There’s a long pause, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
It’s only us now, just the two of us in this locker room. The sound of distant showers and muffled conversations fades into the background.
And then Leander speaks again, this time softer: “I don’t need to be broken, Locke. If anything, you need to be put back together again,”
For a long beat, I don’t move. His words echo inside me, rattling the walls I’ve built around myself. Put back together again. Like I’m some shattered mess bleeding across the ice. He’s not wrong, but I’ll never admit it. Not to him. Not to anyone.
I force a low and sharp laugh, but it doesn’t carry the bite I want. “You don’t know me well enough to say shit like that, Cameron.”
He shrugs, like it’s no skin off his back, like my protest is just another part of the game.
That indifference grates against me worse than any insult could. Because what kind of guy looks me dead in the eye and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fold, doesn’t evenblink?
I step closer, too close, enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his neck. My chest brushes his when I lean in. “You think you’re some kind of savior? That you’re gonna come in here and fix me? You’ve got another thing coming.”
Leander doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His eyes lock onto mine, unwavering. “I don’t think you need saving, Phoenix. I think you’re terrified someone might actually see you.”
That stings. More than I want it to. I should shove him. I should crack him across the jaw and end this little staring contest, reclaim control the way I always do—with brute force and speed. But my fists stay clenched at my sides, shaking with restraint.
Because the truth is, Idowant him to see me. And that pisses me off more than anything.
The smell of sweat and leather clings heavy in the air, grounding me even as I feel like I’m unraveling.
I swallow, trying to find something sharp to say, but the words tangle in my throat. He tilts his head again, studying me, like he’s dissecting every crack in my armor. Like he knows exactly where I’ll break if he presses hard enough.
“You’re walking a thin line,” I mutter finally, my voice low, dangerous. “Push me the wrong way and you’ll regret it.”
Instead of backing down, he smirks. Not wide, not cocky—just a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think I will.”
His audacity makes my blood rush hot. Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody stands their ground when I press this hard. He’s supposed to fold. He’s supposed to shatter so I can walk away with the upper hand.
“You’re playing with fire,” I push my fist against his shoulder, making him stumble into the lockers.
Leander doesn’t blink. If anything, hesmilesat me. His ease is infuriating, suffocating—and intoxicating. “Maybe fire’s the only way to temper steel.”
The words hang heavy between us, sparking against the raw tension that thrums in the room. My chest rises and falls too fast, my pulse hammering like I just skated ten laps without stopping.
“I’m gonna shower.” He shoulders me off of him and leaves me.
And for the first time since I stepped onto this team, I realize something: I’m not in control anymore.
And I’m fucking addicted to it.
2
LEANDER
The locker room is finally quiet. The echo of laughter and footsteps fades down the hall until there’s nothing left but the hum of the fluorescent lights above and the drip of water from the showers. I’ve always preferred the silence. The peace to be with my thoughts.
I peel back the sleeve of my shirt, revealing a faint bruise blooming along my bicep. Phoenix Locke doesn’t pull punches, not on the ice and not off it. He plays like the world is his battlefield and anyone in his path is collateral. I rub my thumb over the mark, studying the way it darkens in the mirror’s reflection. Minor. Nothing I can’t handle. Still, it stirs something sharp in me, something I’d rather keep buried.
Aggression. Chaos. Recklessness. All the things I’ve spent my life steering away from, he wears like armor. And yet, standing across from him today, I felt that old familiar pull—the temptation to give in to the storm instead of resisting it.
I splash cold water on my face, the sting a reminder to stay grounded. But the bruise takes my mind back to before.
To my father’s shaking hands and glassy eyes. To the sound of bottles cracking on the kitchen floor. To nights when he’dscream at shadows no one else could see, rage filled every corner of the house until it felt like the walls might shatter.
I was eight the night my mom walked out. She didn’t even look back. Just grabbed her jacket, muttered something about not being able to live like this anymore, and left the front door swinging open behind her. My father had collapsed on the couch with a needle still in his arm. And Silas—fourteen and furious—was the only one who stayed.
