Chapter Text
Chapter One: Things Everyone Knows
Everyone knew Charlie Conway wore his heart on his sleeve.
It wasn’t something people whispered about or speculated over—it was just a fact, like the way Eden Hall smelled faintly of old books and cold air, or the way the rink lights buzzed before warming up. Charlie Conway cared loudly. He always had.
You could see it when he argued with referees like they might actually listen. When he stayed late after practice helping younger players with their shot. When he skated like every game mattered just a little more than the last one.
Coach Orion called it passion. Bombay used to call it leadership. Guy called it exhausting.
Charlie didn’t care what anyone called it.
What no one ever seemed to call attention to—what slipped past everyone because it didn’t fit the version of Charlie Conway they thought they understood—was the way his focus always narrowed down to one person.
Adam Banks.
It wasn’t obvious. Not if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
Charlie didn’t follow Adam around like a shadow or hang off his arm in the halls. He didn’t say Adam’s name more than anyone else’s. If anything, he treated Adam the same way he always had—like a teammate, like a friend, like someone who’d been part of his life for so long that their presence felt permanent.
But Charlie always knew where Adam was.
On the ice, his head came up automatically, eyes tracking Adam’s movement before he even realized he was doing it. In the locker room, Charlie’s voice always dropped a notch when Adam spoke. And in quiet moments—ones no one paid attention to—Charlie leaned just slightly toward him, like gravity did the work for him.
Eden Hall’s rink was cold that afternoon, even by Minnesota standards. Practice had been running long, drills stretching on while Coach Orion paced the boards, whistle hanging from his neck like a threat.
“Again!” Orion barked. “Banks, drive the net. Conway, anticipate.”
Charlie tapped his stick against the ice, nodding sharply. “Got it.”
Adam lined up beside him at center ice, adjusting his gloves. “Don’t overthink it,” he said quietly.
Charlie shot him a grin. “Since when do I do that?”
Adam snorted, shaking his head. The whistle blew, and they took off.
The play unfolded fast—muscle memory and instinct taking over. Adam cut left, pulling defenders with him. Charlie read it immediately, skating into open ice, stick down and ready. The pass came clean, perfect.
Charlie buried it top shelf.
“Nice!” Fulton yelled from the bench.
Charlie coasted to a stop, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. He glanced at Adam without thinking.
Adam gave him a quick nod. Just that. But it felt like more.
“Conway,” Orion called. “Line change.”
Charlie skated off, pulse still racing. Adam followed a moment later, close enough that their shoulders brushed as they passed. The contact was brief, unremarkable to anyone watching.
Charlie felt it anyway.
The locker room afterward was loud and familiar. Gear clattered, voices overlapped, someone complained about the ice time. Charlie held court like he always did, retelling the goal with exaggerated hand motions while Guy heckled him from across the room.
“You act like you just won the Stanley Cup,” Guy said, tossing a towel at him.
Charlie caught it easily. “You didn’t see it. It was beautiful.”
Goldberg laughed. “It was a practice goal.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “All goals matter.”
Adam sat a few lockers down, methodically untying his skates. He listened without interrupting, lips twitching faintly at Charlie’s theatrics.
Eventually, the room began to empty. One by one, the Ducks filtered out until only the hum of the lights remained.
Charlie slowed, words trailing off. He waited without really admitting to himself that that’s what he was doing.
Adam stood and closed his locker. The sound echoed.
“You played well today,” Adam said, casual.
Charlie shrugged, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “You made it easy.”
Adam tilted his head, studying him. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Adam reached out and nudged Charlie backward, gently, until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the lockers. The kiss was quick—familiar, practiced, careful. The kind of kiss that said this is ours without asking for anything more.
Charlie smiled against Adam’s mouth. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
Adam pulled back just enough to look at him. “You want to stop?”
Charlie shook his head immediately. “No. God, no.”
Adam smiled—small, real, just for him. “Then yeah. We are.”
They separated as easily as they’d come together, slipping back into place before anyone could walk in and see something they weren’t supposed to.
Charlie grabbed his bag, heart still pounding.
Everyone knew Charlie Conway wore his heart on his sleeve.
No one noticed who it beat for..