The bus to Northgate left at 4:15 PM.

Declan was one of the first ones on, because that's who he was—early, prepared, predictable. He took his usual seat three rows from the back, window side, and pulled out his headphones before anyone could try to talk to him.

The team filtered in slowly. Micky dropped into the seat beside him without asking, which was fine. Expected. Micky always sat with him on game days.

"You ready?" Micky asked, shoving his bag under the seat.

"Yeah."

"You don't sound ready."

"I'm ready."

Micky gave him a look but didn't push. That was one of the good things about Micky—he knew when to back off. Sometimes.

The bus filled up around them. Felix and Gael arguing about something in the back. Jarvis with his headphones already on, eyes closed. Owen making some joke that had the rookies laughing too loud.

And then Mateusz.

Declan didn't mean to look. He just—did.

Mateusz climbed onto the bus with his bag slung over one shoulder, wearing a dark hoodie with the hood down and that chain glinting at his throat. His hair was messy, like he hadn't bothered to fix it after his last class. He looked tired. Sharp. Beautiful in a way that made Declan's chest do something complicated.

Stop.

Mateusz walked down the aisle without looking at him. Passed right by Declan's row like he wasn't even there.

Which was fine. That was fine.

Mateusz sat four rows back, on the opposite side of the bus. Declan heard him say something to Jarvis—low, casual—and then the rustle of him settling in.

Declan put his headphones on and stared out the window.

The drive to Northgate was two hours.

Two hours of highway and bare trees and the grey November sky pressing down like a weight. Declan had a playlist for game days—something his sports psych had helped him build, all instrumental stuff designed to keep him focused without amping him up too much.

It wasn't working.

He kept thinking about French class. About the rink the next morning. About Mateusz's voice cracking when he said silence isn't neutral.

About the way Mateusz had looked at him like he was exactly what he'd expected.

Disappointed.

Declan shifted in his seat. Micky was asleep beside him, head tipped back, mouth slightly open. The bus was quieter now—most of the guys dozing or zoned out with their own music.

Without really meaning to, Declan turned his head.

Just enough to see.

Mateusz was four rows back, window seat. He had his phone in his hand, but he wasn't looking at it. He was staring out the window, jaw tight, that tension in his shoulders that Declan was starting to recognize.

As if he felt Declan looking, Mateusz's eyes flicked up.

They caught.

Held.

Declan's heart kicked against his ribs.

Mateusz's expression didn't change. He just looked at Declan—steady, unreadable—and then turned back to the window.

Dismissed.

Declan faced forward again, his pulse too fast.

Fuck.

They got to Northgate at 6:30.

The arena was bigger than Easthill's—newer, shinier, with banners hanging from the rafters and a scoreboard that probably cost more than Declan's car. Northgate had money. They liked to remind everyone of it.

The locker room was quiet as they got dressed. Pre-game focus settling over the team like a blanket. Coach Kincaid went over the game plan one more time—tight defensive structure, quick transitions, don't take stupid penalties.

"They're going to try to get in your heads," Kincaid said, pacing in front of them. "That's what they do. Cross especially. He's a talker. Don't engage. Just play."

Declan nodded along with everyone else.

But when Kincaid read out the lines, his stomach dropped.

"First line: Dawson at center. Kowalczyk on the right wing. Linwood on the left."

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Declan glanced across the room. Mateusz was lacing his skates, head down, and if he'd heard, he didn't react.

That was almost worse.

Warm-ups were fine.

Declan went through the motions—stretches, skating drills, a few shots on Kieran to get loose. He tried not to watch Mateusz, but it was impossible. Mateusz moved like the ice was an extension of his body, all fluid power and sharp edges. Every shot he took found the net. Every stride looked effortless.

Focus.

Declan took a breath and skated to center ice.

The Northgate players were on the other end, doing their own warm-ups. Declan spotted Eden Cross immediately—tall, broad-shouldered, with that arrogant tilt to his chin that said he knew exactly how good he was. He was a defenseman, which meant Declan would be going up against him all night.

Cross caught him looking and grinned. Not friendly. Predatory.

Great.

The horn sounded. Warm-ups over.

Time to play.

The first period was brutal.

Northgate came out hard, physical, exactly like Coach had warned. They finished every check, clogged the neutral zone, and Cross—

Cross was everywhere.

He hit Linwood into the boards thirty seconds in. Took the puck off Declan's stick twice with that annoying poke check he was known for. And every time Declan skated past him, Cross had something to say.

"Nice try, Dawson."

"Too slow."

"Thought you were supposed to be good."

Declan ignored it. That's what you did with guys like Cross. You didn't engage. You just played.

But then, midway through the period, Cross shifted targets.

Declan was on the bench for a line change when it happened. Mateusz had the puck in the corner, battling for position, and Cross came in hard—legal, but heavy. Mateusz went down, and Cross stood over him, saying something.

Declan couldn't hear it. The arena was too loud.

But he saw Mateusz's face.

Saw the way his jaw went tight. The way his eyes flashed.

Whatever Cross had said, it had landed.

Mateusz got up slowly. Cross skated away, still grinning.

The play moved on.

But Declan couldn't stop seeing it: Mateusz's expression, just for a second, before he locked it down.

What did he say?

The second period, they scored.

It was a beautiful play—Felix jumping up into the rush, Declan finding him with a stretch pass, Felix dishing to Mateusz in the slot. One-timer. Top corner. The goalie didn't even move.

The bench erupted. Guys banging their sticks, shouting.

