Neutral Zone - bxb

Emotions

William Harrington - March 2nd

The bus rolled to a stop in front of the Yale rink, half an hour early, just the way Coach liked it.

I didn't mind. The quiet before the chaos always felt sacred — like a moment where you could still pretend things were normal.

The only sound was the crunch of our skates and gear bags hitting the pavement. The air smelled like winter and caffeine.

Inside, the rink lights were already on, the ice glowing like glass under the spotlights. But we weren't the first ones here.

A group of figure skaters were finishing up their session — bright, glittering, graceful. Sequins and ponytails, music still echoing through the speakers.

The contrast between them and us was kind of funny.

They floated.

We crashed.

Coach told us to hit the locker room, so we did.

Ethan changed two stalls down from me, quiet as usual.

He never said much before a game — just methodical, going through his motions. Pads. Tape. Lace. Repeat.

And yeah — I watched.

Not like that (okay, maybe a little like that).

It was just... hard not to notice him.

The way his shoulders moved when he stretched his arms. The curve of his back as he leaned down to tighten his skates.

Every motion was precise, controlled — like he was holding something dangerous just under his skin.

He looked up once, caught me looking, and smirked. Just the corner of his mouth.

I looked away, pretending to check my stick, face burning.

"Problem, Captain?" he said, tone lazy.

"Yeah. You," I muttered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

If he heard me, he didn't let on — just grabbed his gloves and headed out toward the ice.

We all followed a minute later, helmets in hand.

The figure skaters were just finishing up, looping toward the exit gate. One of them — a blonde in a pale blue jacket — stumbled as she laughed at something one of her friends said. She looked about eighteen, nineteen maybe.

Ethan slowed beside me, eyes flicking toward them for half a second before he smirked — that dangerous, I'm-about-to-do-something-stupid look.

He reached into Coach's pocket, swiped the whistle, and blew it.

Loud. Sharp.

The sound cut across the rink like a gunshot.

Every skater froze mid-glide. Heads whipped toward us.

And then the blonde's face lit up.

Like the goddamn sun came out just for her.

She dropped her skate guards and ran, blades clacking across the rubber mats until she practically launched herself into Ethan's arms.

"Ethan!" she squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

My brain short-circuited.

Who the hell—

Ethan caught her, stumbling back a step before laughing — actually laughing. Not his usual half-smirk or sarcastic chuckle — a real one. Warm. Genuine.