Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Keith Kogane registered when he stepped onto NHL ice that night wasn’t the roar of the crowd or the blinding white of the arena lights. It wasn’t the cameras perched like vultures above the boards or the weight of a new season pressing invisibly against his shoulders. What he noticed ,what he always had no option to notice ,was the cold. Not the physical chill of frozen water beneath steel blades, but the sharp, focused kind of cold that lived inside him, hovering over years of teaching himself to survive by staying silent, controlled, and absolutely unshakable.

The other players talked about nerves before opening night, about jitters in their stomachs, about how the world felt larger than life when they skated out for warmups. Keith never felt that. Instead, he experienced something quieter and infinitely more isolating: a stillness inside his own chest, as if the entire world narrowed to the immediate rhythm of his breath and the ice beneath him. It was clean. Predictable. Comforting. And he clung to it like he always did, because if there was one thing Keith knew how to manage, it was his solitude.

Keith had never been the sort of player who wanted attention. People assumed the opposite mainly because he played with a kind of relentless intensity that made commentators salivate, because he had a reputation for being fiery and unpredictable, because he could change the momentum of a game with one ruthless burst of speed but attention was something he resented more than anything.

He didn’t want people dissecting him, analyzing his interviews, guessing at his emotions, projecting stories onto the blank wall he kept between himself and everyone else. He didn’t want to be known. He didn’t want to be seen. Silence was safer, and being misunderstood was infinitely easier than explaining himself.

So when his teammates laughed and stretched along the boards, chatting about summer training and traded rumors and whatever new drama the league had cooked up, Keith stayed locked inside his own space. Helmet down. Eyes forward. Movements precise. He performed each warmup like a ritual with stretching his quads, rolling his shoulders, skating parallel lines along the boards to test how his blades felt against the ice. He didn’t need to think about it anymore. His body knew what to do.

But that night, something disrupted the rhythm. Not a sound, not a sight…more like a shift in the current of the arena, a subtle change he couldn’t immediately identify. Keith was acutely drawn to the energy around him. He could sense tension before a fight broke out, feel a shift in the air when a teammate lost confidence, recognize when an opponent was about to do something stupid.

Tonight, the shift came from the opposite end of the rink, though he hadn’t yet looked over or realized what was causing it. He felt the change first, like a faint static crawling along the back of his neck.

Then out of nowhere he heard the commentators’ voices echoing slightly through the arena speakers as they prepped for the broadcast. New rookie for the Boston badgers. All eyes watching him. Flashy, charismatic, talented. They’d been talking about him for days. Keith hadn’t tuned in since for him rookies were always hyped up beyond reason, and most fizzled out before their second season. He didn’t want to waste energy on them.

But the noise around the boards kept growing sudden cheers, camera shutters, the kind of excited reactions usually reserved for star veterans or Beyoncé. Finally, unable to ignore the shift any longer, Keith lifted his gaze.

And he saw him.

Lance McClain.

The rookie who had somehow turned half the league’s attention toward him before even playing a real game?! The one with the highlight reels that had gone viral during preseason. The one everyone kept calling “The Star Boston’s been yearning for.” Keith expected someone arrogant. Someone cocky. Someone who existed for the spotlight.

And maybe Lance could be all of those things. What struck Keith first wasn’t Lance’s skill, though that was obvious even in the lazy arcs he carved into the ice during warmups. It wasn’t his speed, though that too was clear from the way he accelerated effortlessly around the corners. No, what Keith noticed against his will was the strange lightness in the way Lance carried himself. There was an openness to him, a kind of warm, effortless confidence that radiated outward like he had never once questioned whether he belonged here.

He smiled easily at teammates, laughed when a fan shouted his name, flicked his hair back from his forehead in a way that somehow didn’t look performative. Everything about him was loose, fluid, bright. Keith hated that brightness not because of anything Lance did, but because of what it stirred in him.

Open, unconcerned people made him uneasy. People who wore their emotions on their sleeves, who didn’t hide behind armor or walls, who seemed to shine regardless of who was watching they were dangerous. They saw things. They reached things Keith refused to let anyone reach. He forced his gaze away.

Shiro ended up noticing anyway. “You’ve been staring for a full minute dude.” He muttered, skating up beside Keith. “Thought you didn’t pay any mind to rookies.”

“w-what? I don’t.” Keith snapped out of it , looking at shiro.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Is that why you’re glaring at him like he insulted your mother?” Shiro said playfully

“I’m not glaring.” Keith muttered

“You are.” Shiro scuffed

Keith huffed out an irritated breath, but he didn’t look over again. He didn’t even need to honestly. Mcclain’s presence was unmistakable now. The arena seemed to bend around him, not because he demanded it, but because he had a way of drawing attention simply by existing.

Keith tried to reset his focus. Tried to fall back into the cold emptiness he always inhabited before a game. But his composure had already been off balance, and that bothered him more than anything Mcclain himself could have done.

Warmups ended. Players cleared the ice. The energy in the arena shifted from anticipation to anticipation sharpened by competition. Keith felt the familiar adrenaline settle into his bloodstream, steady and cold. This was the part he controlled. This was the part where everything made sense.

The puck dropped.

And everything changed.

Well not dramatically…not at first. Lance didn’t crash into him, didn’t try to sneakily trash talk ,didn’t try to make a viral moment out of Keith’s reputation. In fact, Lance barely crossed his path for the first half of the game. They moved around each other like two pieces in a pattern, but both instinctively knew how to navigate. And maybe that’s why, when they finally did collide, it felt strangely significant.

Halfway through the second period, a loose puck skittered toward center ice. Keith reacted instantly, pivoting with practiced precision, tightening his stride to intercept. Lance approached from the opposite angle, equally fast, equally determined, with split-second decision-making.

They reached the puck at the same moment.

Their shoulders brushed , light contact which was barely enough to be called a collision. But the shock of it traveled up Keith’s arm like an unexpected spark. Lance’s breath hitched from the impact, not in pain, but in surprise. And when he looked up at Keith through his visor, something unguarded flickered across his expression.

Not a challenge.

Not hostility.

Curiosity.

