Chapter 7: CHAPTER 7
Julian POV
The sun hadn’t even cleared the jagged treeline when I forced myself out of bed.
The air in the loft was still biting, but the spot where Jax had been pressing against me for the last six hours felt like it had been branded. My skin was crawling with the memory of it, the heavy, solid weight of him, the way my own body had betrayed every principle I owned by leaning into his heat.
I didn't look at him as I dressed. I moved with a frantic, silent speed, pulling on my base layers and lacing my boots until the leather bit into my ankles. I felt sick. It was a deep, churning knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with the freezing temperatures and everything to do with the fact that I had whispered for him to stay.
I had invited the chaos in. I had let a ward of the state, a man who represented the very collapse of my structured world, see me shiver.
I left the cabin before the rest of the team was even awake. The snow crunched under my boots, a harsh, rhythmic sound that matched the pounding in my head. I headed straight for the makeshift rink on the frozen lake. I needed the ice. I needed the one place where I knew exactly who I was.
By the time the rest of the team arrived, I had already been skating for an hour. My lungs were burning, and my jersey was damp with sweat despite the sub-zero air.
"Thorne? You trying to win a marathon before breakfast?" Beau called out, rubbing his eyes as he stepped onto the ice. He looked sleep-deprived and miserable. Behind him, Jax walked onto the lake.
I didn't look at Jax’s face. I couldn't. I kept my eyes on the puck, my movements sharp and clinical. When Coach Clain blew her whistle to start the three-on-three scrimmage, I played like a man possessed.
I wasn't just playing hockey; I was trying to outrun my own skin.
"Thorne, ease up! It’s a drill, not the playoffs!" Liam shouted from the crease as I hammered a shot past his shoulder.
I didn't listen. I pivoted, my skates spraying a wall of ice shavings, and headed straight for Jax. He had the puck, moving with that erratic, powerful stride that I had spent all night feeling against my own legs.
I didn't play the puck. I played the body.
I hit him with everything I had. It wasn't a clean shoulder check; it was a desperate, angry collision. We both went down, sliding across the rough surface of the lake until we slammed into the snow-covered bank at the edge.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jax gasped, his visor fogged with breath. He reached out to shove me off, but I stayed pinned to him, my forearm pressing into his chest.
"You think because it was cold last night, things changed?" I hissed, the words coming out in a ragged cloud of steam. "You think we’re friends now? You think I’m going to let you walk all over my career because I had a moment of weakness?"
Jax stared at me. The smug, bratty smirk he usually wore was gone. He looked at me with a terrifyingly clear-eyed intensity. He saw right through the aggression. He saw the panic.
"A moment of weakness?" Jax repeated, his voice low enough that only I could hear it over the sound of the team’s skates. "Is that what you call it when you finally act like a human being instead of a statue?"
"I am the Captain," I said, my voice breaking. "And you are nothing but a distraction. Stay away from me, Miller. If you touch me again, if you even look at me like you did last night, I will have Coach send you back to Detroit before the weekend is over."
I shoved myself up, leaving him lying in the snow. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might burst. I could feel the eyes of the whole team on us, Liam’s confusion, Beau’s awkward silence. I had just cracked the very team unity I was supposed to be building, all because I couldn't handle the way my own heart reacted to a foster kid’s touch.
Coach Clain didn't miss a beat. She saw the fracture, and she did what she always did: she hammered it.
"Since the Captain and the Rookie have so much energy, they're leading the gear-haul to the upper ridge," she announced after breakfast. "Six crates of training equipment. No sleds. Just your backs. If you're not back by sunset, you're sleeping in the pines."
The trek was a three-mile incline through waist-deep snow. Each crate weighed fifty pounds. It was the kind of labor that stripped away pretension.
I took the lead, my lungs searing with every breath. I refused to ask for help. I refused to look back at Jax, who was trudging behind me with two crates balanced on his shoulders. He was silent for once, his usual stream of insults dried up by the sheer brutality of the climb.
