The curling ring doesn't sleep. It waits after the town has gone
quiet, after lights in house fade, the building hums back to
life in its own low rhythm. Beneath the concrete, the
refrigeration units vibrate steadily.
The ice stretches long and narrow, the Pebble sharp and
unbroken along the boards. The stones rest in their rows.
Laid ice belongs to the men who train after everything else is
done. Careers here are measured in
fractions. Men talk about line and sweep
because the margins are too small for anything else.
The language stays technical because loss lasts longer than
pride. The ice records mistakes.
It answers only to repetition. Once a player steps into the
hack, the sheet responds. It knows who belongs.
This is clean. Take out Chapter 1 Burned at the
Hawk line. The side door of the curling
club groans on its hinges, Nate hauling nose by heart.
He steps inside and the latch clicks, shot Nate's boot scrape
once on the concrete walkway before the sound is swallowed by
the rubber matting at the edge of the sheet.
She, too, stretches out like a cathedral of ice.
Nate doesn't look around. His eyes flick upward, past the
flickering LED lights to the rafters.
There, hanging in the shadows, is a provincial banner from
2018. His name is on it in faded gold
letterings. Finalist.
He had been the next big thing for exactly 1 season, felt the
heat of television cameras on his neck and heard a scalp
promise him the world. Then the call stopped.
He just didn't quite make the cut.
Nate set his back down by the boards.
He shrugs out of his heavy Parker, his maroon practice
shirt pulling taught across shoulders.
The stone sit in the roads along the boards, 44 lbs of granite.
Nate walks the line, heel to toe.
He paces the lengths of the sheet.
He watches how the light breaks across the Pebble, a tiny water
droplets frozen onto the surface.
He drags the tip of the broom once.
He doesn't just see the ice, he feels the resistance through the
handle, a vibration that settled in his chest.
The ice answers him. It tells him it's fast today.
It tells him it's the only thing in this town that still respects
his timing. Cal Bennett steps onto the ice
without ceremony. He drops his bag with a doll.
Heavy thought. Cal crotches near the hawk line,
pressing his bare palm to the cold surface.
He lifts his hand and rubs his fingers together, testing the
moisture. You're early.
Cal says, his voice gravelly and low.
Nate taps his broom once. You're late.
Cal's mouse twitches, his eyes tracking the surface of the eyes
before they ever settle on a person.
They sent the new guy today. I know.
Nate replies. He's higher circuit used to
perfect eyes Nate's jaw. Titans, I know what that feels
like. Cal holds his gaze.
Then don't let his noise distract you.
Nate doesn't answer. Cal heads towards the locker
room, the heavy wooden door groaning shut behind him.
Then the second arrival, quicker steps, lighter.
Evan Price hit the ice like he's already halfway through his
coffee room in hand, giving the heck area a quick once over.
Hell of a time for escape, boss. The bar upstairs already have
cleared out and here we are chasing rocks in the dark.
He says to Nate, voice bright but edged with the usual dry
humor. He glances towards the door like
he's expecting trouble. So the Golden Boy from the South
finally showing up. Nate doesn't look up.
Front end power thrower. We need what he brings.
Evan snorts, gives his broom a lazy spin over his shoulder,
like a show off move. Just keep things smooth Nate, we
don't need a circus on the ice. Nate meets his eyes.
Evan grins. They both go back, sweeping the
motion. Easy now.
Nate steps into the hack without a stone.
He plants his foot and shifts his weight, feeling the balance
settles through his hips and spine.
Evan moves at the far end of the sheet, sweeping out of habit.
Nate rolls his shoulder once, hearing the faint click of his
joints. He looks at the trophy case near
the exit. Inside, a small, most promising
junior award sits under a layer of dust.
The silver is tarnishing. It's been there for 12 years.
He treats his broom like a weapon now.
Everything stands ready. This is the moment they'd like
best. The heartbeat before the
release, the moment where he is still in total control.
The door at the far end of the ring doesn't just open, it
bangs, A sharp metallic strike that echoes.
Jonah Mercer steps through without hesitation.
He doesn't pause to respect the quiet.
He carries a designer gear back over one shoulder, his high end
technical jacket still zip to the chin.
He stopped just inside the doorway to let the space
register him. He scans the eyes.
Cowl by the boards, Evan at the far end, Nate standing
motionless by the hotline. Jonah's eyes move once.
He doesn't nod. He doesn't offer a greeting.