 

They separated just as quickly. The play moved on. The moment passed. But as the period dragged on, Keith found himself acutely aware of Lance every time they shared the ice. Lance wasn’t trying to get his attention if anything, he seemed more focused on proving himself to his team, his coaches, the massive expectations placed on his shoulders but every time they crossed paths, Keith felt a faint pull, like gravity tugging at the edges of his awareness.

He tried to ignore it. He failed. It actually ended up getting worse after the game. Normally, Keith stayed on the ice for ten or fifteen minutes alone, cooling down with slow laps, letting the noise of the arena fade into muscle memory. It was the only time he allowed himself to relax, to skate without pressure. Usually no one else lingered this long.

Tonight, someone did.

Mcclain.

Helmet off. Cheeks flushed. Skating quiet, contemplative arcs in the far zone. The brightness he’d shown during warmups had dimmed into something softer. More private. Keith almost didn’t recognize him like this. For a moment, he wondered if anyone else had ever seen this version of him.

He tried not to watch. He tried to focus on his own rhythm. But whenever their paths drifted close, Keith felt the faint pull of someone orbiting too close to his personal gravity. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t acknowledge each other at all. They simply just skated.

Two strangers sharing silence.

Eventually, Lance’s path curved closer, and without fully meaning to, he drifted within speaking distance. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, lacking the showmanship he’d worn earlier.

“You skate like you’re trying to outrun something kogane.” Lance spoke abruptly

Keith stiffened. He didn’t look at him. “You don’t know me.”

“I know well enough.” Lance huffed

Keith didn’t respond, but the comment stuck beneath his skin like a thorn. He wasn’t used to anyone trying to read him so easily or even trying to strike up a conversation with him.

Lance didn’t elaborate. He just glided beside Keith for a moment longer before slowing to a stop. Someone called his name from the tunnel. Lance hesitated, only briefly, then gave Keith a small, almost tentative smirk like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to offer it.

“See you around, Kogane.” Then he was gone, leaving Keith alone again with the cold and the silence.

But the silence had changed.

It wasn’t empty anymore. It felt unsettled, like a pond after someone had thrown a pebble into it. The ripples were small. Keith didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

He didn’t know why a rookie he’d exchanged maybe twelve words with was still lingering in his thoughts. He didn’t want it to mean anything. But deep down beneath all that practiced quite something in him already knew the truth. Lance McClain wasn’t going to stay in the periphery of his mind. He wasn’t the kind of person who stayed anywhere quietly. He would return.

Again and again.

Until the silence Keith relied on cracked open completely.

Something had begun.

Keith didn’t think about Lance for the first twenty-four hours after that game. Or at least, he didn’t mean to. That was usually how things worked for him,a new opponent stirred his focus, he studied what mattered, filed away what didn’t, and moved on. But Lance didn’t file neatly anywhere.

Every time Keith tried to replay the game for real analysis, his brain slipped, detoured, dragged him back to moments that shouldn’t have mattered. The shoulder brush in the corner. The breathless sound Lance made when they collided. The too perceptive line about Keith’s stride. And the worst one the way Lance hesitated before leaving the ice after the game, like he’d been about to say something else, something Keith almost wanted to hear despite having no idea why.

He’d watched dozens of rookies debut. He’d never memorized any of them without trying. It irritated him more than anything he’d felt in months.

But irritation didn’t make the thoughts stop. Not while he was lying in bed that night staring at the ceiling. Not in the morning when he went through drills at an empty practice rink. Not even when Shiro sent him three articles dissecting the matchup and Keith found himself skimming for mentions of Mcclain despite himself.

He didn’t know why he cared.
He didn’t want to care.

But he did.

Two days later, Keith’s coach stopped him in the hallway before practice. “Good work last game kogane.” Coach said. “Especially against that Mcclain.”

Keith frowned. “It wasn’t that big of a matchup.”

Coach raised an eyebrow. “The analysts disagree and apparently so does the league.”
Keith said nothing. He hated when people expected him to respond to praise. It never felt earned.

Coach continued, “Look, you don’t need another distraction but just keep an eye on that kid. His agency is building their offense around him and whether you like it or not you’ll be seeing a lot more of him.”

Keith nodded even though something inside him tightened at the idea. The coach clapped him on the shoulder and left him standing in the hallway, silent and uncomfortably aware of the pressure settling in his chest.

More games which meant more proximity.
More space for… whatever that strange awareness was. He didn’t want more. He already had too much.

Practice was a blur of muscle memory and sweat, the kind of session that burned through thoughts until all that remained was motion. Keith liked days like this when the world shrank to the clean simplicity of ice, speed, acceleration, and breath. He liked the repetition, the effort, the way silence filled the rink even when skates carved loud lines behind him.

But today even that wasn’t enough.

Every drill, every sprint, every breakaway his brain offered flashes of blue eyes, crooked smiles, easy confidence. The contrast annoyed him; he trained like a man trying to outrun something, and Lance played like someone who never needed to run in the first place.

Keith hated that. He hated that he envied it.

After practice, he lingered alone on the ice longer than anyone else like he had always been like this slow to leave, slow to let his body return to stillness. He skated until the cold air stung his skin and his breath fogged in front of him like ghosts of thoughts he couldn’t name.

When he finally stepped off the ice, Holt was waiting for him against the boards, arms crossed.

“Are you good dude?” Matt asked almost like he was hesitant to.

Keith unlaced his skates, staring down. “um..Why?”

Matt didn’t answer immediately. “You’re skating like you’re mad at something , are you?” He asked

Keith shoved his skate into its bag. “I’m not.” “What are you talking about?”

Matt gave him one of those older-brother looks that felt like being seen too clearly. “That rookie finally got under your skin?”

Keith’s jaw tightened at that “No.”

Matt didn’t push, which somehow made it worse. “Okay.” he said softly. “Whatever you say Kogane.” Before heading into the tunnel.

Keith didn’t know, not even close.

The press had decided it would be “fun” to get the Boston Badgers’ golden boy and the Montréal Cardinals’ most explosive forward in a joint promo shoot. Fun right ?

The rink lights were blinding as the photographers set up near center ice, their voices echoing off the boards. Keith tugged his gloves tighter trying to ignore how the cold air prickled across his neck. He skated a warm up circle hoping to shake the weird tightness in his chest. It didn’t help that Lance was already on the other end of the rink, flashing a grin at a reporter like he owned the ice.

