Puck Me, Stepbrother

Julian's POV

Having Bryson on the team is driving me fucking crazy.

It's been two weeks since he made the roster, and I can't stop watching him. Every practice, every drill, every time he's on the ice. He's getting better fast - too fast for someone who'd never played before.

And my teammates are starting to notice.

"Did you see that play Bryson made yesterday?" Tyler says during lunch. "Kid's got some serious balls."

"Yeah, he checked Davidson so hard I thought he was going to cry," Marcus adds, laughing.

I stab at my food and try to look like I don't care. But I do care. I care way too much.

The problem is, Bryson doesn't play scared. Most rookies come in trying not to mess up, trying to stay out of the way. Not him. He throws himself into every play like he's got nothing to lose.

It's making my game look boring.

I've been the team captain for two years. I'm the star player, the one everyone looks up to. But lately, I'm pushing harder in practice, taking stupid risks, trying to prove I'm still the best.

"Julian, what the hell was that?" Coach Williams yelled at me yesterday after I tried a fancy move that didn't work. "Play smart, not flashy."

But I can't help it. Every time Bryson makes a good play, I feel like I have to do something better.

Today's scrimmage is particularly brutal. Coach has us running full-contact drills, and everyone's amped up. Bryson's on the opposing line, and I can see him eyeing me across the ice.

"Alright, ladies," Coach shouts. "Let's see some real hockey."

The puck drops, and everything happens fast. I get possession and start driving toward the goal, but Bryson's coming at me from the side. He's smaller than me, but he hits like a truck.

I see him coming. I should brace for impact or pass the puck.

Instead, I try to deke around him.

Big mistake.

Bryson catches me off balance and sends me flying. I hit the ice hard, sliding into the boards while he steals the puck and skates away like nothing happened.

The entire team goes quiet for a second, then someone starts laughing.

"Holy shit, did the new guy just demolish Julian?"

"That was beautiful."

I get up, face burning. Bryson doesn't even look back. Just keeps skating like he didn't just embarrass me in front of everyone.

For the first time in my life, I feel threatened. Really threatened.

After practice, I'm pissed off and need to do something about it. I wait until most of the guys have cleared out, then corner Bryson in the equipment room.

He's pulling off his pads, sweaty and tired from practice. His hair is damp and sticking to his forehead, and his face is still red from the workout.

"We need to talk," I say, blocking the doorway.

He looks up at me. "About what?"

"About you thinking you can just waltz in here and take over my team."

Bryson stands up, still holding his shoulder pads. He's smaller than me, but he doesn't back down.

"Your team?" he says. "Pretty sure it's Coach Williams' team."

"Don't be a smartass. You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't. What's your problem, Julian?"

My problem? My problem is that he's been here two weeks and already my teammates are talking about him like he's something special. My problem is that he plays with more heart than guys who've been skating their whole lives. My problem is that I can't stop watching him, can't stop thinking about him.

"My problem is that you don't know your place," I say, stepping closer.

"And where's that exactly?"

"Bottom of the roster. Bench warmer. Background player."

Bryson drops his pads and steps toward me. Now we're standing close enough that I can smell his shampoo, can see the sweat on his neck.

"Fuck that," he says. "I earned my spot on this team. Same as everyone else."

"You earned nothing. You got lucky."

"Lucky? I've been busting my ass every single practice while you've been showing off like some prima donna."

"Prima donna?" My voice gets louder. "I've been carrying this team for two years."

"Yeah? Well, maybe it's time someone else stepped up."

We're standing so close now that I can feel his breath when he talks. His eyes are dark and angry, and there's something about the way he's looking at me that makes my chest tight.

"You think you can replace me?" I ask.

"I think you're scared I might try."

He's right. I am scared. But not for the reasons he thinks.

I'm scared because when I look at him like this - sweaty and defiant and refusing to back down - all I want to do is grab him and kiss him until he shuts up.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

We're staring at each other, both breathing hard, and I can feel something electric in the air between us. Something that has nothing to do with hockey or team dynamics or any of the shit we've been arguing about.

"Julian," Bryson says, his voice quieter now. "What are you-"

"TEAM MEETING IN FIVE MINUTES!"

Coach Williams' voice echoes through the building, loud and sudden. We both jump apart like we've been caught doing something wrong.

I watch him go, my heart racing for reasons I don't want to think about.

Shit. This is bad.

This is really, really bad.