Evan straightens, his jaw tightening at this island
stretches too long. What a butt head, he thinks, the
irritation flaring sharp and hot in his chest.
Jonah drops his bag onto the concrete walkway.
The thought carries too far. He peels off his jacket and
drapes it over the bench as if the arena had been waiting for
his arrival. Kel steps forward.
Jonah Mercer. Jonah nods once.
Kel Bennett. Kel says.
Jonah gives a short, dismissive hum that could mean anything
from agreement to a challenge. Kel gestures toward the ice.
Grab a broom, we'll start warmups.
Jonah eyes flick to the stone, lined up like soldiers along the
boards. Then they settle on Nate.
Sure, one word flat. Evan watches and move on to the
ice. Jonah walks with the easy,
arrogant stride of someone used to being watched.
Jonah reaches for a broom without asking, spinning it once
in his hand to test the balance with a flare.
He looks down the sheet again, and this time he anchors his
gaze on Nate. He holds it longer than
necessary. Nate doesn't look away.
He doesn't even blink. Nate reaches down, picks up a
white towel from the bench and toss it.
It's been across the ice, a blur of white against Gray, and stop
exactly at Jonah's feet. Get ready, Nate says.
His voice is calm, carrying effortless down the sheet.
No introduction, no challenge, just an order.
Jonah looks down at the towel and back up at Nate.
Already am, he says. He bends, scooping the towel up
in one fluid motion and drapes it over his shoulder.
The eye seems to tighten under them.
The air grows thin. Practice begins.
Warm up turns into something closer to a collision.
Stone starts moving in sequence. Now the pace is faster than they
like. Kel steps back toward the board,
his arm crossed. Nate calls the weight.
Jonah throws Evan, sweeps heart. The rock sails past Nate's mark
and settles white. Evan snaps his head up, chest
teething. I had it.
Jonah is already standing, walking past them toward the
next stone with a dismissive stroke.
The weed was fine. The ice is just slow.
Nate's gaze flicks to Evan, then anchors on Jonah's back.
Set again. Jonah pauses.
He turns just enough to look over his shoulder, a mocking
glint in his eyes. You want me to slow it down for
the local pace? Nate doesn't answer the tone.
He doesn't rise to the bait. The next stone runs closer, but
it's still not exact. Jonah is fighting the release,
trying to out muscle the granite.
Nate says nothing. He simply points.
The next sequence is faster, aggressive.
Jonah throws a heater. The stone drifts toward a
cluster of guards near the house.
Evan, focus on the rock clips. Jonas passes.
Jonah steps out of the hack. Their shoulders collide.
Evan stiffens immediately. Watch it.
Jonah barely looks at him. You stepped into my lane.
That's my line, Evan says, his voice rising.
You're supposed to hold. Kel's voice cut through the
tension like a blade. Reset.
Now they obey, but the air stays charged.
Nate walks in from the skip's end.
He doesn't raise his voice, and he doesn't even look at Evan.
He walks straight to Jonah. He grabs Jonah's shoulder, firm
corrective, the grip lens harder than Nate intends.
Jonah feels it instantly, the pressure of a hand that has
owned the ice for a decade. Jonah turns sharp, his eyes
flaring with a sudden, dangerous heat.
Nate doesn't release him right away.
He maintains the grip. Hold it, Nate says.
You don't move until the stone is past the hotline.
Jonah shakes him off, shrugging the hand away with a violent
jerk off his shoulder. Don't Kel.
Step forward 1 pace, then stops. I said reset.
Silence drops over sheet too. Jonah straightened slowly.
He looks back at Nate, his chest rising and falling with checked
breath. The ice keeps moving.
Nothing is resolved. Everything has shifted.
The anchor has caught onto something he can't quite hold
down. The atmosphere on sheet 2
shifts. It's no longer just to practice
the stone move in a faster, more aggressive sequence.
Calls are shortened to single, clipped words.
Sweeps overlap. Jonah throws is a heavy, high
velocity shot. Evan and Kel drops in front of
it immediately, their brooms working in a frantic, rhythmic
blur. But Jonah doesn't watch the
stone. He doesn't look at the line or
the house. He watches Nate.
The look holds for three seconds.
It's longer than professional curiosity.
It's a challenge, a silent question, a dare.
Jonah's looking for the anchor to drift.
Nate meets the gaze without turning his head.
His eyes stay locked on the far end of the sheet.
