Chapter 8: CHAPTER 8
Jax POV
My back felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
We were three days into this mountain hell, and Coach Clain finally hit us with the "Survival Overnight." The rules were simple and sucked: we had to hike to the far side of the lake, set up camp with minimal gear, and survive a night in two-man tents.
I was currently staring at a pile of nylon and some bendy fiberglass poles that were supposed to be our shelter. Julian was standing next to me, looking at the instruction manual like he was trying to negotiate a peace treaty with it.
"It says the tension rods need to be inserted into the grommets at a forty-five-degree angle," Julian muttered. He was shivering, just a little, but he was trying to hide it.
"Forget the manual, Julian. Just shove the pole in the hole," I said, grabbing a handful of nylon. "It’s getting dark and I’m not sleeping in a puddle of half-melted snow."
"If we don't do it correctly, the rain fly won't be taut. It’ll leak."
"It's already leaking," I pointed out, gesturing to the grey sky. "Move."
I shoved past him, our shoulders hitting. Normally, he’d bark at me for being unprofessional, but today he just let out a tired sigh. He looked beat. His usual polish was gone, his hair was a mess under his beanie, and he had a smudge of dirt on his cheek that made him look... well, like a regular guy.
We fought with the tent for twenty minutes. It was a lot of heavy breathing and accidentally hitting each other in the face with poles. At one point, Julian got tangled in the mesh, and I had to untangle him. My hands were on his waist for a second, just trying to steady him, and he didn't even flinch. He just stayed still, letting me do it.
The air between us felt different today. Not lighter, exactly, but less like a powder keg.
"There," I said, stepping back from the lopsided tent. "It’s ugly, but it’ll hold."
The tent was tiny. I’m six-foot-two, and Julian isn't much shorter. Once we crawled inside with our sleeping bags, there was about zero inches of "personal space" left.
I lay on my back, staring up at the dark nylon roof. I could hear the wind whistling through the pines outside, and the rhythmic patter of freezing rain starting to hit the fly.
"You okay?" I asked. The silence was getting weird.
"I’m fine," Julian said. He was zipped into his sleeping bag like a mummy, staring straight up. "Just thinking about the morning drills."
"Liar," I said, not even looking at him. "You’re thinking about that voicemail. Or your dad. Or the fact that you're currently two inches away from a guy you're supposed to hate."
I heard him shift. "I don't hate you, Jax."
That caught me off guard. I turned my head to look at him. In the dim light, his profile was sharp, but his expression was soft.
"Could’ve fooled me," I said. "You've spent the last month treating me like a disease you're trying to cure."
"It’s not you," he whispered. He finally turned his head to meet my eyes. "It’s what you represent. You’re... unpredictable. You don't care about the rules I’ve had to live by my whole life. It’s frustrating. And terrifying."
"Terrifying why?"
"Because when I'm around you, I stop caring about them, too."
He said it so simply, without the usual lecture, that I didn't know what to do with it. This was the guy I wanted to break, but seeing him this vulnerable made me feel like an asshole. I reached my hand out, resting it on top of his sleeping bag, right over where his arm was.
"Maybe the rules were stupid to begin with," I said.
Julian didn't pull away. He didn't agree, either. He just looked at me, and for a second, I thought he might actually reach back. But then the wind picked up, shaking the tent, and he closed his eyes, turning away.
"Get some sleep, Jax. We have a long day tomorrow.”
The wind was whipping off the lake, turning the set-up into a comedy of errors that nobody was laughing at. Setting up a base camp with twenty-four other exhausted hockey players is like trying to herd cats, if the cats were all six-foot-plus and armed with tent stakes.
"Thorne, you're putting that on a slope. You’ll wake up at the bottom of the hill," Liam shouted over the wind. He was busy helping Beau, who had somehow managed to get a guide wire wrapped around his own ankle.
Julian didn't look up. He was focused on the ground, clearing every single pebble and twig like he was prepping an operating room. "The drainage is better here, Liam. If it rains, the flat ground will turn into a marsh."
"Always the strategist," Beau joked, finally untangling himself. He looked over at Julian and me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Hey, watch out for the brokeback vibes in those two-man tents, boys. I heard the mountain air does weird things to a man’s priorities."
The comment was meant to be a throwaway joke, the kind of locker room banter that usually gets a laugh and a middle finger. But Julian went absolutely still. His hand, which had been reaching for a stake, froze mid-air. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of silence that makes everyone else look at their boots.
"It’s a tent, Beau. Not a social club," Julian said, his voice coming out flat and clinical. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at anyone.
I felt a surge of annoyance. Not at Beau, but at the way Julian turned into a block of wood every time something got even remotely close to the truth. I grabbed the tent poles and started shoving them through the sleeves with a little more force than necessary. "Ignore him, Beau. Thorne’s just worried the nylon isn't the right shade of official team blue.”