“Alright, boys!” one camera guy shouted. “We wanna start with a face off shot. So skate toward each other sort of a slow, dramatic vibe. You know the drill.”

They both pushed off.

Their skates whispered over the ice, cutting thin lines toward center. Keith tried to focus on the way his blades carved, on the way his breath puffed faintly in the cold… anything except the fact that Lance was gliding toward him with absurd confidence, chin tipped up, eyes locked shamelessly on him.

They met in the middle. Stopped barely a foot apart.

“Hold it.” the photographer called. “Beautiful tension! Rival energy! Look right into each other.”

Keith lifted his gaze slowly, reluctantly and found Lance staring at him like this was a game he planned on winning. Their breaths mingled in the cold space between them.

Seconds stretched. Keith felt heat crawl under his collar. Then Lance leaned in just a fraction and murmured, soft enough only Keith could hear “You’re a very pretty boy.”

Keith blinked. His brain stalled. Pretty? What?

“What?” he breathed, more startled than he meant to sound. But Lance only smirked, eyes bright and wicked, like he enjoyed the way Keith’s composure cracked.

“Alright, reset and skate again!” another photographer yelled. “Same thing, but this time give me more intensity! Pretend you wanna fight!”

Keith choked on nothing, breaking out of it.

Lance definitely heard , he bit the inside of his cheek to hide a laugh.

They skated apart Keith trying desperately to cool his face and turned again for take two. When they glided back toward each other this time, Keith felt every inch of it, every second Lance’s eyes tracked him like he was something worth studying.

They stopped in front of one another again, closer this time because the photographer insisted. The photographers finally seemed satisfied, snapping a last burst of shots as Keith and Lance.

two days later

The next time they were called together, Keith honestly thought it was some kind of scheduling mistake. But no both teams had been told to send their star forwards to a joint press conference promoting league unity. Which apparently meant, yet again, pictures together.

When Keith walked into the media room, the first thing he heard was, “Ah, great! You made it. We’re gonna start with a banner shot alright?”

The first thing he saw was Lance already standing near the backdrop, hands in his pockets, wearing that slow, bright grin that said he’d been waiting for Keith to walk in just so he could smile at him like that.

Keith’s stomach tightened.

They were handed a banner, this one reading “UNITED FOR THE GAME!” and told to hold it up for the press. Keith took one end, Lance took the other and just like two days before they had to stand close. Closer than necessary, Keith was sure of it.

The camera flashes started immediately.

Keith stared straight ahead… but after a few seconds, his eyes betrayed him and slid sideways. Lance caught him instantly his grin deepening, his eyebrows raising like, Caught you.

Keith snapped his gaze forward, heart kicking in his chest.

“Perfect! Hold that great shot!” a photographer shouted. “Loving the anger between you two right now!”

Keith felt heat climb his neck.
Lance didn’t look away once.

The cameras clicked rapidly.
Keith’s heart tripped over itself.

The final buzzer sounded, a deafening shriek that echoed through the roaring stadium, signaling not just the end of the game, but the result of an entire season's worth of blood, sweat, and brutal effort. For Keith, the noise was a distant hum, a muffled backdrop to the profound, bone deep exhaustion that settled over him like a weighted blanket.

He stood on the court with his chest heaving, his jersey clinging to him like a second skin, soaked through with sweat and the spilled Gatorade of the victory celebration that had erupted the moment the clock hit zero. His teammates were a chaotic whirlwind of motion around him, a storm of shouts, back slaps, and joyous, tear streaked faces. They hoisted the championship trophy high, its golden surface glinting under the harsh arena lights, a testament to their shared victory.

But Keith felt strangely detached, like he was alone on an island. He had played his heart out, his body ached in a dozen places from the sheer physical toll of the match, and while a part of him was thrilled, a deeper, more primal part of him simply craved silence and his solitude. He needed to wash away the grime, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming sensory input of the crowd and the celebration. He needed the sterile sanctuary of the locker room showers.

With a final, weary nod to his teammates, he turned and began the long trek off the court, his footsteps heavy on the concrete. The noises of the celebration faded behind him as he pushed through the heavy doors into the tunnel, the air growing cooler and quieter with each step. The locker room was a familiar landscape of metal lockers, wooden benches, and the faint scent of sweat. It was mostly empty now, the majority of the team still out basking in the adoration of the crowd. This was exactly what Keith wanted.

He moved with slow grace, his muscles protesting with every movement. He reached his locker, the metal cool against his fingertips as he spun the combination dial. The lock clicked open and he pulled the door wide, the small space revealing his neatly folded street clothes and a worn towel. He methodically began to strip, peeling off the layers of his uniform with a practiced efficiency. His skates were untied and kicked into the corner which were followed by his soaked socks. His jersey then came off next and he let it drop to the bench with a soft thud.

Finally, he shucked off his shorts and his jockstrap standing completely naked in the cool, quiet air of the empty locker room. He felt a slight shiver, not from cold, but from the sudden vulnerability of being bare, his body a canvas of bruises and strained muscles, a map of the game he had just survived.

Grabbing his towel and a small bottle of shampoo, Keith walked towards the shower room, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor. The air grew warmer, thick with the humid steam that already filled the large, communal space. The shower room was a long, rectangular room with a row of simple, metal showerheads along one wall, each separated by a very low tile divider that offered a bit of privacy but was largely for show.

The sound of the water was constant , Keith chose a showerhead in the middle of the row. He hung his towel on a nearby hook and stepped under the spray. The water seeped into his sore muscles, cooling the tension from his shoulders and the ache from his joints. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the powerful stream pound against his scalp and cascade down his face and chest.

For a long moment, he just stood there , letting the heat and the water work their magic. This was one of his private rituals, the one place where he could truly just think and just be. He squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his palm, the sharp, clean scent cutting through the humid air. He began to lather his hair, his fingers working vigorously through his thick, dark locks.

He was so completely lost in the sensation , in the simple act of washing him self up that he didn't hear the soft sound of the shower room door opening, nor the faint patter of bare feet on the wet tile. The noise of the water was too all consuming, a wall of sound that blocked out everything else . Which included the presence of another person entering his sacred space.