Jonah hates the way Nate's voice settled the air.
Evan and Kel sweeps hard. Jesus.
Evan snaps. Call it earlier, Nate.
I can't say the line I don't see.
Jonah laughs under his breast. It's a short, sharp sound.
Maybe you should say it louder, Skip.
Some of us aren't used to whispering in the dark.
Nate turns his head now, just enough to let Jonah see the cold
again. Nate says the next end is worse.
The heat in the building is rising from the four men on the
ice. Jonah throws, heavier than the
last. Evan lunges to save it.
Cal moves at the same moment, trying to check the angle for
the take out. They collide, shoulder slam.
Evan had thrown off balance, his broom scraped sideway across the
ice with a harsh screeching sound.
Watch it. Evan barks.
Cal straightens his jaw SAP, his patience finally snapping.
You cut across my lane, Evan, I was already there.
Evan shouts back, pointing A gloved finger at Jonah.
He didn't hold, he stepped into the line.
Jonah stands back from the heck, his hands out in a mocking
gesture of innocence. Don't look at me, I hit the
weight you asked for again. Nate's voice cuts in.
No one moves. Evan turns to Nate, looking for
an ally. You see what he's doing to the
rhythm? Nate looks at Evan.
I see mistiming Evan. Jonah scoffs, spinning his
broom. This isn't solo work.
Kel says, his eyes to Jonah. This isn't a showcase for the
city scouts. You don't fight each other on my
sheet. He moves his gaze to Evan, then
finally to Nate. And you?
Kel says to Nate. Call earlier or shut up.
He looks at all of them. I'm not watching head games on
my sheet. Silence drop over sheet too.
Nate absorbs the head. He nods once.
Jonah looks between them, his jaw tight.
Reset now. Cal orders.
They reset. No one speaks.
No one even breezes too loud. Jonah slides again.
This time it's controlled, sharp, a perfect execution of a
slide. He throws like he's proving
something to the ice itself. The stone lands close.
Good enough. Evan sweeps clean, his movements
robotic and distant. Cal stays out of the way, a
silent observer at the edge of the sheet.
Nate doesn't praise the shot. He watches Jonah stand, his
chest rising and falling, sweat darkening the collar of
expensive practice shirt. Jonah looks back instinctively,
his gaze searching for Nate's. Something sits there now.
Cal claps his hand once, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
That's it, locker room. The spell breaks.
Bodies move, voices return. Jonah brushes past Nate on the
way off the ice. There is 1/2 inch of freezing
air between them. The practice winds down, but the
air doesn't settle. You're fighting my call.
Nate says to Jonah. Jonah doesn't turn around.
I threw it like you told. Nate grabs him by the shoulder.
It's too much power. Evan shifts nearby, his eyes
starting between them. Nate walks closer.
You're not the only one whose career is on the line here.
Jonah exhales, A harsh sound of frustration.
And stop treating me like a piece.
You move around the house. The ice holds the silence
between them, brittle and dangerous.
Kel steps in. Wrap it up.
The team begins collecting gear, the sound of the ring returning
to the mundane. Kel jester toward the heavy
double door. Beer after shower.
First rounds on the rookie. Evan nods, already reaching for
his jacket. Jonah bends to grab his towel
from the bench. Before he can straighten, Nate
intercepts him. Your release?
Nate says quietly. You're open your hand too early.
You're trying to force the curl instead of letting the ice take
it, keep it close through the slide.
He adjusts Jonah's shoulder by a fraction of an inch, forcing his
posture into a more rigid line. Jonah stills.
Then he shrugs Nate's hands off. I got it.
Jonah says, his voice tight. Their eyes meet.
Cal turns away, and Evan follows him toward the exit.
The system moves on, leaving Nate and Jonah behind in the
cold. The water is already running
when Nate and Jonah enter the locker room.
Steam hangs in the thick rolling curtains at the far end.
Cal and Evan are finishing up, their voice muted and distorted
by the tile and the spray. Talking about curling, about the
weather, about nothing important.
Cal shuts his water off 1st. Evan follows a moment later.
They move with the ease of men who have shared this space for
years, bodies exposed without thought.
Jonah stalls by his locker. His eyes flick once toward the
shower before he can stop himself.
Just a glance. Cal and Evan don't notice.
They've already reaching for their towels, their minds
already at the bar. Nate notices.
He catches Jonah's case in the mirror.
