Odd Man Rush

Magnus Eriksson had been in love with his best friend for exactly ten years, three months, and fourteen days.

Not that he was counting.

The Chicago Wind’s practice facility hummed with the controlled chaos of the first day of training camp. Equipment managers hauled bags of gear. PR reps herded photographers into approved zones. Coaches huddled over tablets, probably already arguing about line combinations.

And Magnus stood in the doorway of the locker room, watching Jaxson Miller tape his stick like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Jax had developed a new pre-practice routine over the summer—something involving very specific tape patterns and a level of concentration that made his forehead crease in a way Magnus absolutely did not find endearing. The light caught the gold in his brown hair, still damp from the shower, and Magnus had to physically stop himself from walking over and brushing that one stubborn strand off his forehead.

Ten years. A decade of wanting something he could never have, of building walls so high and so thick that no one—not even Jax—could see through them.

“Cap! You gonna stand there all day or actually come in?”

Magnus blinked. Rodriguez, their starting goalie, was grinning at him from across the room with the shit-eating expression of a man who knew exactly what Magnus had been staring at.

“Strategic observation,” Magnus said, keeping his voice flat. “Seeing who showed up out of shape.”

“Sure.” Rodriguez didn’t look convinced. “That’s definitely what you were doing.”

Magnus ignored him and crossed to his stall, directly across from Jax’s. A design choice he’d requested eight years ago when he’d made captain and had never once regretted, even though it meant spending every practice day looking at the one thing he couldn’t have.

“Hey.” Jax looked up, his face splitting into that warm, easy smile that had been Magnus’s undoing since their first training camp together. “You see the roster yet? We got that kid from Boston.”

“Vancetti.” Magnus had, in fact, memorized everything about the new arrival the moment the trade was announced. Twenty-one years old. Five-foot-eight on a generous day. A highlight reel of impossible goals and an equally impressive collection of fights started with men twice his size. The sports media called him “The Problem Child.”

“Think he’ll be trouble?” Jax asked.

Magnus thought about the interview clips he’d watched—the sharp wit, the sharper jawline, the way Nico Vancetti looked at the camera like he was daring it to judge him.

“Definitely,” he said. “But he’s talented. We’ll make it work.”