We reached the halfway point, a rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley, and I had to stop. My vision was blurring, the edges of my world turning grey. I leaned against a tree, my head hanging between my knees.
"Drink," Jax said.
He was standing over me, holding out a canteen. I wanted to refuse it. I wanted to tell him I didn't need anything from him. But my body made the decision for me. I grabbed the canteen, the water tasting like life as it hit my throat.
"You're going to kill yourself trying to prove you don't need anyone," Jax said, leaning back against the rock. He looked exhausted, but he still had that grounded, unbreakable presence that made me feel like an amateur.
"I don't need you," I snapped, handing the canteen back.
"Keep telling yourself that, Julian. Maybe if you say it a thousand more times, you'll actually believe it. But your dad isn't here. Riley isn't here. There’s no one to perform for up here but the trees. Why are you still lying?"
"Because the truth is a luxury I don't have!" I turned on him, my hands balled into fists at my sides. "You don't understand. You think you’re so brave because you have nothing to lose. You grew up in the system so you were already at the bottom. There was nowhere for you to fall. But I am at the top. Every person in that valley expects me to be the next legend. If I fail, if I turn out to be... something else... I lose my family. I lose my future. I lose everything I am."
"Then maybe what you are isn't worth keeping," Jax said quietly.
The silence that followed was heavier than the crates we were carrying. I looked at him, really looked at him and for the first time, I didn't see a liability. I saw a man who was freer in his poverty than I would ever be in my wealth.
The struggle with my sexuality wasn't just about the act; it was about the identity. To be a Thorne was to be a specific kind of man. A man who married a Riley Clain. A man who led with an iron fist. A man who didn't feel a magnetic, terrifying pull toward his roommate.
If I gave in to what was happening between us, I wasn't just breaking a rule. I was erasing the man I had been taught to be.
"I can't," I whispered.
"I know," Jax said, picking up his crates again. "But you will.”
He says it so calmly, like he knows something I don't.
The ascent was more than a physical challenge; it was an audit of my soul. Every time my boot sank into the knee-deep powder, I felt the sheer weight of the fifty-pound crate digging into the meat of my shoulders. But that weight was nothing compared to the phantom pressure that had occupied that space since I was six years old.
I looked at the back of Jax’s head as he trudged ahead. He didn't have the perfect posture I’d been drilled to maintain. He moved like a predator, low, efficient, and unbothered by the mess of the terrain. I hated him for it.
I thought back to my tenth birthday. Most kids got bikes or video games; I got a professional-grade synthetic ice pad installed in our basement and a schedule. Two hundred shots before breakfast. Two hundred after dinner. My father didn't say "Happy Birthday." He said, "Your wrist shot is leaning right. Fix it."
I had been raised to be a weapon, not a person. A weapon doesn't have a sexuality. A weapon doesn't feel a frantic, stomach-flipping heat when its roommate’s hand brushes its own. As the cold air seared my lungs, I realized with a terrifying clarity that I was terrified of what would happen if I ever stopped being that weapon. If I wasn't the perfect heir, I was a void. I was a failure.
Jax stopped for a second to adjust his grip, and I almost walked right into him. The scent of him, salt, sweat, and woodsmoke hit me like a physical blow. It was a human smell. A messy smell. Everything I was taught to avoid.
My mind flashed back to the loft, the way his heartbeat had felt against my spine. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the memory back into the dark. I am a Thorne. I am the Captain. I am disciplined. But the words felt like they were losing their magic.
We hit a small plateau halfway up the ridge. I dropped my crate with a heavy thud, my breath coming in ragged, white plumes. Jax had wandered a few yards away to scout the trail ahead, leaving me alone for a moment.
"You're going to snap, Jules."
I didn't have to turn around to know it was Liam. He had dropped his own gear and was walking toward me, his goalie-eyes seeing right through my mask.
"I'm fine, Liam. It's just a hike."
