The ice doesn’t lie.
It doesn’t care about your family’s money, the students watching and cheering from the heated boxes, or the quiet, suffocating ache rotting in your chest.
On the ice, there are only two things that matter: the freezing bite of the arena air, and the boy wearing number nineteen.
“Sterling!
Watch the blue line!”
Marcus’s voice boomed over the roar of the packed BullDogs University crowd, but Keegan didn’t need the warning.
He was already moving.
At six-foot-two and built like a brick wall, Keegan Sterling lived for the physical, dirty work of the game.
He threw his weight forward, slamming an opposing forward hard into the plexiglass.
The impact rattled his teeth, the smell of damp leather and frozen sweat filling his visor, but he barely registered the pain.
His eyes were already scanning the ice, searching.
Always searching for him.
The clock on the Jumbotron was ticking down in the third period.
The Bulldogs were down by one.
It was the high-stakes opening game of the season at Clifton Heights University (CHU), and the pressure in the arena was thick enough to choke on.
A loose puck rattled off the boards.
Keegan lunged, shielding it with his broad frame as a rival defenseman bore down on him like a freight train.
Keegan was pinned.
He had split-seconds to make a play before he got leveled.
To anyone else, it was a dead-end.
But Keegan didn’t need to look.
He didn’t need to check his shoulder.
He knew the exact rhythm of Ashton’s skating stride better than his own heartbeat.
They had shared a crib before they could walk, shared birthdays, and shared the ice since they were ten years old.
With a hard, blind flick of his wrist, Keegan executed a perfect backhand pass into the seemingly empty space of the neutral zone.
It looked like a giveaway.
The crowd GASPED.
Then, a streak of gold-and-black jersey cut through the ice like lightning.
Ashton Montgomery.
Ashton caught the puck perfectly on the tape of his stick without breaking his stride.
He was pure, effortless grace—fast, agile, and terrifyingly talented.
With a single, arrogant dip of his shoulder, Ashton deked the rival goalie out of his skin and flipped the puck into the top shelf of the net.
The red light exploded.
The siren wailed.
The arena went absolutely feral.
Ashton didn’t celebrate with the team.
He didn’t wait for the bench to mob him.
He spun on his skates, his golden-boy smile radiant under his helmet, and headed straight back to the defensive zone.
He threw himself into Keegan, slamming their chest protectors together with enough force to knock the wind out of them.
Ashton’s gloved hands locked onto the back of Keegan’s jersey, pulling him close until their visors clashed.
“I knew you’d put it right there!” Ashton laughed, his breath hot and ragged against Keegan’s face.
“Perfect fucking pass, Keegs!”
“You almost missed it, princess,” Keegan teased, his voice husky as he wrapped his massive arms around Ashton’s waist, lifting the boy slightly off the ice.
It was just their usual post-goal celebration.
To the cheering fans, the teammates patting them on the back, and the cameras flashing from the sidelines, it was just the Bulldogs” star duo being inseparable Best Friends.
But as Keegan held Ashton close, feeling the rapid, frantic beat of Ashton’s heart against his own chest, a quiet, devastating truth settled heavy in his ribs.
I am so hopelessly in love with you, and it is going to kill me.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Ten minutes later, the locker room was a chaotic sanctuary of shouting boys, spraying water bottles, and the heavy thud of gear hitting the floor.
The Bulldogs had walked away with a massive opening-night win, and the energy was electric.
“Absolute clinic out there, boys!” Coach Thorne yelled, his clipboard smacking against his leg as he paced the room.
“But don’t get comfortable.
Tomorrow we review the tape, and I want to see that transition game even tighter.
Sterling, Montgomery—great game like always.
Keep it up.”
“Always do, Coach,” Ashton chimed in, flashing a bright, charismatic grin.
As the coach walked out, the room dissolved back into loud chatter.
Keegan slumped onto the wooden bench, peeling off his heavy, sweat-soaked shoulder pads.
Tucked safely in the corner of his locker, protected from the damp gear, was his black portfolio bag and a container of charcoal pencils.
As a Fine Arts major, his fingers were usually stained with graphite or paint when they weren’t taped up for a game.
On the bench next to him, Ashton’s locker was the exact opposite.
A thick textbook on Corporate Finance and Business Management lay face down on top of his duffel bag.
Ashton was being groomed to take over his family’s investment firm, a high-society fate he accepted with a quiet, bitter resentment.
“God, I hate corporate law,” Ashton muttered, kicking his skates off and glaring at his business textbook like it had personally insulted him.
He reached over Keegan’s shoulder, completely unbothered by personal space, and snatched Keegan’s sports drink, taking a deep gulp.
“Hey, get your own,” Keegan grumbled, though there was zero heat in it.
“Yours tastes better,” Ashton teased, winking.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression softening as he looked at Keegan.
“Anyways my Mom wants us to come over for dinner tonight.
She said you could bring Aunty, too.
She wants to celebrate the win.”
Keegan paused, his fingers tightening around the roll of shin-pad tape he was holding.