Nate said nothing, he simply watches Jonah reflection until
Jonah looks away. Jonah steps under the water, his
shoulders tight as the spray hits him.
Nate follows, taking the shower head beside him.
There are other stalls, but he chooses the one closest.
There is no pretending this is spacious.
No one speaks. Cal and Evan finished dressing,
their voice fading as they head toward the door.
See you at the bar? Cal calls out.
The door swings, shot with a heavy thought footstep, fade
down the hall. The locker room quiets, leaving
only the sound of the drumming water.
Jonah shifts his weight, reaching for a soap he doesn't
actually need yet. Nate stares at the white tile,
his jaw sat so tight the muscle is jumping.
His breast is measured, forced into a rhythm that matches the
water. Nothing happens.
No one moves. After shower, they dress in the
locker room. Jonah pulls his shirts on, his
movement jerk and sharp. He reaches for his back, ready
to bolt, but before he goes. You don't get to put your hand
on me like that. Jonah looks over to Nate, his
voice cracking in the silence. Nate looks out from his locker.
I corrected your release. That's my job.
That wasn't correction, and you know it.
Nate stands. He doesn't move closer, but the
space between them seems to vanish anyway.
Nate's taller than Jonah, broader.
Jonah turns to leave, but Nate moves before he grabs Jonah's
arm and shops him back. Jonah hits the metal locker.
The impact knocks the breaths from Jonah's lungs.
They freeze. Nate's hand is pinned in Jonah's
chest, his fingers punching the fabric of Jonah's shirt.
Nate is close enough to see the amber flex in Jonah's eyes.
Jonah shops Nate back. The shop carries them, bows
farther than intended. Jonah's heel catches on the
uneven bench and they both hit the floor hard.
Nate is above him in a second, knees flanking.
Jonas sigh, one form locked across his chest like a granite
guard. Jonah twist once, a frantic snar
off the movement, and fails. Nate leans closer, his breasts
hot and wrecked in the silver space between them.
Jonah's hands are trapped. He has no leverage, no angle.
His eyes flick toward the door, then settles on Nate's mouse.
Jonah lifts his head and kisses him.
It's an assault, a collision, a desperate attempt to short
circuit Nate's brain. It works.
Nate freezes. They break apart, scrambling to
their feet. Jonah brushes his hands on his
shirts, his eyes bright with a malicious kind of triumph.
You like that? Jonah smirks.
He looks Nate up and down, a crooked, mocking grin.
Relax. Doesn't look like it did much
for you anyway. It's a blade wrapped in a joke.
Nate strikes a flat, sudden punch to Jonah's face.
Jonah staggers back, shock flashing into a white hot rage.
What the hell? Jonah swings back, wild and
clumsy. Nate is faster.
He catches Jonah's wrist, spins him and slams him back against
the locker. This time, Nate doesn't hold
back. He pins Jonah wrist above his
head, his chest heaving against Jonah's, their eyes locked, a
silent screaming match off Wills.
Nate leans in, his jaw sat, and kisses Jonah back.
It's Nate proving that if Jonah wants to break the rules, Nate
will be the one to set the new ones.
The locker room door groans open.
Reality snaps back. They break away fast.
Evan stands in the doorway mid sentence.
You guys coming? Council ready?
He stops. The room is a crime scene.
Jonah is standing too close to the wall.
His chest rising and falling, his mouse reddened, needed
standing like a statue, one hand half clenched.
What's going on? Evan asked.
He looks at the scuff marks on the floor, then at needs jaw.
Jonah laughs. Asked the skip.
He was just giving me some private instructions.
Jonah grabs his back, his shoulder clipping the door frame
as he storms out. The sound of his departure
echoes down the long called hallway.
Evan stays. He looks at Nate.
You're good. Nate doesn't answer.
Evan exhales hard through his nose.
Ring bar, don't be late. The door closes.
Control works best when everyone agrees to it.
The ring teaches that early lines matter.
Timing matters. Authority holds as long as it
moves faster than doubt, as long as nothing unexpected steps onto
the sheet. Tonight, something dead.
Nate knows the difference between force and command.
He's built his life on it, on reading surface, on correcting
small deviations before they turn into losses.
This wasn't that. Whatever started tonight didn't
end on the floor or in the locker room.
It followed him out, quiet and unresolved, waiting for the next
moment when control will be tested again.
And next time, it won't be contained by rules alone.
This was clean takeout chapter 1 burned at the Hawk line.
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