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair, the suds streaming down his back and legs. He reached for his body wash, lathering his hands and beginning to scrub his torso, his movements thorough. He worked his way over his chest, his arms, and his stomach, the soap gliding over his skin. It was only as he was rinsing the last of the suds from his body, his eyes still squeezed shut against the stinging spray, that he became aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

The sound of the water seemed different almost louder as if another stream had joined his own. He dismissed it thinking it was one of his own teammates. He finished rinsing, the water running clean over his skin, and finally, slowly, he opened his eyes. The steam was obscuring his vision but as it cleared he saw a silhouette, tall and lean, framed by the water. Keith’s heart gave a sudden lurch in his chest, a shock of adrenaline cutting through his post-game fatigue.

He blinked, his eyes trying to focus through the steam and then the steam parted for a moment and he saw him. It was Lance.

Lance standing in the next shower over, not even 5 feet away. Completely naked, his head tilted back, his eyes closed as he let the water wash over him. He was impossibly close, the low tile divider doing little to create any real sense of distance. Keith could see the water droplets clinging to Lance’s tanned skin, tracing paths down his defined chest, over his toned abdomen, and along the long, lean lines of his legs.

Why was Lance here? Why now, in this specific shower, when the entire room was empty? He opened his mouth to say something, to ask, to break the unnerving silence, but no words came out. He just stood there, frozen, his eyes locked on the unexpected sight beside him.

Lance must have felt his gaze, because he slowly lowered his head, his eyes opening and meeting Keith’s across the small divide. There was no surprise on Lance’s face, no awkwardness or embarrassment. Instead, his expression was one of unnerving calm, a knowing, almost predatory look that sent a shiver down Keith’s spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

He held Keith’s gaze for a long, charged moment, the air between them crackling with an unspoken tension that was thicker than the steam. Then, slowly, deliberately, Lance’s lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn't a friendly smile, or a congratulatory one. It was something else entirely, something private and loaded with intent.

Keith watched, mesmerized as Lance slowly raised his right hand. He brought it to his own chest, his fingers splaying out over his pecs muscle. Keith’s breath hitched in his throat, his mind struggling to process what was happening. He could only stare, his body glued to the spot, as Lance began to trail his hand down his own torso. His fingers moved with a slow grace, tracing the lines of his abs, the movement languid and deliberate. It was a visual statement that was both intimate and shockingly bold.

Keith felt a flush of heat creep up his neck, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and a strange fascination. He was flustered, completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure shattered by the sheer audacity of Lance’s actions. He wanted to look away to give them both some sort of privacy, but he couldn't. His eyes were glued to the path of Lance’s hand, watching as it journeyed lower past his navel, heading towards the most private part of himself.

He felt a dizzying sense of unreality, as if he had stepped into a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, where the rules of normal social interaction had been suspended.

The silence in the shower room was absolute, broken only by the hiss of the water and the frantic, pounding beat of Keith’s own heart in his ears. They didn't exchange a single word. There was no need for words, not in this strange charged atmosphere.Keith felt like a statue with his body immobile and his breath caught in his chest as he watched Lance’s hand continue its slow journey downward.

It was a performance, a silent, seductive dance played out and Keith was helpless to look away. He could see the muscles in Lance’s forearm tense and release with the movement, the water glistening on his skin like liquid diamonds. The air between them felt electric, thick with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Keith’s mind was a blank slate, wiped clean of all thought except for the overwhelming, sensory reality of the man beside him. He was aware of everything.The heat of the water on his own skin, the steam clinging to his eyelashes, the scent of soap and clean male sweat, and the sight of Lance’s hand finally reaching its destination.

Lance’s fingers wrapped around his own cock, his touch confident and familiar and he began to stroke himself with a slow, deliberate rhythm that was in no way hurried. It wasn't a frantic act of release but a languid almost casual display of self pleasure as if he were merely scratching an itch. Keith’s face burned with a blush so deep he was sure it must be visible even through the steam.

He felt a dizzying rush of blood to his own groin, a treacherous involuntary response to the intimate spectacle he was witnessing. He was horrified, ashamed, and yet, undeniably captivated. He had never seen Lance like this, so raw, so completely in control of the moment and of Keith’s reaction to it. It was a side of him that was both alien and intoxicating.

Lance’s eyes never left Keith’s, his gaze a steady,burning anchor that held him in place. There was a challenge in that look, a silent dare to acknowledge what was happening, to break the spell of silence, to do something other than just stand there and gape like a fish out of water. But Keith couldn't.

He was paralyzed, a prisoner of his own confusion and the overwhelming, forbidden thrill of the moment. He watched as Lance’s breathing grew slightly heavier, his chest rising and falling with a more pronounced rhythm, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaping his lips.

The sound sent a jolt straight through Keith’s body. A vibration that resonated deep in his bones. He felt like he was intruding on something deeply personal, a private moment. He felt a strange sense of shame not for watching but for his own body’s reaction, for the undeniable proof of his own arousal that was now standing at attention under the warm spray.

He felt exposed, vulnerable and utterly out of his depth, his usual stoic composure shattered into a million pieces by the audacity of the man standing next to him. The world had shrunk to the size of this small steam filled shower stall and nothing else mattered but the two of them and the silent electrifying action they were engaged in.

Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Lance’s movements stilled, his hand releasing its grip. He gave himself one final almost perfect rinse under the spray, washing away the last traces of soap and sweat. He turned off his shower, the sudden sound leaving a ringing silence that was far more deafening than the noise had been. Keith watched with his heart still hammering against his ribs, as Lance turned to face him fully.

Water dripped from his hair and ran down his chest, his skin flushed and glowing from the heat. He took a step towards the low divider, his movements fluid and graceful and for a heart stopping moment, Keith thought he was going to say something to finally break the silence that had enveloped them. But he didn't.

Instead, a slow knowing smirk spread across Lance’s lips. It was a smirk that was full of secrets,of unspoken promises and private jokes, a smirk that said, "I know exactly what I just did to you, and I know you liked it." It was a look of pure confidence, a declaration of victory in a game Keith hadn't even known they were playing. The smirk was a final devastating blow to Keith’s composure, a silent acknowledgment of the power he had just gave up.