He looked at Ashton’s hopeful eyes, then glanced at his own locker, where his art history study guide was peeking out of his bag.
“I can’t tonight, Ash,” Keegan said softly.
Ashton’s smile faltered, a flash of genuine disappointment crossing his face before turning into a pout.
“What do you mean you can’t?
It’s opening night.
We always celebrate together.”
“I have a massive Art History exam tomorrow morning,” Keegan explained, pulling his wet jersey over his head.
“If I fail, my GPA drops, and Thorne benches me.
Unlike you, I don’t have a family endowment to keep me on the team.
I actually have to study.”
Ashton scowled, leaning in closer, his voice dropping so the other guys wouldn’t hear.
“The art exam?
Come on, Keegs.
You can draw circles around anyone in that department in your sleep.
Just skip studying.
I’ll tell my mom to make that pasta you like.
Aunty can finally take a night off from her shift.”
“Ash, I really can’t,” Keegan insisted, his voice gentle but firm.
“It’s memorizing three centuries of classical architecture and theory.
I’m already behind on my studio hours because of double practices.
I have to pull an all-nighter.”
Ashton crossed his arms, looking thoroughly annoyed at not getting his way.
He was used to Keegan always saying yes, always being his solid, unshakeable anchor whenever he called.
The fact that Keegan was prioritizing a pile of textbooks over him made a strange irritation flare up in his chest.
“Fine,” Ashton muttered, turning his back to grab his towel.
“Be a nerd.
See if I pass to you next game.”
“You’ll pass to me because you like winning,” Keegan said with a small, knowing smile, though his heart squeezed painfully at how easily Ashton could get upset over something so small.
Before Ashton could reply, a sharp, repetitive chiming shattered the quiet tension between them.
Ashton’s phone was vibrating on the bench.
The screen lit up, showing a photo of a stunning, perfectly polished girl with a flawless, practiced smile.
The caller ID read: Chloe
Instantly, the irritation drained from Ashton’s face, replaced by his cheeky smile.
The vulnerable boy who hated business school and wanted to have dinner with his BestFriend disappeared.
In his place stood the perfect, high-society Montgomery heir.
“I have to take this,” Ashton muttered.The irritation that had clouded his face just a second ago instantly evaporated.
In its place, a genuine, cheeky smile slid onto his lips—the kind of look he only wore when he was genuinely happy.
Ashton liked Chloe genuinely.
She was sweet, gorgeous, and fit perfectly into the wealthy, uncomplicated future he wanted for himself.
He liked being her boyfriend.
He liked the normalcy of it.
Which only made the intertwined Friendship with Keegan a hundred Times better.
“Hey, babe,” Ashton said, his voice softening into an easy, affectionate tone as he swiped the screen.
“Yeah, we just walked off the ice.
Absolute blowout.
No, I’m just throwing my clothes on…”
Keegan sat in frozen silence, his chest tightening as he watched Ashton pace near the lockers.
Looking past Ashton’s shoulder, Keegan watched the way his best friend smiled at his phone, completely wrapped up in Chloe’s voice.
Ashton was gesturing with his free hand, laughing at something she said, totally ignoring the rest of the room.
The sight was a physical ache.
Needing to escape the suffocating air of the locker room, Keegan grabbed his towel and headed straight for the showers.
He let the hot water pelt his shoulders, trying to wash away the scent of the ice, the sweat of the game, and the bitter taste of
reality.
When he got back to his locker, Ashton was still on the phone, leaning against the wall with a soft look on his face.
Keegan didn’t say a word.
He dressed quickly, sliding his Fine Arts portfolio bag over his shoulder and tucking his charcoal pencils safely inside.
He didn’t want to wait around for Ashton to hang up and ask him one more time to come to dinner.
He couldn’t handle seeing the contrast between Ashton the best friend and Ashton the boyfriend tonight.
Slipping his bag over his shoulder, Keegan quietly walked out of the locker room, leaving the noise of the celebrating team behind.
The corridor outside the locker room was much cooler, smelling of floor wax, concession popcorn, and the faint scent of Shaved ice.
The main crowd had already cleared out, but a few students still lingered in the hallways.
“Hey!
Blue-line!”
Keegan paused, turning to see Kira Smith walking toward him.
She was still in her black-and-gold Bulldogs cheer uniform, her megaphones and gold pom-poms packed into a sports bag slung over her shoulder.
Her high ponytail braids bounced as she walked, but the moment she got closer, her sharp eyes locked onto his face.
Kira was highly perceptive, and she had known Keegan long enough to read his shifts in mood.
She stopped right in front of him, blocking his path with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s with the face, Sterling?” she asked, leaning against the concrete wall.
“You guys just won a massive opening game.
Aren’t you going to celebrate with Mr.
Golden Boy?”
Keegan let out a heavy sigh, shifting his bag on his shoulder.
“I can’t tonight, Kira.
I have a massive Art History exam tomorrow morning.
