Keaton lingered on the ice after Grayson disappeared down the tunnel. The kid’s stride had been stiff, shoulders bunched like he was carrying the weight of the entire franchise on his back. Keaton exhaled a sharp breath that fogged in the cold air.
Are you fucking kidding me?
He dragged a gloved hand down his face, then started skating toward the bench. Of all the possible fuck-ups in his life, this one took the cake. The eager, wide-eyed gym guy who’d looked so good on his knees was now one of his players. Sully. Grayson Sullivan. His new project whether he liked it or not.
The kid had been wound so tight during that last drill he’d nearly fallen over his own edges. Panic rolled off him in waves. Keaton had seen it before when rookies were convinced one wrong move meant their career was toast. This was worse. This was “I sucked off the captain and now I’m dead” panic.
Keaton shook his head once, hard, and pushed through the tunnel door. No point dwelling. He had a locker room full of animals to wrangle.
The room hit him with noise the second he stepped in. Loud voices and the wet slap of towels. The usual post-practice chaos smelled like liniment, wet gear, and twenty guys who’d just worked their asses off. Keaton dropped his stick in the rack and started peeling off his pads, moving easily through the swarm.
“Cap, you see Jenkins on that last rush? Looked like a fucking toddler chasing the puck,” Millsy called out, shirt already off, thick chest still heaving.
Keaton snorted, yanking his shoulder pads off. “Yeah, I saw. Kid moves like he’s got cinder blocks on his skates.” He tossed the pads into his stall and rolled his neck, feeling the familiar pop. A couple of the younger guys nearby straightened up just from the sound of his voice. Good.
Jenkins flipped him off from across the room, buck naked and not giving a single fuck. “Only if you’re buying the beer after, old man.”
“Old man? I’m thirty-four, not dead. Unlike your plus-minus last season.” Across the room, Harris was trying to tape his own ankle and failing miserably. Keaton wandered over and crouched down. “Give me that before you fuck it up worse, princess.”
Harris handed over the tape with a grin. “Didn’t know captains did maid service now.”
“Only when my defensemen skate like they’ve got two left feet.” Keaton wrapped the ankle tight and efficient, years of practice making it automatic. “There. Try not to trip over it during the next battle drill.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
“Don’t thank me. Just win some fucking puck battles tomorrow.” Keaton stood and clapped him on the back, then moved on.
All the while, his brain kept circling back to Sullivan. The kid had been a mess out there. His eyes were constantly darting, hands too tight on his stick, reacting to every whistle like it was a death sentence. Keaton had seen rookies freak out before. This was different. This was guilt and fear and the very real belief that his career was already circling the drain.
It almost annoyed him. Like Keaton would torch a promising forward over one anonymous truck hookup. Please.
He stripped the rest of the way down, comfortable in his skin like everyone else in the room, and headed for the showers. Hot water pounded his shoulders while more voices echoed off the tiles.
“Cap, you gonna ride the new forward’s ass all season or what?” someone asked.
Keaton laughed, letting the hot water pound his back. “Only if he earns it. Kid’s got wheels. Needs to learn when to use ’em.” His mind flashed to Sullivan again—those same wheels looking shaky as fuck today. The kid had talent. Raw, coachable talent. But right now he was a live wire waiting to short-circuit.
Laughter bounced back. Someone flicked a wet towel at him. He dodged it easily and fired back with a middle finger. This was the part he loved, being in the middle of it, keeping the energy high, making sure everyone left the room tighter than when they walked in. Captain wasn’t just a letter on his jersey. It was this. Reading the room. Pushing when they needed pushing. Giving them shit so they didn’t take themselves too seriously.
By the time he toweled off and pulled on his sweats, most of the guys were heading out for lunch. Keaton hung back a minute, talking to one of the assistant coaches about afternoon drill adjustments. Then he made his way to the video room, set up the laptop, and queued up some tape from last season. He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, and waited.
The door opened eight minutes later. Grayson stepped in, hair still damp, team sweats sitting low on his hips, looking like a man walking to his own execution. Shoulders locked. Jaw tight. Eyes everywhere except directly at Keaton.
“Sit,” Keaton said, keeping his tone flat captain.
Grayson sat. Hands on his thighs. Knee already starting to bounce.
Keaton hit play on the first clip. “Watch this. Third period against Colorado last year. Watch how we collapsed in the middle. See the gap?”