He held Keith’s gaze for one last, lingering moment, his eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper, something that looked like satisfaction. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible wink, a gesture that was both playful and patronizing, Lance turned away.

He grabbed his towel from the hook, wrapped it loosely around his waist and walked out of the shower room without a backward glance which left Keith alone under the spray, his mind reeling and his body aching with a confusion and desire he had never known. The silence that followed was heavy and absolute and Keith was left standing there, staring at the empty shower stall next to him, wondering what in the world had just happened.

Chapter Text

The air in the arena was thick with the kind of electric anticipation that only a rivalry game could produce. For The Montréal cardinals and The Boston badgers, this wasn't just another Tuesday night…it was a grudge match a battle for supremacy that had been simmering since last season's brutal playoffs. The ice was a pristine battlefield.The boards were the fortress walls, and the players were soldiers.

Keith Kogane felt that energy thrumming under his skin, a familiar vibration. He sat on the bench, his gloved hands resting on his knees, his focus narrowed to the sharp, clean lines of the face off circle in the neutral zone. His job was to be the wall, the force that broke the opposition's charge. He was good at it, perhaps the best in the league, he told himself because he didn't let the noise in. He didn't let the taunts from the bench or the jeers from the stands penetrate his concentration.

Almost never.

Across the ice, a figure in blue and silver moved with grace. Lance Mcclain. The badger's star, their golden boy. He hated Lance's effortless charisma, the way he could command the attention of thousands with a single wink, the way his plays were often more art than sport, all impossible angles. Keith's game was grounded, brutal and efficient. They were polar opposites, and the energy between them was one of a kind.

The game was a harsh back and forth affair. The score was tied 2-2 with less than five minutes left in the third period. The ice was chewed up, a mess of skate marks and shavings. Keith had just finished blocking a shot that had left his whole arm ringing like a struck bell. He sat, sucking in the air through his mouthguard, his eyes scanning the ice, his mind already replaying the last sequence looking for weaknesses, for patterns.

That's when Lance skated by the cardinals bench. It wasn't out of place since players did it all the time, a quick glance or a muttered taunt. But this was different. Lance wasn't looking at the whole bench. His eyes found Keith's and held them. There was no smirk, no arrogant challenge. Just a look, intense and unreadable. As he glided past, his head turned, his lips barely moving. The words were a ghost of sound, a puff of air meant for only Keith.

"The Inn. Room 714."

Keith's breath hitched. His entire system short-circuited. He didn't move, didn't blink. The words echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of his own head. “ The Inn. Room 714.” It was a hotel. It was a room number. It was an invitation.

A scoff cut through his shock. "Such an asshole."

Keith turned his head slowly. Matt Holt, the cardinals alternate captain and Keith's usual defensive partner, was shaking his head, his gaze following Lance as he joined his team’s huddle for a timeout.

"The nerve of that guy.” Matt muttered, more to himself than to Keith. "Thinks he can just say whatever he wants. Doesn't even care that we can hear him."

Keith couldn't find his voice. He just stared at Matt, his mind a blank slate of static. Asshole. Yeah, that was the word. It was the perfect word for Mcclain. He was a flashy showboater who lived for the spotlight. So why did the word feel so wrong in this context? Why did the memory of Lance's voice, low and private, feel less like an insult and more like a secret being shared?

"You agree, right?" Matt prodded, nudging Keith's shoulder pad with his glove. "He's a world class asshole."

Keith managed a stiff nod. "Yeah.” he rasped, the word feeling foreign in his throat. "I agree."

But he didn't. Not really. He was dazed. The world felt tilted off its axis. The roar of the crowd, the sharp blast of the referee's whistle, the familiar scrape of skates on ice it all faded into a dull hum. All he could hear was the whisper, all he could see was the intense focused look in Lance's eyes. What did it mean?

Was it a joke? A new, cruel form of psychological warfare? “Hey, Kogane, come to my hotel room so I can jump you and break your legs before the next game?” It was something Lance would do.

But it didn't feel like that. The look hadn't been malicious. It had been… searching. It triggered a memory, a moment from months ago buried. The bathroom incident, or that’s what he called it…

Now, that memory surged to the forefront, vivid and sharp. He had been trying to understand that certain accident for so long convincing himself It hadn't been nothing.

The timeout ended. The game resumed. Keith was sent back over the boards with his body moving on muscle memory. He was going through the motions. He delivered a check, he cleared the crease, he took a slapshot that went wide. His heart clearly wasn't in it. His mind was ten blocks away, in a hotel room with a number on the door.

The final buzzer sounded, ending the game in a 3-2 overtime loss for the Cardinals. A devastating, soul-crushing defeat. Keith should have been furious, throwing his glove, smashing his stick against the boards. He should have been replaying the turnover that led to the winning goal, hating himself, hating his teammates. But all he felt was a profound, hollow emptiness.

He skated off the ice, his movements mechanical, his gaze fixed on the tunnel. He didn't even look at the badgers celebrating at center ice. He didn't look at Lance.

The locker room was like a morgue with the air thick ,with the smell of sweat and disappointment. No one dared to speak. The coach came in, gave a short, clipped speech about effort and execution, and left. Keith moved through his post game routine like a robot.

He peeled off his sweat soaked gear, his movements slow and deliberate. He took a scorching hot shower, trying to wash away the game, the loss and the whisper. It was no use. The words were branded into his skin.

Back in his street clothes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he walked out of the arena and into the cold night. The team bus was waiting, but he waved it off. He told the equipment manager he was fine, that he'd get a cab. He just needed a minute. He needed to not be surrounded by the heavy weight of his team's failure.

He stood on the sidewalk, the city's lights blurring in front of him. His own hotel, a sleek, modern place was just a few blocks away. But The Inn… he knew which one it was. It was the older, more grand hotel just down the street. He could see its sign from here. A ten-minute walk. Ten minutes to make a decision that could either be the biggest mistake of his life or… whatever else. He didn't know what. He couldn't let himself think about what else it could be.