I need to get back home and actually—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a massive, heavy-hitting body slammed into Keegan from behind.
“WOO!
WOO!
WHO ARE THE BULLDOGS?!”
A thick, muscular arm hooked tightly around Keegan’s neck, and a massive, calloused hand began vigorously ruffling his damp hair.
“We are!
We are!
We are the Bulldogs!” Jace van der Merwe roared, barking the team’s victory chant right into Keegan’s ear.
Jace—Keegan’s defensive partner and his other closest friend— was still half-dressed in his hockey under-gear, his chest protector gone but his athletic tape still wrapped around his wrists.
He was a towering, broad enforcer on the ice, but off it, he was a chaotic ball of pure, unfiltered energy.
“Get off me, you giant idiot,” Keegan grumbled, though a reluctant smile finally broke through his mood as he tried to elbow Jace out of his space.
“No way, Keegs!
We just shut down the best offense in the league!” Jace laughed, releasing Keegan but keeping a heavy arm slung over his shoulder, grinning down at Kira.
“Tell him, Kira.
He played like a god tonight.
That blind backhand pass?
Absolute gold!”
“It was pretty good,” Kira admitted, a fond smile breaking through her mock-serious expression.
She looked between the two giant defensemen, her eyes lingering on Keegan’s tired frame.
“But seriously, Keegs.
You’re really skipping the after-party?
Ash is going to be insufferable if you aren’t there to inflate his ego.”
“He has Chloe for that tonight,” Keegan said, keeping his voice carefully neutral as he adjusted his bag.
“And I really do have to study.
Jace, make sure the Marcus doesn’t drink the entire cooler before the bus tomorrow.”
“No promises!” Jace yelled, barking like a literal bulldog as he patted Keegan’s shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth.
“Go draw your little pictures, nerd!
Me and the boys will hold down the fort!”
Keegan just shook his head, a genuine laugh huffing out of him as he watched Jace jog back toward the locker room, still howling like a maniac and Kira going to her own dorm room out of campus.
But the moment Keegan stepped outside the arena doors, the brutal Johannesburg rain hit him like a physical blow.
It was pouring—a relentless, freezing downpour that turned the Johannesburg tarmac into slick, treacherous mirrors.
While the other players headed toward their cars or the campus dorms, Keegan walked to the far end of the parking lot where his motorbike was parked.
He pulled his heavy, water-resistant riding jacket over his shoulders, secured his helmet, and kicked the bike to life.
The engine rumbled to a
throat-clearing roar, vibrating through his bones as he pulled out of the university gates.
The drive home was grueling.
It was a full, suffocating hour on the wet highway, navigating the blinding spray of passing semi-trucks with his visor constantly fogging up.
The freezing wind cut through his thick gloves, stiffening his fingers around the handlebars.
Every minute of the ride was a harsh reminder of the vast gap between his world and Ashton’s; while Ashton drove a fast, luxury car with a heated leather interior, Keegan had to fight the elements just to get back to his side of town.
By the time he finally pulled into the gravel driveway of his home—a modest, cozy house tucked away in a quiet suburb—his bones ached with fatigue.
He parked the bike under the small carport and killed the engine.
The house was completely dark.
Keegan sighed, remembering his mom, Brenda Sterling, was pulling a grueling double shift at the hospital tonight.
There would be no warm dinner or comforting chatter waiting for him.
He was entirely alone.
Unlocking the front door, the quiet warmth of the house immediately wrapped around him, smelling faintly of spices and clean laundry.
A heavy, round orange shadow detached itself from the living room sofa and trotted over with zero urgency.
Meow.
“Hey, Puck,” Keegan murmured, scooping up the aggressively fat orange tabby and letting the cat’s dry, rumbling purr soothe his frayed nerves.
Keegan peeled off his damp riding gear, leaving his wet shoes by the door, and changed into a dry, oversized gray hoodie and sweatpants.
Needing to force his mind off Ashton, he retreated to his bedroom, propped his classical architecture textbook open on his desk, and lit a small desk lamp.
Outside his ground-floor window, the storm lashed violently against the glass, the rain drumming a frantic, chaotic rhythm.
He tried to study, but his fingers, stained dark with graphite nod, weren’t drawing arches.
Instead, they were tracing a faint, mindless line across the margin of his paper—the sharp, sweeping curve of a jawline.
The exact angle of Ashton’s neck when he threw his head back to laugh.
“Fuck”
Keegan cursed softly, throwing the pencil down as he threw his head back, Suddenly a sharp, rhythmic TAP-TAP-TAP tattled against the glass of his bedroom window.
Keegan froze.
He turned his head slowly.
Pressing against the outside of his ground-floor pane, illuminated only by the flashes of lightning, was a pale, dripping face.
Ashton.
Keegan scrambled out of his chair, throwing the window latch open and sliding the pane upward.
A gust of freezing, rain-soaked wind swept into the room, scattering his sketch papers across the floor.
“What the hell—” Keegan started, but his voice cut off as he helped haul Ashton over the sill.