He let the silence stretch. The video played. Grayson nodded at the right moments, but his eyes kept darting to Keaton like he was waiting for the hammer. It was almost funny. Almost.
Keaton let another clip run. Then another. Five full minutes of pure hockey talk—systems, reads, where the kid needed to be stronger on the forecheck. Grayson answered when asked, voice steady enough on the surface. But Keaton saw it. The way the rookie’s knee bounced under the table. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The kid was spiraling hard.
“Alright. You’ve been sitting there like I’m about to trade you to Siberia. Let’s clear the air.”
Grayson finally met his eyes. Tense. Waiting.
“Nobody knows,” Keaton said, calm and flat. “Nobody’s going to know. What happened stays between us. Am I clear?”
The kid nodded once. Sharp.
“Good. Because I don’t make a habit of fucking my own players. And I sure as shit don’t need the distraction.” Keaton rubbed a hand over his jaw, letting a smirk tug at his mouth. “But if you keep playing like you’re waiting for me to bench you for breathing, you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm before we even play a real game.” Keaton smirked, letting some of the tension bleed into humor. “And I’d hate to lose a guy with your wheels just because you can’t stop thinking about my dick.”
Grayson’s face went red. He looked down at the table.
Keaton chuckled low. “Relax, Sully. I’m fucking with you. Mostly. You’ve got talent. You’re coachable. You listen. That’s rare. But right now you’re in your own head so deep you can’t see the ice. That ends today.”
“I didn’t know,” Grayson said quietly. First real words he’d pushed out. “Who you were.”
“Neither did I.” Keaton shrugged. “Gym. Truck. That’s all it was. Life’s a bitch like that.”
He let another moment of silence sit and watched the kid process it. Sullivan still looked like he might bolt, but some of the rigid panic had eased out of his shoulders. Good. Kid needed to breathe if he was going to survive this season.
“Here’s how this works,” Keaton continued, voice steady. “On the ice, I’m your captain. I ride you when you need riding. I praise you when you earn it. Same as any other guy in that room. Off the ice? We keep it clean. Right now we’re teammates. That’s the part that matters. Everything else stays where it is.”
Grayson’s ears went pink. Keaton bit back another laugh. Kid was easy to read once you knew what to look for.
“But I’m not here to make your life hell,” Keaton added, softer. “You’re a rookie on a new team in a new city. That’s enough pressure. I’ve got your back as captain. That part’s real. You need extra ice time, you ask. You’re struggling with the system, we fix it. Clear?”
“Clear,” Grayson said. His voice came out rough. He looked up, meeting Keaton’s eyes for the first time without flinching. There it was, that same spark from the gym, the one that had made Keaton push harder in the truck. The kid wanted direction. Needed it. Keaton could see why it had worked so well that night.
Keaton nodded once. “Good. Now get out of here and eat something before afternoon sessions. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Grayson stood, hesitated like he wanted to say more, then headed for the door.
“Sully.”
The kid turned.
Keaton gave him the smallest grin. “You did good today. Despite the brain melt. Keep the feet moving tomorrow.”
Grayson nodded, something like relief flickering across his face, and left.
Keaton stayed in the room after the door closed. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the blank screen. The kid was going to be a handful. Talented, eager to please, and currently a walking ball of guilt and confusion. Keaton could handle that. He’d handled worse in this league.
What he wasn’t sure he could handle was the way his own brain kept flashing back to the truck. The way Sullivan had looked up at him—open, desperate, perfect. The quiet “yes” that had come so easily when Keaton told him what to do. Fuck.
Keaton cursed under his breath and stood up. He headed down the hall toward the cafeteria, nodding at staff, slapping a trainer on the shoulder when he passed. Normal shit. Captain shit.
Not because of the secret. He could lock that down.
It was because every time he looked at Grayson Sullivan now, he remembered exactly how good it had felt to take him apart. And how much he wanted to do it again.
Keaton shoved the thought down hard, grabbed a plate in the cafeteria, and dropped into a seat with the vets. Millsy was already mid-story about last summer’s fishing trip gone wrong. Keaton laughed in the right places, threw in a jab about Millsy’s inability to catch anything but colds, and let the noise of his team surround him.
He’d handle this.
Even if the rookie with the earnest eyes and the perfect mouth was going to make it a hell of a lot harder than it needed to be.
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