3. KELLY

Kelly.

“Have you seen this?” Eden, my teammate and close friend, points at his phone before bringing it to my face.

A smug smile lights up my face as I read the front page of the news. My name is boldly printed under a photo of me taken a few days ago. I don’t remember noticing any press that day, but of course, they’re always in the shadows, just as they always are.

KELLY BLACKWELL, STAR FORWARD AND CAPTAIN OF THE DYNAMOS, HUMILIATES ASPEN IN A BRUTAL SHOWDOWN, PROVING ONCE AGAIN THAT THE FROST'S CAPTAIN IS NO MATCH FOR HIS SKILLS.

If there’s one person, other than my dad, who I can’t stand, it’s him. Aspen Jackson. The underdog of the Phoenix Frost. He doesn’t come from money, doesn’t have the best gear. But he has something I don’t—something I envy.

A family that actually gives a damn.

Every game, his mom is there, yelling her lungs out, and his little sister is jumping up and down in the stands, wearing his old, beat-up jersey like it’s some prized possession. They hug him like he’s won the Stanley Cup after every match, no matter the outcome. His dad isn’t always around, but when he is, you can see the pride shining in his eyes.

The only reason anyone even talks about him in the same breath as me is because of his sob story and his so-called grit. Sure, he has a way of making every goal look like some heroic comeback, but I see through the act. On the ice, he isn’t some noble underdog fighting against the odds—he’s just another guy trying to claw his way out of mediocrity.

And failing.

Right below is a picture of Aspen Jackson—where he fucking belongs—smiling like he has the whole world given to him on a platter of gold.

I snatch Eden’s phone from his hand, scrolling through the article with sharp flicks of my finger. The journalist isn’t holding back:

BLACKWELL MAKES ASPEN LOOK LIKE A ROOKIE ON THE ICE—AN EMBARRASSING NIGHT FOR THE FROST CAPTAIN AND HIS TEAM. FROST FANS DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS OVERHYPED MEDIOCRITY.

I can’t help the smirk curling my lips. “Overhyped mediocrity,” I read aloud, letting the words hang in the air. “Now that’s poetry.”

Eden snickers beside me, leaning against the locker. “You know he’s gonna lose it when he sees this. Can’t wait to see him try to spin it in the next press conference.”

I hand the phone back, shaking my head. “Let him spin it. All the PR in the world can’t change the fact that he’s a fraud.”

“Think he’ll come at you for a rematch?”

“He always does,” I say with a shrug. “And he always loses. It’s like clockwork.”

No matter how many times I beat him, Aspen Jackson is always the guy people compare me to. And I hate him for it.

The door to the locker room swings open, and Coach steps in, his sharp gaze sweeping over the team. “Alright, boys, enough gossiping. Get your asses to the ice. We’ve got practice in five.”

Eden groans but grabs his gear, nudging me as he passes. “Guess we’ll save the trash talk for later.”

“Count on it,” I say, smirking as I lace up my skates.

Aspen might get all the breaks in life, but out there, on the ice, it’s my arena. My rules.

I know I poke his ego in every game—and that I deserve the punch I got from him last time, but I can’t resist. A scowling Aspen is too much fun to mess with.

And the next time he steps up to face me, I’ll make damn sure to put him back where he belongs—beneath my skates.

~

I go home that night, completely drained. Coach wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be training our asses off. Even though we dominated the last game, he’s still relentless. Winning the Frozen Four isn’t just a goal for him—it’s his obsession. You can see it in every drill, every shouted instruction. He wants that trophy like it’s the air he breathes.

Dropping onto my bed, I stare at the ceiling for a long moment, my muscles aching with every breath. It’s a satisfying kind of pain, the kind that reminds me I’m working toward something. But not all pain feels this way.

Dad hasn’t shown up since the last time he beat me three days ago. I’m grateful for the silence, but I know better than to think he’s feeling remorseful. He’s a devil in a tailored suit, incapable of anything close to remorse.

I pull out my phone from my pocket and quickly opened my favorite app. It's the only place I can really be myself.

It’s a dating app for gay men, a space where I don’t have to wear the mask I show the rest of the world.

Yeah, you’ve probably guessed it by now. I’m gay.

And nobody knows.

Not my teammates. Not my mom, even though I know she’d support me without hesitation. She’s the kind of woman who’d paint her nails in rainbow colors and march alongside me at Pride if I asked. But I’ve never given her the chance.

Because if Dad finds out? He’ll kill me. Not metaphorically—literally. And even if I survive him, my career won’t. Being a gay hockey player? Let’s just say it’s not exactly the dream headline for the sports world.

So for now, this app is all I have. A secret corner of the world where I can pretend, for just a little while, that being myself doesn’t come with consequences.

I have a message from a guy with the username USER B. He doesn't have a profile so I automatically know he wants to be anonymous. That's fine by me because I prefer being anonymous as well rather than risking getting recognized by either a fan or someone who knows me.

I click on his message and I'm struck speechless by how direct he was. He messaged me because of my post about looking for an online boyfriend who I will pay to chat dirty with and amongst the other applicants, he's the only person I feel a connection with.

I don't even hesitate as I type back, my confidence taking over.

Me: I'm game. Send me a nude picture of your lower body. Let me see what I’m dealing with.

I hit send and wait, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s a bold move, I know, but sometimes boldness is what gets results.

The reply comes quickly.

User B: Fair enough. But don’t think this means you’re in control here.

I smirk, leaning back against the headboard as I type my response.

Me: We’ll see about that. Now, prove you're worth my time.

Moments later, a message pings. Attached is a photo. It’s cropped right at the waist, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.

Toned abs, a faint V-line, and lower... well, let’s just say User B isn’t lacking.

My dick stirs to life as I stare at the screen. He’s confident, and he’s got the body to back it up.

User B: Satisfied? Or are you too scared to match me?

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I start typing again.

Me: Oh, I’m not scared. Just don’t cry when you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

I toss my phone onto the bed for a moment, stripping off my shirt and jeans. If we’re doing this, I’m going to make damn sure I leave an impression.

I prop my phone against the edge of the bed and angle the camera, careful to avoid my face. It takes a few tries to get it just right—showing enough to tease, but not enough to give away too much.

When I’m satisfied, I attach the photo and hit send.

Me: Your move, big guy.

The seconds tick by, and when his next message comes, my smirk turns into a full-blown grin.

User B: Not bad, Cinder. Not bad at all.

And just like that, the deal is sealed. He's hired.

We hash out the details—price, boundaries, and expectations. It doesn’t take long, and we both agree to start our dirty talks tomorrow night.

Anticipation runs through me like an electric current. Tomorrow can't come fast enough.