The team laughed, the tension breaking just enough for the work to continue, but I saw the way Julian’s jaw stayed tight. He was so busy guarding the gates that he didn't realize the walls were already crumbling.
As the sun dipped behind the peaks, we gathered around a small, sputtering fire. The smoke was thick and smelled like damp pine, stinging our eyes. We were passed around some lukewarm beans and stale bread, the "survival" part of the training.
"First time I skated," Beau said, leaning back against a log, "my old man had to drag me off the ice because I was crying so hard. Not because I was hurt, but because he said dinner was ready and I didn't want to stop. I think I was four."
The stories started rolling. Liam talked about his first goalie pads, heavy leather things that smelled like a basement but made him feel invincible. When it got to me, I stared into the orange embers for a long time.
"Thrift store skates," I said. "Three sizes too big. I had to stuff the toes with old newspapers just so they wouldn't fall off. I spent the whole winter on a frozen pond in Detroit because it was better than being in the house with my foster parents. Hockey wasn't a 'dream' back then. It was just the only place where no one was allowed to touch me unless they were trying to take the puck."
The guys went quiet. It wasn't pity, hockey players don't do pity but it was a weird kind of respect. Then, all heads turned to Julian.
He was sitting at the edge of the light, the flames dancing in his dark eyes. He looked like a portrait of a Captain, but his hands were buried deep in his pockets.
"I don't really remember my first time," Julian said quietly. "My father had me on skates as soon as I could walk. There wasn't really a 'choice' involved. It was just... what we did. What a Thorne does."
He didn't mention passion. He didn't mention a favorite memory. He just mentioned the name. I looked at him and felt a sharp, sudden ache in my chest that had nothing to do with my sore muscles. He was playing a game he was born into, while the rest of us were playing a game we’d fought for.
Inside the tent, it was a different world. The wind was a low howl through the trees, and the occasional thud of snow falling from a branch kept me on edge. Julian was a foot away, zipped into his bag like he was preparing for burial.
I lay there, staring at the roof, listening to the muffled sounds of the other guys. Someone was snoring three tents over. Someone else was laughing. But in our tent, it was just the sound of Julian’s jagged, shallow breathing.
I’ve been with guys before. I’ve been with girls. I’ve lived a life where "what people think" was a luxury I couldn't afford. If I wanted something, I took it. If I felt something, I said it. But looking at Julian in the dark, I felt a weird, heavy kind of pity.
Why doesn't he just say 'fuck it'? I wondered. Why does he care so much about a dad who treats him like a stock option?
He had everything, money, looks, a path to the NHL and yet he was the most miserable person I’d ever met. He was terrified of his own shadow. He was terrified that if he slipped up, the whole world would vanish. I realized then that my "rough life" had actually given me a freedom he would never understand. I had nothing to lose, which meant I could be whoever I wanted. Julian had the world on his shoulders, and it was crushing the life out of him.
I felt bad for the guy. Truly. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to tell him that the "Thorne Legacy" was just a bunch of old trophies that didn't love him back. But I knew he wasn't ready to hear it. He was still trying to be the Golden Boy, even when he was freezing to death in a cheap tent.
"Julian, stop it," I muttered into the dark.
"Stop what?" his voice was thin, vibrating with the cold.
"The shivering. You’re vibrating the whole damn tent. Your bag isn't rated for this temperature, is it?"
"It’s... it’s fine. I’m practicing... breath control."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." I sat up, the cold air hitting my chest like a slap. "Unzip your bag. Now."
"Jax, no. We aren't…"
"I’m not trying to jump your bones, Thorne. I’m trying to keep you from getting hypothermia. Unzip the bag and get in mine, or I’m dragging you into it myself."
There was a long, stubborn silence. Then, the sound of a zipper. Julian moved like a ghost, sliding out of his bag and into mine. My bag was wider, built for comfort, and the moment he slid in, the temperature changed.
He was like a block of ice. I didn't think about "rules" or "professionalism." I just turned on my side and pulled him against me. He stiffened, his back hitting my chest, his whole body as rigid as a board.
"Relax," I whispered, my chin resting near his ear. "I’m just a heater, Julian. That’s all."
I felt him let out a long, shaky breath. Slowly, his muscles began to give way. He leaned back into me, his head finding the crook of my neck. He was still shivering, but it was slowing down.
In the dark, with the wind screaming outside, the "Captain" and the "Rookie" didn't exist. There was just the heat of my skin against the cold of his. I realized that for all his talk about being disciplined, he was holding onto me like I was a life raft.
I fell asleep wondering what would happen when the sun came up and he had to put the mask back on. But for tonight, the only legacy that mattered was the warmth between us.