He started walking, his boots crunching on the dirty snow piled at the edge of the sidewalk. The wind whipped at his face, cold and sharp, but he barely felt it. His mind was a battlefield of its own. One part of him, the rational, disciplined defenseman, was screaming at him. “This is a trap. It's a setup. He's messing with you. Go back to your room, watch the game tape AND go to bed and forget this ever happened.” This was the voice he listened to 99% of the time. It was the voice that had made him the successful hockey player he is today.

But there was another voice, a quieter, more insidious one that had been growing louder since the bathroom incident.

“What if it's not? What if he meant it? What if that look in his eye was real?” This voice was dangerous. It was the voice of impulse, of curiosity, of a loneliness so profound just to see what would happen.

He reached his own hotel, the glass doors sliding open with a whoosh of warm air. The lobby was bright and sterile. He walked past the front desk, his feet carrying him toward the elevators without conscious thoughts. He walked up to his floor, the soft chime of the arriving car a stark contrast to the turning in his chest.

His room was just like every other hotel room he'd ever stayed in. A king sized bed, desk with a complimentary notepad, a window overlooking the city. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor with a heavy thud. It was the sound of his decision, already made, landing with finality.

He stood in the middle of the room, just breathing. He was still in his street clothes, a worn band t shirt and dark jeans. He could feel the lingering chill in his bones. He looked at his reflection in the dark window. He looked Tense. A man on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid.

He contemplated calling it off. He could take a shower , order room service and pretend this whole night had been a fever dream brought on by exhaustion and a devastating loss. He could try to be smart.

But the memory of Lance's eyes wouldn't leave him. The way they had stripped away all the animosity, and left something raw and exposed underneath. Keith had to know. He had to know if it was real.

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the key card on the desk. He didn't need it anymore. He was either coming back to this room to pack his bags in the morning, or he wasn't coming back at all.

The ten minute walk to The Inn was the longest of his life. Every step was a war between his head and his gut. The city’s neon signs blurred into streaks of color. The sounds of traffic and distant sirens faded into a silent roar. He was operating on instinct that overrode all logic and self preservation.

The Inn was an old building with all marble floors and gilded accents. It smelled of expensive perfume. Keith felt out of place in his worn jeans and t-shirt. He ignored the concierge desk and walked straight to the elevators, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The elevator ride was suffocating. He watched the numbers light up: 3… 4… 5… 6… 7. The doors slid open with a gentle ding.

The hallway was carpeted in a deep burgundy with the walls papered in gold. It was quiet, the kind of hushed reverence that belonged in a library or a church, not a place where people apparently whispered invitations to their sworn enemies. He found room 714 halfway down the hall. The numbers were brass and polished. He raised his hand to knock, his knuckles hovering just above the wood.

This was it. The point of no return.

He knocked. Three sharp knocks. The sound being too loud in the silence.

He waited. Five seconds. Ten. A wave of crushing disappointment washed over him. It was a joke. Of course it was a joke. Lance was probably back in his own room, laughing with his teammates about the gullible, stone faced Kogane who actually fell for it. Keith felt a hot flush of shame. He turned to leave, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

The click of the lock was the only warning he had. The door swung open.

There he was. Lance McClain. Not in his flashy gear, but in a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a simple black t-shirt that was worn with his hair damp, messy and without the usual product that held it in perfect place. He looked… normal. Real.

The confident, arrogant mask was gone, and in its place was something Keith had never seen before. A flicker of uncertainty in those blue eyes. They just stood there for a moment, the space between them. Keith could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He could see the rapid pulse beating in Lance's throat.

"Kogane.” Lance said, his voice low, a little rough. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. Bringing him back to the fact that he was actually here.

Keith's throat was dry. He swallowed, trying to find his voice. He had rehearsed this in his head a dozen times on the walk over. He was going to be cool, detached. He was going to demand an explanation. "Do you want to talk about something in particular?" he asked, his voice coming out steadier than he expected.

He immediately thought of the bathroom, the way Lance had looked at him then, a question hanging in the air between them that had never been answered. Lance didn't answer with words. He stepped aside, a silent invitation and as Keith walked past him into the room, Lance moved with him. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

Before Keith could fully register his surroundings, he felt a firm but gentle pressure on his chest. Lance softly pushed him back, his movements quiet and deliberate, until Keith's back hit the wall next to the door.

The impact was jarring, but not painful. It was grounding. Keith's breath caught in his throat. He was trapped. Lance's hands came to rest on his waist, his fingers splaying over the thin fabric of Keith's t-shirt, the heat of his palm searing through the cotton. He leaned in with his body a line of warmth against Keith's side, his face inches away.

"Ehm, no.” Lance breathed, the words a soft puff of air against Keith's cheek. He wasn't talking about the game. He wasn't talking about hockey. He was answering Keith's question from moments before, and the bathroom from months ago. He didn't want to talk.

He leaned in closer, his gaze dropping from Keith's eyes to his lips. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken tension. Keith could feel the tremor in Lance's hands, a betraying sign of his own nerves. It was that small vulnerability that broke through Keith's defenses. This wasn't a game. This wasn't a trap. This was ACTUALLY real.

"This is such a bad idea.” Keith whispered, the words a final, desperate plea to the rational part of his brain that was screaming at him to run. It was a bad idea. It was the worst idea he'd ever had. They were rivals. They were from opposite worlds. This could ruin literally everything.

"Maybe.” Lance murmured, his eyes lifting back to Keith's. There was no arrogance in his expression now, only a deep, unwavering focus , and then he closed the remaining distance.

The kiss was soft, impossibly soft. It was a question. A gentle press of lips against lips, hesitant and searching. Keith was stunned. His entire body went rigid, his mind blanking out completely. This was Lance McClain. Lance McClain was kissing him. The thought was so absurd, that for a second he was sure he was hallucinating.

But the warmth was real. The pressure was real. The faint, clean scent of Lance's soap was real.

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, something inside Keith gave way. All the tension, all the confusion, all the repressed curiosity and longing he hadn't even dared to admit to himself, came rushing to the surface. He closed his eyes and kissed back.

It was like a dam breaking. The softness of the initial kiss dissolved into something deeper, more urgent. Keith tilted his head, his lips parting slightly, and Lance met him halfway. The kiss shifted, deepened. It was no longer a question but a conversation, a dialogue of need and discovery.

