Chapter Five: Off the Boards
Friday afternoon dragged Rivermount into a deep freeze, the kind of cold that turned breath into clouds and made the ice on the rink sing under every skate blade.
Jace shoved through the library doors at 4:05 PM, five minutes late and not sorry about it.
His hair was still damp from a post-practice shower, and his Wolves jacket hung loose over a faded hoodie, the faint smell of rink clinging to him like a badge.
He spotted Ezra at their usual table, buried in books, and felt the familiar twist in his gut—half irritation, half something he refused to name.
Ezra didn’t look up as Jace approached, just kept typing on a beat-up laptop, his fingers flying over the keys with a rhythm that grated on Jace’s nerves.
The table was a battlefield of papers—notes, a highlighted copy of The Outsiders, a thermos that probably held coffee Ezra lived on.
Jace dropped his bag with a loud thud, earning another shh from the librarian, and sprawled into his chair, kicking his legs out.
“You’re late again,” Ezra said, voice flat, eyes still on the screen.
“Had to shower,” Jace replied, smirking.
“Didn’t want you whining about the smell.”
Ezra’s fingers paused, and he glanced up, hazel eyes sharp behind his glasses.
“Considerate of you. Too bad it didn’t fix the attitude.”
Jace’s smirk widened, a spark flaring in his chest. “Missed you too, Tate. What’s on the torture list today?”
Ezra pushed his glasses up, a habit Jace was starting to notice too much, and slid a printed outline across the table.
“Presentation structure. We’ve got characters and themes, now we tie them together.
I did the Socs’ class angle—wealth versus grit. Your Greasers need work.”
Jace snatched the paper, scanning it. Ezra’s handwriting was all over the margins—neat, precise, annoying as hell. “My Greasers are fine. Ponyboy’s loyal, Johnny’s soft, Dallas is a mess. What’s to fix?”
“Depth,” Ezra said, leaning forward. “You’re skimming the surface. Ponyboy’s loyalty’s not just sweet—it’s naive, gets people hurt.
Johnny’s not soft, he’s traumatized. Dallas isn’t a mess, he’s a bomb waiting to blow. Dig in, or it’s just fluff.”
Jace’s jaw ticked, the critique hitting too close to Wednesday’s jab—try harder. “I dug in. You’re just nitpicking ‘cause you love hearing yourself talk.”
“And you’re coasting ‘cause you think charm’s enough,” Ezra shot back, his voice low but cutting. “It’s not. Not here, not on the ice.”
The ice. Jace’s eyes narrowed, the library fading as that stung. “Leave the rink out of this, Tate.
You don’t get to judge what you don’t play.”
Ezra’s lips pressed thin, a flicker of something—regret, maybe—crossing his face before it hardened again.
“Fine. Stick to the book. Prove me wrong there, at least.”
They locked eyes, the air between them taut like a stretched skate lace. Jace wanted to push, to shove Ezra’s smugness back in his face, but the guy’s stare held him, steady and unyielding.
He broke first, grabbing his pen and flipping open his notebook. “Ponyboy’s naive. Happy?”
“Thrilled,” Ezra said, dry as the snow outside, and went back to typing.
They settled into a grudging rhythm, Jace scratching out revisions—Ponyboy trusts too much, loses Johnny, wakes up—while
Ezra fleshed out the Socs’ privilege angle.
The library hummed around them, a soft drone of whispers and turning pages, but their corner felt isolated, a bubble of tension and quiet jabs. Jace’s leg bounced under the table, brushing Ezra’s knee once, twice, until Ezra shot him a look.
Sit still,” Ezra muttered.
“Make me,” Jace grinned, but he stopped, the brief contact buzzing in his head longer than it should’ve.
Ezra’s jeans were worn, frayed at the hem, and Jace caught himself staring at the scuff on his sneaker before yanking his focus back to the page.
An hour in, Ezra unscrewed his thermos, the rich smell of coffee wafting out. He poured some into the lid, sipping it black, and Jace watched, oddly fixated on the way his throat moved.
“What, no sugar?” Jace asked, breaking the silence.
Ezra glanced at him, surprised. “Don’t need it. You a cream-and-two-sugars guy?”
“Nah. Black, like my soul,” Jace said, smirking, and Ezra snorted—a small, involuntary sound that caught them both off guard.
“Poetic,” Ezra said, recovering, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Jace’s chest did something weird, a quick flip he blamed on too much Gatorade at practice.
“Got it from Ponyboy,” Jace replied, leaning back. “He’s all about the deep shit, right?”
