking skates, loud swearing, and the heavy thud of hockey sticks hitting the rubber mats.

​"Look who decided to join us!" Russo shouted from his stall the second the heavy door swung open, throwing a rolled-up tape ball straight at Reid’s chest.

​Reid caught it with one hand, completely unbothered, a lazy smirk on his lips as he slid onto the bench next to me.

​"Eyes on the ice today, boys," I barked out, trying to sound like the undisputed Captain of the Serpents and completely ignoring the way my thighs still felt slightly weak from yesterday’s counter session. But I could manage. One of the benefits of having great stamina, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t hone my stamina for this reason, haha. "We’ve got a game on Friday, and I don’t want to see anyone slacking."

​"Yes, Cap!" Miller mocked, throwing a salute.

​I looked over at Reid out of the corner of my eye as he reached down to lace up his skates.

His movements were completely fluid. No hesitation, no hitch in his stride. He tested his ankle, rolling the joint firmly against the hard floor before looking up to meet my gaze.

The intense, private warmth in his grey eyes was a silent reminder of exactly how he had spent his weekend making sure he recovered—and exactly whose mark was hidden beneath my high collar.

​"Ready when you are, Cap," he murmured softly.

"Just stay focused this time, McCoy. We don’t want any more accidents." I warned and he grinned.

"I’m right on board."

The ice rink was loud, the familiar, sharp scent of ozone and chilled air biting at my lungs as the guys went through their usual pre-drill stretches.

Despite the locker room banter from earlier, the actual atmosphere on the ice was focused. Everyone was circling Reid like a pack of wolves, checking the alpha.

​"Hey, kid, take a hard turn left. Let me see how the edge holds," Russo grunted, skating backwards in front of Reid while tapping his stick against the ice.

​"I’m fine, Russo. It doesn’t even twinge," Reid sighed, effortlessly digging his blade into the ice and carving a sharp, spray-heavy arc to prove his point.

​Miller skated up next, giving Reid a heavy, testing shove against his shoulder pads to check his balance. "No leaning? No favoring the right side? If you drop on the ice on Friday, I’m not carrying you off, McCoy."

​"You couldn’t lift me if you tried," Reid shot back, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth.

​From across the blue line, I kept my eyes locked entirely on his lower half.

I watched the specific way his left skate met the ice, looking for the microscopic hesitation an athlete shows when they’re protecting an injury.

I watched the flex of his calf, the angle of his knee, the distribution of his weight as he did a quick transition sprint. Nothing. There wasn’t a single sign of discomfort. The kid was entirely back to form.

​Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, a heavy hand clapped down onto my shoulder pad, nearly rattling my helmet.

​"Evans," Coach Devins growled, his breath fogging in the cold air as he looked out over the rink, his clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. "Come here for a second."

​I skated over to the bench with him, my blades shaving a neat line of frost near the boards. "Coach."

​"How’s the kid really doing?" Devins asked, his eyes narrowing as he tracked Reid, who was currently taking a crisp pass from Peter. "Jax gave him the medical clearance, but you lived with the bastard this whole time. Is he actually fit to skate, or is he just giving me the usual rookie bravado?"

​"He’s fit, Coach," I replied, keeping my voice level and professional. "I checked the ankle myself yesterday. The swelling is completely gone, and his mobility is at a hundred percent. He’s not hiding anything."

​Devins let out a rough grunt, rubbing his jaw. "Good. Because the game on Friday is going to be brutal. The Avalanche play a notoriously tough, physical game. They aren’t going to give him any breathing room on the left wing, especially if they think he’s a weak link."

​"I know," I said, a tight knot forming in my stomach. "I’ve already reviewed their gameplay from last month. I even watched the replay of their game against the Stars on Sunday. It was epic—their defensive line plays like a brick wall, and their forecheck is relentless."

​As the words left my mouth, my brain traitorously tripped backward in time.

​Sunday.

​Watching the Avalanche replay on Sunday was supposed to be a standard captain’s duty. Instead, the memory of that day shifted vividly in my mind—recalling the exact way the tension in the penthouse had boiled over, leading to Reid pushing me down, giving me that devastatingly hot blowjob right on the couch... and then the absolute fallout of emotions afterward that had finally cracked my walls and forced the confession out of me. It had been an absolute, chaotic mess.

​"Evans? You with me?" Devins’ sharp voice snapped me right back to the freezing reality of the rink.

​I blinked, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in my throat, desperately hoping the high collar of my jersey hid the sudden flush on my neck. "Yeah. Yes, Coach. I’m with you. We’re ready for them."

"Alright! Let’s get to work!" Devins roared, blowing his whistle so hard the sound echoed off the rafters. "Five-on-five situational drills! First line, you’re on the attack. Don’t give them an inch!"

​The sharp, familiar rush of adrenaline instantly burned away the lingering embarrassment in my head. I skated out to center ice, tapping my stick twice against the frozen surface to lock my focus in.

​Reid slid into position on my left, his large frame settling into a low, aggressive stance. The lazy, teasing boyfriend from the kitchen island was completely gone; the eyes behind his visor were sharp, cold, and entirely lethal.

​The puck dropped, and the drill began.

​Russo came down the right boards like a freight train, attempting to clear a path, but I read the play early, angling my body to force him toward the boards and poking the puck loose. It skittered out into the neutral zone.

​"Cap!" Reid called out, his voice cutting through the scraping of blades and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the plexiglass.

​He was already moving, executing a beautiful, explosive transition. I swept the puck forward, sending a crisp, taped-to-tape pass right into his path.

Reid took it in stride, his left ankle flexing beautifully under the immense pressure as he cut hard toward the inside lane, completely blowing past Peter with a brutal burst of speed.

​He drove toward the net, faking a backhand shot before neatly tucking the puck into the top corner of the net, past the goaltender’s glove.

​"Nice line!" Devins yelled from the bench, jotting something down on his clipboard. "Keep that intensity! Reset and go again!"

​As we skated back toward the blue line, Reid circled past me, his shoulder brushing lightly against mine in the crowd.

He didn’t say a word, but the subtle, reassuring scent of frozen pine cutting through the sweat-heavy air told me everything I needed to know. His leg was solid. We were ready for Friday.