Not him. Not Leander.
He lingers at his stall, methodical in the way he strips down his gear. Gloves first, lined up neatly. Shin guards, one by one. Like he’s got a ritual, a shield of small routines to keep him focused.
I watch him do it, hidden at first, just another guy untying his skates too slow. But when the last player disappears through the double doors, leaving us alone, I rise.
He doesn’t notice until my footsteps are too close to ignore. His back stiffens.
“Forget something?” I drawl, leaning against the corner of his stall like I’ve always belonged there.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps zipping his bag.
That silence digs under my skin like a blade. I tilt my head, pretending to be casual, but inside I’m fucking ravenous. “What, no smart remark? You usually at least mutter something.”
Still nothing.
I smirk. “Maybe you’re shy after Friday. That why you won’t look at me?”
His grip on his stick tightens so much that I can hear the faint creak of leather. A tell, whether he knows it or not. He’s not unaffected. He’s not untouched.
And that’s all the invitation I need.
I plant my hand on the metal locker right by his head, caging him in before he can bolt. He goes rigid, shoulders hunching, but he doesn’t shove me off.
“You know,” I murmur, voice low and coaxing, “I like you better like this. All guarded. All wound tight. Makes me wonder how you’d look if you let go.”
No answer. Not even a twitch this time. Just that hard stare at the floor.
Fine. If he won’t play with words, I’ll use other tools.
I let my fingers trail along his arm, slow, deliberate, feeling the jump of his muscle under damp fabric. He’s solid—built for hockey, for collisions, for fights in the corners. But under my hand, he’s trembling, so faint most wouldn’t notice. I notice.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it,” I whisper. “My voice in your ear, telling you what to do. What I would do to you. You liked it.”
His jaw ticks. Just once. Subtle, but enough.
I lean in, crowding him, my mouth brushing the shell of his ear. He’s not short, but my taller 6’4” frame makes it easy to box him in.
“You got hard for me, didn’t you?” I nuzzle my nose against his hair. “Made a mess of yourself just from my voice.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. Still silent. Still refusing to give me the satisfaction of words.
But that breath—fuck, that’s music.
I smile against his skin, heat pooling low in my stomach. “Thought so.”
My hand slides from his arm to his chest, palm flat, feeling the hammer of his heart beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Faster than before. He’s unraveling.
“You can fight me all you want,” I murmur, pressing a little harder, “but your body is telling me exactly how you feel.”
His eyes flick up then, meeting mine for the first time. And Christ—it’s like being hit in the chest.
Dark, furious, but laced with something he doesn’t want me to see. Want. Fear. Hunger. A mess of it, all tangled together.
I grin wider, intoxicated. “There you are.”
Before he can drop his gaze, I tilt in and brush my lips against his. Not full, not deep—just a ghost of contact. Enough to make him shudder. Enough to taste salt and sweat and stubbornness.
He stiffens but doesn’t shove me off.