Declan was already on his feet when Mateusz skated to the boards, and for a second—just a second—their eyes met.

Mateusz didn't smile. But something in his expression shifted. Something that looked almost like there. That's what we can do.

Declan's chest went tight.

Then the moment passed, and they were lining up for the next faceoff.

It kept happening.

Every time Declan had the puck, he knew where Mateusz was. Not because he was looking—he wasn't, he was reading the ice like he'd been taught—but because he could feel it. This awareness that sat under his skin, constant and humming.

When he sent a pass into the slot, Mateusz was there.

When he cycled low, Mateusz cut to the net.

When he needed an outlet, Mateusz was already calling for it—stick on the ice, open, ready.

It was like they'd been playing together for years instead of weeks.

It was terrifying.

Midway through the second, they connected on a two-on-one that left the Northgate defense scrambling. Declan carried the puck over the blue line, drew the defender, and slid a pass across to Mateusz at the last second. Mateusz didn't hesitate—one touch, roof it, goal.

2-0.

In the celly, Mateusz grabbed Declan's jersey, pulled him in. Their helmets knocked together, and Mateusz's mouth was right by his ear, and Declan heard—

"Tak trzymaj."

He had no idea what it meant. But the sound of it—low, rough, Polish—made something twist in his stomach.

Then Mateusz let go, and they were skating back to the bench, and Declan couldn't breathe.

Third period. Northgate pushed back.

They scored twice in four minutes, tying it up. The arena was deafening, all those Ironclad fans screaming for blood. Declan could feel the momentum shifting, that sickening tilt when a game starts to slip away.

Coach called a timeout.

"Calm down," Kincaid said, voice sharp. "We're playing their game. Stop chasing. Trust the system."

Declan nodded. Tried to focus.

But he was tired, and Cross was still talking, and every time he looked at Mateusz, he felt that pull—that stupid, inexplicable pull that he didn't know what to do with.

They went back out.

Faceoff in the neutral zone. Declan won it, sent it back to Felix. Felix moved it up the boards, and Declan curled into the offensive zone, looking for space.

That's when he heard it.

Cross had Mateusz pinned against the boards, fighting for the puck. They were both digging, both battling, and Cross was saying something—low, meant only for Mateusz.

Declan was close enough this time. Close enough to catch the words.

"—can't even speak fucking English, and you think you belong here?"

Declan's vision went white.

He didn't think. Didn't plan. Just—moved.

He came in hard, not quite a hit but not gentle either. Shoved Cross off Mateusz with his shoulder, putting himself between them.

"Back off," he heard himself say.

Cross stumbled, surprised. Then his grin came back, wider now. "What, Dawson? You his fucking bodyguard now?"

"I said back off."

The whistle blew. Declan wasn't sure why—maybe the ref had seen something, maybe the puck had gone out of play. It didn't matter.

Cross leaned in, close enough that only Declan could hear. "Cute. Didn't know you liked charity cases."

Declan's hands tightened on his stick.

He wanted to hit him. Wanted to drop his gloves and make Cross regret every word that had come out of his mouth.

But the ref was skating over, and the linesmen were watching, and if Declan did something now, he'd get a penalty. Maybe a game misconduct. And they were tied, with ten minutes left, and—

He skated away.

They won 3-2.

Mateusz scored the game-winner with four minutes left—a wrist shot from the circle that beat the goalie glove side. The bench exploded. Everyone piled onto the ice.

In the chaos, Declan found himself next to Mateusz.

Their eyes met.

Mateusz's expression was unreadable. But he gave Declan a small nod—barely there, almost imagined.

I saw what you did.

Declan nodded back.

It wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't enough.

But it was something.

The bus ride home was quiet.

Winning should have made everyone louder, but it was late—almost eleven by the time they pulled out of the Northgate parking lot—and the adrenaline had faded into exhaustion. Most of the guys were asleep within the first half hour.

Declan couldn't sleep.

He sat in his usual seat, headphones on but no music playing, and stared at the dark highway sliding past.

He kept replaying it. Cross's voice. Can't even speak fucking English. The look on Mateusz's face.

And his own reaction—that surge of something hot and protective that had moved his body before his brain caught up.

He'd done something.

Finally.

It was small. Too small, probably. But he'd done something.

So why did he still feel like shit?

Because Cross was right, a small voice whispered. You're his bodyguard now? Like Declan had only stepped in because—

Because what?

Because he felt guilty? Because he wanted Mateusz to stop looking at him like that? Because—

Because he couldn't stand the thought of anyone else hurting him?

Declan closed his eyes.

He didn't know what this was. Didn't know what to call it.

But he knew it was getting harder to ignore.

When the bus finally pulled into Easthill at 1 AM, everyone shuffled off in a daze. Declan grabbed his bag and followed the crowd, his body moving on autopilot.

"Dawson."

He stopped.

Mateusz was standing by the bus door, bag over his shoulder, looking at him. The parking lot lights cast weird shadows across his face, making his expression hard to read.

"What you did," Mateusz said quietly. "Against Cross."

Declan waited.

"It was—" Mateusz stopped. Seemed to struggle with something. Then, softer: "Dziękuję."

Declan didn't know the word, but he understood it anyway.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

They stood there for a second. The air between them felt charged, heavy with something neither of them was saying.

Then Mateusz walked away.

Declan watched him go—the line of his shoulders, the way his chain caught the light—and felt something shift in his chest.

Something that felt a lot like the beginning of something he wasn't ready for.