Milo

The rink was already loud before practice even started, the kind of echoing, icy thunder that came from blades hitting the surface too hard and teammates chirping each other like they were born to argue. Milo had shown up early, mostly to hide the fact that he was anxious, and slightly to prove that he was a Professional Adult Who Was Not Nervous About Anything Ever. He stepped onto the ice, exhaled, and let the cold sting settle him. Then someone crashed through the entrance gate behind him like a hurricane that had been dared to run. Jax didn’t so much walk as skid into the rink, helmet dangling from two fingers, hair a mess, grin way too bright for anyone who had probably slept four hours. He was new to the team, supposedly a transfer, supposedly talented, supposedly trouble. Milo didn’t care about rumors, but the universe apparently cared about making an entrance memorable. Jax hit the ice, pushed off, and immediately lost his balance on a stray puck. One dramatic windmill of arms later, he careened straight toward Milo. Milo caught him by reflex. Both froze.