Leander’s face, tight with defiance. The way his hands trembled even as he kept them steady. The silent fury in his eyes when I kissed him, like he wanted to kill me—and like he wanted to give in.
I walk faster, hockey bag slamming into my side, heart pounding like I’m still mid-game. The echo of our bodies pressed close hasn’t left me, not in my muscles, not in my skin. It’s in my blood now, burning.
When I get into my car and slam the door, the silence hits hard. No skates carving ice, no stick claps, no boys laughing. Just me, alone, with the ghost of his pulse still racing against my palm.
The engine growls to life, headlights cutting across empty asphalt. I grip the wheel too tight as I pull out, knuckles whitening, trying to drive the tension out of my body. It doesn’t work. Every red light feels like a test of will. Every turn feels too slow, too calm, when all I want is speed.
Intensity.
That’s the word for it. That’s what I chase in every corner of my life. On the ice, in bed, even in fights that I’m stupid enough to start when I know I shouldn’t. The rush. The control. The high that comes from someone giving in or from me forcing it out of them.
That’s what the locker room should’ve been. And for a while, it was.
I drove into him like I always do. No hesitation, no holding back, nothing careful about the way I took him. He wanted to fight, and I wanted to break that fight into something ragged and desperate.
Every thrust was sharp, punishing, the way I always play this game. It was supposed to end the same way it always does—with me walking out, leaving them used up, ruined, done.
But it didn’t. That’s the fucking problem.
Because after it was over—after Leander’s nails raked down my thighs, after his jaw vibrated with the sounds I tore from him—I couldn’t just pull out and walk away. Couldn’t shove him aside and throw on my gear like I usually do.
No, Istayed.
I found myself brushing his damp hair back, breathing against his shoulder while he steadied himself. I held him close enough to feel the uneven rise and fall of his chest. I caught myself whispering,“You’re okay,”like he needed to hear it. LikeIneeded to say it.
I was doing aftercare for someone I wanted to ruin. The word sits on my tongue like something foreign, something dangerous.
I’ve never done that before. Never given anyone more than what they begged for in the moment. Afterward, it’s always a clean break, no strings, no softness. But tonight I did it without even thinking. Like some instinct I didn’t know I had took over. I needed to clean him, to help steady his nerves.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
The city blurs past the windshield as I speed down empty streets, but my brain is still locked in that locker room, watching myself do things I swore I’d never do. My hand stroked his face. My lips pressed soft against his temple. My voice murmuring something I can’t even remember now, only that it wasn’tme.
Gentle.
I slam my palm against the wheel, the sharp crack echoing in the car. My jaw clenches.
I’m not gentle. I don’tdogentle.
My way is pressure, heat, force until they break, until they cling to me because no one else can handle them like I do. That’s the rhythm I know, the only one that keeps me safe. So why the hell did I hold him after? Why didn’t I just leave him standing there, wrecked, sticky, and furious?
The thought claws at me. Because if I’m not breaking, if I’m not dominating, then what the fuck am I doing? And worse—if I’m doing aftercare, if I’m staying, if I’mgentle,then maybe I want something from him I’ve never wanted from anyone else.
I grip the wheel harder, jaw locked. I don’t understand it. I don’t understandhim.
I wanted to fuck him and ruin him. That’s still true. I wanted to claim him so hard the imprint wouldn’t fade for days. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
But instead of ruining him, I ended up… cleaning up our mess.
I can’t shake the image of his face when I shifted, when I kissed him softer than I should’ve. His brow furrowed, his lips parted, like he didn’t recognize what was happening either. Like maybe, for a second, he let the fight drop.
And I liked it.
I liked being the one to see him like that.
I liked it too much.
The streets are empty, traffic lights flickering yellow at corners, and I drive through them faster than I should, trying to outpace my own head. But I can’t. The thoughts stick like barbs under my skin.
