The Hockey Playing Alpha and His Human Ice Princess

Georgia

His hands did all the things his voice wouldn’t let itself do.

We meet in the library at nine, later than either of us probably should be starting a study session, but between his hockey practice and my ice time and the general chaos of finding a mutual gap in our schedules, nine o’clock on a Thursday is what we land on. The library at that hour is nearly empty, just a few stragglers scattered across the reading room, the overhead lights dimmed to a low, warm glow that makes the whole space feel smaller and quieter than it does during the day.

I choose the table deliberately, tucked into a corner near the window, away from the few other students still working. I tell myself it’s because it’s quieter there. I don’t examine that reasoning too closely.

Puck’s already there when I arrive, books spread out in front of him, a legal pad covered in handwriting so precise it looks almost typed. He glances up when I sit down, something unreadable crossing his face before he settles into the same guarded neutrality he’s worn every time I’ve seen him since the party.

”You’re late,” he murmurs, the words edged with mock accusation.

”Six minutes. I think we’ll survive,” I answer, biting back a smile.

We start slow, working through the short story we finally settled on weeks ago, trading notes back and forth about symbolism and structure. It doesn’t take long before the conversation sharpens the way it always does with him, quick and precise, neither of us willing to concede a point without a fight.

”The water imagery isn’t just about cleansing,” he says, tapping his pen against the page, his tone clipped with certainty. ”Everyone reads it that way because it’s the obvious reading. But look at where it actually shows up in the text. It’s always right before something breaks. It’s not purification. It’s pressure building right before a fracture.”

”That’s a stretch,” I counter, arching a brow.

”Is it?” he asks, finally looking up, something sharp and pleased flickering behind his eyes at the pushback. ”Prove me wrong.”

I try, flipping back through the pages to find the counterexample I know is somewhere in there. He counters that too, dismantling my argument with an effortless precision that should be annoying and instead feels like the best conversation I’ve had in weeks. He’s smart in a way that doesn’t perform itself, doesn’t need an audience, just moves through an idea the way I move through a program, clean and certain and utterly unbothered by the possibility of being wrong.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I catch myself watching his hands instead of listening properly, the way they move when he talks, quick and deliberate, tapping emphasis onto certain words, tracing a line of text like he’s underlining it with his finger instead of a pen. I catch myself watching his mouth too, the way it shapes each argument like he’s already three sentences ahead of what he’s currently saying, already anticipating my rebuttal before I’ve made it.

I look away fast when I notice what I’m doing, heat crawling up the back of my neck. I’m grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it.

”You okay?” he asks, low and probing, like he clocked exactly what just happened even though I’m fairly sure I didn’t make a sound.

”Fine. Just thinking.”

”About the symbolism,” he echoes, wry amusement threading through his voice.

”Sure. The symbolism.” I clear my throat and pull my notebook closer, using it as a shield against the quick, unwelcome flutter in my chest, something that has nothing to do with water imagery or pressure or fractures.

He watches me for a second too long before going back to his notes. I notice, not for the first time, the way his jaw works slightly, like he’s holding something back that wants out. I don’t ask what. I’ve learned by now that asking rarely gets me anywhere with him.

We keep working, the banter sharpening into something that doesn’t feel purely academic anymore, something with an edge to it, a warmth underneath the argument that neither of us acknowledges directly. He leans in to point something out in my notebook, close enough that I catch the scent of him, cedar and cold air.

His pen stops moving.

”Your heart’s racing,” he says, quiet and flat, like he’s noting a fact rather than commenting on something personal.

”How would you even know that?” I breathe.

He doesn’t answer right away. Something shutters closed behind his eyes, some door he almost let swing open and caught himself before it did. ”Lucky guess,” he says finally, the words landing as an obvious lie. I don’t bother calling him on it, too busy trying to figure out how he possibly could have heard something I can barely feel myself.

A minute later, mid-sentence, arguing some point about the ending I still think he’s wrong about, his pen snaps clean in his hand for the second time since we’ve met. Ink bleeds dark across his fingers. He swears under his breath and grabs a tissue from his bag without comment, like this happens often enough that he’s stopped being surprised by it.

I don’t say anything about it this time. I’ve stopped expecting an explanation I’m actually going to get. Instead I file it away where I’ve been keeping everything else lately, another line item in the tally I’ve started building without quite admitting to myself that’s what it is.

We work for another hour after that, finishing our outline for the week, the tension between us settling into something more manageable, easier, though it never fully disappears. By the time I start packing up my books, the library around us has emptied out almost completely, just the two of us and the hum of the overhead lights and the last few minutes of a Thursday night neither of us seems eager to end.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand, and that’s when he says it, quiet and almost involuntary, the words escaping before he’d decided to let them.

”You should probably stay away from me,” he warns, barely above a whisper.

I stop. ”Why?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, want and warning tangled together so tightly in his expression that I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

I wait a beat, then another, giving him the chance to say more. He doesn’t take it.

I leave without another word. The whole walk back to my dorm, through the dark, quiet campus, I can still feel the ghost of his proximity, the way the air changed when he leaned close. I press my palm against my ribs, checking my pulse like I’m gathering evidence I don’t know how to use yet. Somewhere underneath the ache of it, a quieter, steadier part of me is already reaching for the notebook, already composing the entry: *stay away from me* - third warning, still no reason given.