Lance's hands, which had been resting on his waist, began to move. They roamed up his back, tracing the line of his spine, then back down to his hips, grabbing and rubbing in a slow, possessive rhythm that sent shivers through Keith's entire body. He'd never been touched like this, with a kind of desperation that made him feel both powerful and cherished.

They were making out. Slowly, deeply with their tongues exploring, their breath mingling in the quiet room. The wall at Keith's back was the only thing holding him up. His hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to clutch at Lance's shoulders, his fingers digging into the firm muscle of his arms. He was pulling him closer, needing more of the heat, more of the contact, more of this impossible intoxicating reality.

Lance broke the kiss first pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Keith's. They were both breathing heavily, their chests heaving. Keith's lips felt swollen and sensitive, his whole body thrumming with a new kind of energy. He opened his eyes and found Lance staring at him, his pupils blown wide, a dark, hungry blue.

"Kogane.”Lance breathed again, his voice thick with desire. He brought one hand up to cup Keith's jaw, his thumb stroking the skin just below his ear. "Get on your knees."

The words were spoken softly, but they landed with the force of a command. It wasn't an order but a request, a need. In that moment, Keith understood. This wasn't about power or dominance. This was about surrender. Lance was asking him to surrender, and in doing so, was offering his own.

Every rational fiber of Keith's being, the part of him that had been honed by years of discipline and self reliance, screamed at him to refuse. To push Lance away, to sneer, to reclaim the upper hand. But the rest of him, the part that had been starved for this exact kind of connection, the part that had been secretly watching Lance, hating him and wanting him in equal measure, won.

He sank to his knees.

The plush carpet of the hotel room was a soft cushion beneath him. He was looking up at Lance, who was looking down at him with an expression that was a mixture of awe, disbelief and lust. The power dynamic had shifted, but it didn't feel like Keith had lost. It felt like he had gained something he never knew he was missing.

His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, rose to the waistband of Lance's sweatpants. The fabric was soft, worn thin with use. His fingers brushed against the warm skin of Lance's lower stomach, and he felt a sharp intake of breath from above. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic band and slowly, deliberately, pulled them down.

Lance wasn't wearing anything underneath.

wow.

As the sweatpants pooled around his ankles, Keith's breath caught in his throat. He was… surprisingly huge. The thought was a primal, almost involuntary reaction. It was intimidating and thrilling all at once. He had seen Lance in various states of undress in locker room interviews of course, but this was different. This was private. This was for him.

He looked up, his gaze meeting Lance's, seeking permission, seeking reassurance. Lance's hand came to rest on the top of his head, his fingers tangling gently in Keith's dark hair. The touch was a silent encouragement.

Keith leaned forward. He took Lance into his mouth, the initial contact sending a jolt through both of them. He started off slowly, his movements exploring. He used his tongue, tracing the sensitive head, tasting the salt of his skin. He could feel Lance's hand tighten in his hair, a silent guide. He took him deeper, establishing a rhythm, his movements becoming a bit quicker, more confident. He was lost in the sensation, the weight of him on his tongue, the quiet, ragged breaths coming from the man standing over him.

Just as he found a steady pace, Lance's hand suddenly tightened, and he rapidly brought Keith back up, pulling him off with a sharp, gasping inhale.

Keith froze, a cold wave of panic washing over him. He looked up, his eyes wide with alarm. "Was that bad?" he asked, his voice small, laced with a sudden, crushing insecurity. Had he done it wrong? Had he misread everything? Was this the moment the joke was revealed?

Lance was looking down at him, his chest heaving, his face flushed. He shook his head, his expression one of disbelief. "No.” he panted, his voice hoarse.“Too good."

Relief washed over Keith so intensely it almost made him dizzy. A slow smile spread across his face, and he let out a quiet, breathy laugh, a huff of air that was part amusement, pure joy. He felt powerful. He felt desired. He felt like he had just won a much more important game than the one he'd lost a few hours ago.

Lance gave a small smile back, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his whole face, making him look years younger and impossibly more handsome. He reached down, hooking his hands under Keith's arms, and pulled him to his feet. The movement was effortless, a display of strength that sent another thrill through Keith.

Once he was standing, Lance didn't let go. He kept his hands on Keith's waist, guiding him backward, away from the wall and toward the king sized bed in the room. The back of Keith's legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he sat down heavily. Lance followed him down, kneeling on the bed in front of him, his body crowding Keith's space.

He leaned in, capturing Keith's lips in another deep, searing kiss. This one was different from the first. It wasn't hesitant or questioning. It was a kiss of possession, of claiming. As their tongues tangled, one of Lance's hands slid down Keith's body, past his hip, to the front of his jeans. Keith gasped into Lance's mouth as he felt the pressure of Lance's palm against his groin, the heat of his hand a stark contrast to the denim that separated them.

Lance began to rub him, a slow rhythm that was designed to tease and torture . He grounded his own hips against Keith's thigh, a deliberate friction that mirrored the movement of his hand. They were making out again, but it was rougher this time, more urgent. Keith's hands were everywhere, roaming over Lance's back, his shoulders, his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the thin t-shirt. He was arching into Lance's touch, his body begging for more, for a release that was already building to an unbearable pressure.

The room was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing, the soft rustle of clothes, the wet slide of their kisses. The city outside, the game, the rivalry which they claimed was real ..had all ceased to exist. There was only this room, this bed, this moment. There was only the two of them, finally giving in to the current that had been pulling them together for months.

Lance broke the kiss, his lips trailing down Keith's jaw, to his neck, where he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving a path of fire in his wake. Keith's head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as Lance's hand worked him with a renewed, expert intensity. This was a bad idea, a terrible, life-altering idea.

And it was the best thing Keith had ever done.

The friction was a delicious slow burning fire that threatened to consume them both. Keith was lost in a haze of sensation. The demanding pressure of Lance's lips on his, the clever, insistent rub of his hand against the denim of his jeans, the solid weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. Every nerve was a live wire of pure need. He could feel the coil of heat tightening in his groin, an insistent, demanding pulse that grew stronger with every pass of Lance's palm.

"Mcclain.” he gasped, his voice breaking on the name. It was a plea, a warning all in one.