Ezra’s twitch became a real smile, faint but there, and for a second, the hostility cracked. Yeah, he is. You’re not totally hopeless, Calder.
High praise, Jace said, and they held the moment—a beat, two—before Ezra cleared his throat and looked away, the bubble sealing shut.
They hit a snag at the two-hour mark, arguing over the presentation’s opener.
Ezra wanted a quote from the book—
“Stay gold, Ponyboy”—to hook the class.
Jace thought it was corny, pushing for a fight scene instead. “Action grabs ‘em,” he said, tapping the table. Nobody cares about poetry crap.
It’s not crap, it’s the heart of the story, Ezra countered, his voice rising enough to draw a glare from the librarian. You want flash, I want substance.
Flash works, Jace said, leaning in. You’d know that if you ever stepped out of your nerd cave.
And you’d know substance if you stopped chasing cheers,” Ezra snapped, mirroring him.
Their faces were close now, noses almost brushing, and Jace could see the flecks of gold in Ezra’s eyes, the faint flush on his cheeks from the argument or the heat or both.
His breath hitched, and Ezra’s did too, a shared stutter that neither acknowledged.
Fine, Jace said, pulling back, voice rough.
“Quote first, then fight. Compromise.”
Ezra nodded, exhaling sharply. “Deal.”
They worked in silence after that, the air heavier, charged with something neither could name.
Jace’s notes grew messier, his focus slipping, while Ezra typed slower, his fingers hesitating over the keys. The clock ticked toward six, and the library emptied out, leaving them in a pool of fluorescent light.
Done for today? Jace asked, stretching, his hoodie riding up to flash a strip of skin above his jeans.
Ezra’s eyes flicked there, then away, fast.
Yeah. Bring your fight scene notes Monday. Readable this time.
Bossy, Jace said, but he was grinning, a lazy edge to it that made Ezra roll his eyes.
Efficient, Ezra corrected, packing up.
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and Jace followed, the unspoken truce hanging between them like a fragile thread.
Outside, the snow had slowed to a lazy drift, the parking lot a patchwork of tire tracks and ice. Jace’s truck hulked in its spot, and Ezra started for the bike rack, his breath fogging in the dusk.
Jace watched him for a second, then called, “Hey, Tate.”
Ezra turned, scarf half-unraveled. What?
Ride again? Jace asked, jerking his thumb at the truck. “Snow’s shit for biking.”
Ezra frowned, pride warring with the cold, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”
The truck was warmer this time, the heat already cranked, and Ezra slid in, quieter than Wednesday.
Jace drove without comment, the radio humming low—some old rock station his dad liked—until they hit Maple.
You ever miss it? Jace asked, the question slipping out unbidden.
Ezra stiffened, staring out the window.
Miss what?
“Playing,” Jace said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Hockey.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and Jace regretted asking. Then Ezra spoke, voice soft, almost lost under the radio.
“Every day.”
Jace didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know why it hit him like a check to the chest. He pulled up to Ezra’s house, the porch light cutting through the dark, and Ezra grabbed his bag, pausing. “Thanks,” he said, quieter this time, like it cost him something.
Yeah, Jace said, and Ezra was gone, disappearing into the house.
Jace sat there, engine idling, replaying that every day until it echoed like a slapshot. He didn’t get it—why it mattered, why he cared—but it did, and he drove off, the snow swallowing the moment.
---
Ezra watched Jace drive off through his window
He sighed
dropping his bag by the door, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge.
His mom was out—another late shift—and he climbed upstairs, the ride replaying in his head. Jace’s question had blindsided him, dragged up shit he’d buried years ago—the crack of his ankle, the months on crutches, the way the rink had felt like home until it didn’t. He hadn’t meant to answer, hadn’t meant to let that slip, but Jace’s voice had been… different. Not mocking, just curious.
He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, the Leafs poster a blur above him. His laptop pinged—new blog comments—but he ignored it, grabbing his notebook instead.
He flipped to a blank page, sketching a play from memory—Jace’s breakout from practice, sloppy crossovers and all.
Speed, no finesse, he wrote, then hesitated, adding, but he feels it. The game. Like I did.
He snapped the notebook shut, shoving it under his pillow.
Jace Calder was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, a storm he didn’t need to chase. But that laugh in the library, that quiet yeah in the truck—it stuck with him, a splinter he couldn’t pull out. He rolled over, willing sleep to take it away, but the ice and Jace’s voice followed him into the dark.
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Question do you all feel like each chapter feels the same ??
🙁I'm loosing it rn.