Chapter Text
The rink was cold, quiet, and empty—just the way San liked it.
At this hour, most of the world was still asleep, and the campus gym hadn't even unlocked its front doors. But San had his own key to the ice rink, a little privilege of being team captain, and he used it every chance he got.
The sound of his skates scraping the ice echoed off the boards, rhythmic and clean. He twisted into a tight turn, leaned low into a crossover, and launched a slapshot into the far side of the net. It clanged off the post, just slightly off center. He cursed under his breath and went after the puck again.
He'd been out here for almost two hours now. His legs were burning, breath misting in the air, muscles tightening in all the places they shouldn’t.
But none of that mattered.
Because every time he closed his eyes lately, all he saw was the draft board. Names. Rankings. Scouts in the stands. Every game could be the one that made or broke his future. Every mistake could be the difference between a pro contract and fading into nothing.
Captain of the college team. On track for the NHL. A name people know.
He didn’t have time to mess up.
San skated to the boards and leaned over his stick, catching his breath. He yanked his helmet off and shook his damp hair out of his eyes, staring at his distorted reflection in the scratched plexiglass. He looked tired. Older than he should. His eyes always did that when he was overthinking.
Which was… often.
His moment of peace lasted all of ten seconds.
“YAHHHHHHHH! This loser’s really out here at sunrise again!”
San didn’t even flinch. The voice was too familiar. Too loud.
“Jeong Yunho,” he muttered, without looking back. “Go fall into a snowbank.”
Yunho cackled as he stepped onto the ice—skates half-tied, no helmet, and holding an iced Americano. Somehow, he was both a morning person and the most annoying man alive.
“Come on, Cap,” Yunho grinned, sliding up next to him. “No one’s chasing you right now. You can chill for five minutes.”
“Chilling is all I do when you idiots show up,” San muttered.
“And yet, you love us,” came another voice—deeper, lazier.
Song Mingi skated in next, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, sunglasses on despite the dim arena lights.
“You didn’t even warm up,” San said flatly.
“I’m mentally warming up,” Mingi replied. “It’s a process.”
San rolled his eyes, grabbing a towel from his bag as the other two clumsily skated around him like gremlins who’d never seen ice before. He loved them—really, he did—but mornings like this made him wonder how he was the one carrying the team GPA and the top stats.
“I’ve been practicing since six,” San said, toweling off his face.
“Yeah, we figured. You know what you need?” Yunho said, elbowing him. “To loosen the hell up. Which is why—”
“Here we go,” San muttered.
“—you’re coming to the party on Friday,” Yunho finished triumphantly.
“Absolutely not,” San replied immediately.
“Bro.”
“No.”
“San.”
“Mingi.”
“Come on,” Yunho groaned. “It’s gonna be huge. Off-campus. No curfew. No coaches. No judgment.”
“I’m not going.”
“There’ll be hot girls,” Mingi offered.
“I don’t care.”
“Hot gymnast girls,” Yunho added. “Stretchy.”
San gave him a long look. “You’re both actual children.”
“And you’re a grandpa,” Mingi grinned, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Come on. One night won’t kill you. You’re always training. You don’t even go out unless it’s team-related.”
“Because I’m the captain,” San said, peeling Mingi’s arm off. “I have to set an example.”
“An example of what? Virginity?”
San shoved him. “Get bent.”
“I’m just saying,” Yunho said, sipping his iced coffee. “You work harder than anyone we know, and that’s great. But you’re allowed to have fun too.”
“I don’t need fun.”
“You need to get laid.”
San groaned. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re not,” Mingi said. “We’re picking you up at nine.”
“I’ll lock my door.”
“We’ll break in,” Yunho grinned.
“You’re both menaces,” San muttered, standing and grabbing his stick.
“See you on Friday~”
As San skated back onto the ice, he could still hear them behind him—laughing, arguing about what drinks to bring, whether Mingi’s hookup from last week would be there.
He tuned them out and picked up the puck again.
He wasn’t going to the party.
Definitely not.
By Friday evening, San was regretting every life choice that had led him here.
He didn’t even know how Yunho and Mingi had managed it—one second he was perfectly comfortable in his dorm, scrolling through training clips and nursing a sore shoulder, the next his so-called best friends were physically hauling him out of bed like he was luggage. Somehow, he ended up in the backseat of Yunho’s car, watching the campus lights blur by, muttering to himself about how this was a colossal waste of time.
And now, here he was. Sitting stiffly on a couch in someone’s overcrowded living room, wedged between two sweaty guys who were debating protein powder like their lives depended on it. Music blared from the speakers—bass-heavy, distorted. The air smelled like cheap beer, sweat, and too much cologne. Bodies pressed too close, laughter cracked too loud, and some idiot kept bumping San’s shoulder every time they stumbled past.
He lifted his plastic cup, took a slow sip, and told himself it was only one beer. Then he was leaving.
He scanned the room for Yunho and Mingi, but of course, those traitors had already disappeared. The same idiots who had begged him all week to come—“It’ll be fun, San, don’t be boring, you’ll thank us later”—had abandoned him the moment they stepped inside. Typical.
San sighed, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. His head throbbed from the noise. This wasn’t his scene. It never had been. He thrived on order, focus, and the discipline of early mornings. Not… this. Whatever this was.
Another shove to his shoulder. He clenched his jaw. Enough.
He pushed off the couch and shoved his way through the crowd. The hallway was worse—sticky floors, a couple arguing at the top of their lungs, someone already passed out near the laundry room. He ignored it all and headed for the front door.
The moment the freezing air hit him, he exhaled in relief. October had sharpened the night, the cold cutting straight through his thin hoodie. He didn’t care. Anything was better than suffocating in that oven inside.