Lance seemed to understand. He pulled back just enough to look at him, his blue eyes dark and wild with the same hunger that was clawing at Keith's insides. With a swift, confident movement, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Keith's jeans and boxers, pulling them down in one fluid motion. The cool air of the room hit Keith's overheated skin, and he shivered, but the chill was quickly forgotten as Lance's body covered his again, skin to skin this time. The sensation was overwhelming, a full-body contact that sent a jolt of electricity straight through him.

Lance's mouth found his again, swallowing the groan that tore from Keith's throat as he took them both in his hand. The grip was firm, sure, and the rhythm he set was immediately intoxicating. He stroked them together, his movements slick and perfect, his hips rolling in a rhythm that drove Keith mad. Keith's hands flew to Lance's back, his nails digging into the firm muscle, holding on for dear life as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him.

He was no longer in control. His body was a vessel for sensation, moving instinctively against Lance, chasing the release that was just out of reach. The kiss became messy, desperate, their breaths mingling in ragged pants. The world narrowed to the heat building to an unbearable space. Lance's other hand came up to tangle in Keith's hair again, holding him in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking, claiming.

And then it happened. The coil snapped. A blinding, white-hot pleasure ripped through Keith, starting in his groin and radiating outwards until his entire body convulsed. He cried out against Lance's mouth, his back arching off the bed as he spilled over Lance's hand and his own stomach. It was intense, overwhelming, a release so powerful it left him trembling and breathless.

Lance groaned into the kiss, his movements becoming erratic as Keith's orgasm triggered his own. He thrusted into his fist once, twice, and then he was coming too, a hot, wet pulse across Keith's skin. He collapsed onto him, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of Keith's neck.

They laid there for a long time, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests, the only sound in the room their combined, ragged breathing slowly evening out. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, an intimate perfume. Keith could feel the frantic beat of Lance's heart against his ribs, a steady drumming that slowly began to match his own.

Lance was the first to move, rolling off him with a soft groan. He flopped onto his back beside him, one arm thrown over his eyes. Keith laid still, staring up at the ceiling, his body feeling heavy, sated, and strangely empty all at once. The post orgasmic haze began to clear, and with it came the cold, hard light of reality.

He had just had sex with Lance McClain.

He slowly sat up, the sticky mess on his stomach a glaring, physical reminder of what they had just done. He looked around the room. His clothes were in a heap by the door. Lance's sweatpants were pooled on the floor. It looked like the scene of a crime. A crime against common sense.

"I should go.” Keith said, the words coming out in a quiet, hesitant stutter. He wasn't sure if he was saying it to Lance or to himself.

Lance didn't move his arm from his eyes. "Alright."

The single word was a splash of ice water on Keith's post sex warmth. It was so casual, so dismissive. He had expected… something. A protest, a question, an invitation to stay. Anything but the flat, easy acceptance. He felt a knot of disappointment tighten in his chest. Of course. This was Lance McClain, the peoples ultimate playboy. This was what he did. He got what he wanted and that was that.

Keith swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, his limbs feeling stiff and uncoordinated. He walked over to the pile of his clothes, his movements slow and deliberate. He was hoping, praying, that Lance would say something. That he'd sit up, that he'd ask Keith not to go, that he'd offer some kind of explanation for the night's events.

But he didn't. The silence in the room was heavy and absolute. Keith picked up his jeans, shaking them out. He could feel Lance's eyes on him now, a physical weight on his back, but still, he said nothing.

Keith pulled on his boxers, then his jeans, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He reached for his t-shirt, his fingers fumbling with the hem. This was it. He was going to walk out of this room and this would be nothing more than a humiliating, one-time mistake. His heart sinking with every step he took toward the door.

His hand was on the doorknob when he felt it. A presence behind him. A warmth that radiated through his clothes, a shift in the air that made the hairs on his arms stand up. He froze.

He turned slowly. And there he was. Lance was standing right behind him, in all his naked glory. He was leaning one arm braced above Keith's head, effectively caging him in. He was smirking, a slow, confident curve of his lips, and he let out a soft huff of a laugh, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through Keith's bones.

Keith's heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He looked from Lance's smirking face down his body, the lean lines of muscle, the soft, happy trail of hair that led down to his… Keith's cheeks burned, and he forced his gaze back up to Lance's face.

"…what…?" he managed to stammer, completely thrown.

Lance's smirk softened into a genuine smile. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers gently tilting Keith's chin up. "Give me your number.” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "So we can chat."

The words were so unexpected, so completely contrary to the scenario Keith had been constructing in his head, that he could only stare, his mouth slightly agape. “Chat?”He wanted to chat? After all that, after the silent, cold dismissal, this was what he was going with?

But looking into Lance's eyes, he saw it again. That same searching, uncertain look from the rink, from the bathroom. It was buried under layers of newfound confidence and post-sex swagger, but it was there. He wasn't just playing a game. He was asking for a sequel.

Keith found himself nodding, his head moving on its own accord. "Okay…yeah."

Lance's smile widened. He let go of Keith's chin and stepped back, giving him space. Keith fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking slightly as he unlocked the screen. He held it out, and Lance took it, his long fingers brushing against Keith's. He typed in his number, saved it under a simple 'Laura.” and handed the phone back.

Keith looked down at the new contact, at the name on his screen. It felt surreal, like a token from a dream he wasn't sure he'd actually had. He was still staring at it, his mind trying to catch up, when he felt a soft, quick press against his lips.

He looked up. Lance had leaned in and given him a peck, a light, almost chaste kiss that was in stark contrast to the raw, passionate ones they had shared minutes before. It was sweet. And it was infuriating.

Keith gave him a look, a confused, questioning, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look that he hoped conveyed at least a fraction of his inner turmoil.

Lance just grinned again, a knowing, infuriatingly charming smirk that made Keith's stomach flip.

With nothing left to say or do, Keith finally turned, unlocked the door, and walked out. He didn't look back. He walked down the burgundy carpeted hallway, his footsteps silent, his mind a chaotic storm.

He rode the elevator down, walked through the gilded lobby, and stepped out into the cold night. But this time, the cold didn't bother him. He was too busy thinking about that smile, the peck, the phone number in his pocket.

He was left standing on the sidewalk, the city lights blurring around him, wondering what in the world he had just gotten himself into.