Why the fuck am I craving the way it felt toholdhim when I should only be craving the way it felt totakehim? It was the look in his eyes. Like he had been broken too many times before. I couldn’t handle the panic swelling within him. He should feel good. I want him to feel good with me.
I pull into my driveway, slam the gearshift into park, and sit in the dark. The tick of cooling metal fills the silence. My chest rises and falls too fast, like I just finished a sprint.
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t line up with the rules I live by. On the ice, in the locker room, in every bed I’ve ever beenin—it’s always been the same. Push hard. Go fast. Break them. Leave.
No softness. No care.
But with him—fuck. With him, I couldn’t stop myself, and that scares the hell out of me.
I shove the door open, step out into the night, and light a cigarette with shaking fingers. The first drag burns down my throat, grounding me, but not enough. Smoke curls into the sky, vanishing quickly, leaving me with the same gnawing hunger.
Leander’s not supposed to matter. He’s supposed to be another conquest, another flash of intensity to keep me alive until the next.
But he does matter.
And I can’t stop thinking about how I stayed, how I cared, how I was gentle. How I wanted to make sure he was okay after I was the one who pushed him that far. That’s the most dangerous part.
Because if I can’t walk away from him the way I always do, if I can’t keep the walls up, then maybe I’m not in control anymore. And losing control terrifies me more than anything else.
I drag on the cigarette again, exhale slowly, and let a crooked smile cut across my mouth, dark and sharp.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I need to understand why I feel this need. To consume him, to wreck him, toprotecthim.
And now I’ve tasted him and worse, I’ve cared for him. I’ll figure out why. I’ll figure out what the hell he’s doing to me.
And when I do—I flick ash into the night, lips curling—he won’t get away with it.
6
LEANDER
The ice feels wrong beneath my skates today. Usually, it’s the one place where everything quiets down, where the noise of the world and the gnawing in my head are replaced by rhythm and speed. But this morning, every glide feels unsteady, every shift clumsy because my thoughts aren’t on hockey. They’re on Phoenix.
I can’t stop replaying the locker room in my head, over and over, like some shameful, horny loop I can’t tear away from. The press of his body against mine, the heat of his breath in my ear, the way he took me apart and then—after. That’s what unravels me most. He wasn’t just brutal; he was gentle. He held me after, like I mattered, like I was something worth protecting.
And that doesn’t fit.
Not with everything I know about him. Not with the way he toys with people, breaks them down, chews through them for fun. Not with the way I swore I’d never let myself be dragged into someone’s gravity again.
So why can’t I shake him?
I circle the rink with the rest of the team, but the drills blur past me. I hear the coaches barking orders, the scrape ofblades cutting sharp turns, but it’s all background noise. My body moves on autopilot. My head’s back in that damn locker room, back on my knees, back with the taste of him. Discomfort prickles under my skin. The memory of my own helpless sounds rings in my ears. And worse—worse than all of it—is the twisted ache in my chest that wants it again.
“Earth to Leander,” Jax calls, skating up beside me. He’s grinning, helmet tilted, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually means trouble. “You sleeping with your eyes open or what?”
I force a thin smile. “Just focused.”
He barks out a laugh. “Focused? You’ve been skating like you left your brain in the locker room. What’s got you so—” He cuts himself off, but the grin lingers, sharp. “Never mind.”
I roll my eyes and push ahead, but my stomach twists. Jax is the kind of teammate who feeds on secrets. The moment he senses weakness, he digs until he unearths something. Much like Phoenix but without the draw of him. I don’t need that kind of attention right now.
Because Phoenix is consuming my mind and I don’t have room to worry about another guy trying to make me fumble.
I see him on the other side of the rink, skating like a force of nature, sharp and fast and flawless. Every time I catch sight of him, something in my chest stutters. And I know he sees me—he always sees me. Even when I try not to look, I can feel his eyes cutting through me like blades.
The drill shifts into scrimmage, and I try to focus. Puck drops, blades slice, bodies collide. This should be where I come alive, where instinct takes over. But my reaction time’s off, my stick handling sloppy. I chase after the puck late, miss passes I shouldn’t. My head isn’t in it.