He tugged his sleeves down over his hands and leaned against the porch railing, watching his breath curl white in the dark. It was quiet out here, except for muffled music leaking through the walls. He almost relaxed.
Almost.
Movement at the edge of the porch caught his eye. Just a little further down the driveway, half-hidden by the shadows of a streetlamp, two figures were pressed close together against the side of a parked car. Too close. San realized what they were doing half a second too late.
Kissing. Or more like devouring each other.
San looked away immediately, cheeks heating against the cold air. He wasn’t a prude—parties were full of this kind of thing. But something about it felt… intrusive. Like he’d stumbled into something he wasn’t supposed to see.
He shifted on his feet, ready to head back inside, but then curiosity tugged at him. He glanced again, quick, just to confirm he wasn’t imagining things.
That’s when he recognized him.
The shorter one, pressed against the car with a hand tangled in the other guy’s shirt, was none other than Jung Wooyoung. San knew him by name—everyone did. He was part of the figure skating team. Loud, flashy, dramatic. The type of guy who thrived on attention. Unlike San, who avoided it whenever possible.
Wooyoung was also openly gay. San knew that much. It wasn’t a secret. He’d seen him at other parties before—laughing, touching, kissing whoever he wanted, like it was nothing.
As Wooyoung broke the kiss to catch his breath, his gaze flicked up—and landed directly on San.
For a heartbeat, the world froze. Wooyoung’s eyes, dark and sharp even under the dim glow of the streetlamp, locked on his. He didn’t look away. Didn’t blush, didn’t falter. Instead, he smirked against the mouth of the guy still clinging to him, a deliberate flicker of awareness sparking there.
San’s stomach dropped. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He felt caught. Exposed. Like Wooyoung knew exactly what he was thinking, even though San wasn’t sure himself.
He tore his gaze away and turned back toward the door, yanking it open harder than necessary. The warmth and noise of the party swallowed him whole again. Someone shoved a drink into his hand. Music pulsed through his chest. He forced himself to breathe evenly.
It was nothing. Just a moment. Just a look.
He didn’t know Wooyoung. He didn’t care what he did.
He repeated it in his head until it almost sounded true.
But for now, he just needed to find Yunho and Mingi, tell them he was leaving, and make his escape before either of them asked too many questions or shoved another drink in his hand. His skin still felt too hot, his face flushed in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
He spotted Yunho first—halfway through a drinking game in the kitchen, already loud and way too competitive about something involving ping pong balls and red cups. His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, and he had one arm draped around some guy San vaguely recognized from the swim team. Yunho looked like he was having the time of his life.
“Hey,” San called out, loud enough to cut through the noise.
Yunho turned mid-laugh. “San! There you are! We thought you died or left or something!”
“I’m leaving now.”
Yunho blinked. “What? Why? You just got here.”
“Because I’m not enjoying myself and you both disappeared on me.”
Yunho frowned dramatically. “We didn’t disappear. We… relocated.”
“Temporarily,” Mingi added, popping out from behind the fridge door, mouth full of chips. “I was hungry. You looked cozy on that couch.”
“I was not cozy. I was slowly losing my will to live.”
“Okay, okay, no need to be dramatic,” Yunho said, walking over and slinging an arm around San’s shoulders. “We get it. You’re too hot for this party anyway. The hockey king graces us with his presence and leaves without saying goodbye? Tragic.”
“I said goodbye,” San muttered, trying to shrug him off.
Mingi narrowed his eyes at him, crunching slowly. “Wait a second.”
San paused. “…What.”
Mingi tilted his head. “Why are you red?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Yunho leaned in too close, squinting. “Wait, he is. San, are you… blushing?”
San blinked. “No.”
“Bro,” Mingi said, a grin spreading across his face. “You totally are. Did you hook up with someone?”
“What?” San stepped back like they’d just accused him of murder. “No.”
“You so did,” Yunho laughed. “Oh my god, who was it? I swear, if it’s someone from the volleyball team, I’m gonna lose it.”
San scowled. “It wasn’t anyone.”
Mingi leaned his elbows on the counter and wiggled his brows. “You sure? You’re looking pretty flushed. Got that post-makeout glow.”
“I didn’t hook up with anyone,” San said through gritted teeth.
Yunho and Mingi cracked up like they were the funniest people alive.
San rubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the door again. “You two are actual morons.”
“Oh, come on, just tell us,” Mingi said, still grinning. “You never get like this.”
“There is no this.”
Yunho cocked his head. “Wait… if you didn’t hook up with someone, then why are you blushing?”
San clenched his jaw. “Because it’s hot in here and I was just outside and my face is adjusting to the temperature.”
Mingi snorted. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s science,” San deadpanned.
It wasn’t science. It wasn’t even remotely close. If anything, it was shame. Or embarrassment. Or something worse. Because the truth—the one thing he would never tell Yunho or Mingi—was that the only thing he’d done tonight was stand on a porch like a fucking idiot and get all flustered over watching a guy kiss another guy.
And not just any guy.
Wooyoung.
The flirty, dramatic figure skater with eyeliner sharp enough to kill. The guy San had never actually spoken to but had seen around campus more times than he cared to admit. The guy whose voice always carried too far in the cafeteria. The guy who skated like he owned the damn world.
The guy who had looked right at him mid-makeout, with eyes full of challenge and something unreadable beneath it.
San didn’t even know what pissed him off more—that it happened, or that it affected him at all.
He exhaled slowly and shook his head.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “I’m going back to the dorm.”
“Nooo, don’t be like that,” Yunho groaned. “You should at least stay for—”
“Not in the mood.”
“You’re never in the mood,” Mingi said with a pout. “That’s the problem.”
San was already halfway to the front door.