"It's not just a hike. You've been skating like you're trying to break the ice, and you haven't looked at Miller once without wanting to either kill him or... something else." Liam stepped closer, his voice dropping so the others couldn't hear. "I've known you since we were eight. I know what 'fine' looks like. This isn't it. Is he giving you trouble? Because if he's messing with your head, I'll talk to Coach."
"No," I snapped, perhaps too quickly. "He's just... he's a lot to manage. He's undisciplined. He’s everything my father warned me about."
Liam sighed, looking over at Jax, who was currently laughing at something Beau said. "Maybe that's why you're spiraling. You've spent your whole life being a saint, and now you're living with a sinner who doesn't seem to care about the consequences. Just be careful, Julian. The Board is already looking for a reason to pull your captaincy after that video. Don't give it to them."
His words hit me like a slap. He was right. The walls weren't just for me; they were for the program. I nodded, a cold, familiar resolve settling back into my chest. "I know. I have it under control."
As we reached the upper ridge, my phone vibrated in my pocket. A single bar of roaming service had managed to claw its way through the trees. I pulled it out, expecting a text from my father. Instead, it was a notification for a two-minute voicemail from Riley.
I stepped away from the group, leaning against a frost-covered pine. I hit play.
"Hey, honey," Riley’s voice was smooth, polished, and utterly devoid of the grit of the mountain. "I just wanted to let you know that I’ve narrowed down the venues for the Founders' Gala. I’m thinking the Grand Ballroom. It fits the legacy theme your father loves so much. Also, I’ve started drafting the script for our 'Couple’s Interview' for the alumni magazine. We need to look united, Julian. Especially with that... element you’re rooming with. Call me when you get this. Love you."
I stared at the screen as the message ended. "Love you." It sounded like a business agreement. It sounded like a period at the end of a sentence I didn't want to write.
I looked over at Jax. He was sitting on a log, wiping snow off his face, looking raw and exhausted and vibrantly alive. Then I looked at the phone. Riley was talking about ballrooms and scripts and images. She was building a world where I was a trophy on a mantle.
I realized, with a jolt of nausea, that I hated it. I hated the Grand Ballroom. I hated the script. I hated the way her voice made me feel like I was being slowly buried in concrete. This life was a costume that was getting too small, and the seams were starting to rip.
The descent was a nightmare of black ice and fading light. The crates were empty, but our bodies were spent. I was leading the way down a narrow switchback when my heel caught on a hidden root.
I felt the world tilt. My arms flailed, looking for purchase, but there was nothing but air and shadow.
Before I could hit the ground, a hand caught the back of my jacket, and another wrapped firmly around my waist, yanking me back toward the center of the trail. The strength was sudden and absolute. I was pulled flush against a warm, solid chest.
"I got you," Jax muttered near my ear.
The contact was electric. In the dark, without the eyes of the team or the shadow of my father, the pretense vanished. My back was pressed against his front, and for three long, agonizing seconds, I didn't move. I could feel the heat of him through our layers, the steady thrum of his heart against my shoulder blade.
It wasn't a "Captain and Rookie" moment. It was two men on a mountain, and for the first time, I didn't want to pull away. I wanted to turn around and see if the look in his eyes matched the heat in his grip.
"You okay?" Jax asked, his voice losing its jagged edge.
"I'm fine," I said, but the lie felt thin and brittle. I stepped away, the cold air rushing back in to fill the space he’d occupied. "Thanks."
We finished the walk in a heavy, charged silence. When we reached the cabin, the rest of the team was already inside, the windows glowing with warm yellow light. But as I stood on the porch, I looked back at the dark treeline.
The mountain had stripped me down. I could feel the fracture in my identity growing, a deep, tectonic shift that no amount of discipline could stop. I walked inside, but as I passed the mirror in the hallway, I didn't recognize the man looking back. He looked like a Thorne, but his eyes... his eyes looked like they were searching for a way out.