No one seems to care if Phoenix pays me more attention during drills, if his eyes flick to me just a little too often during scrimmage. They just think he’s keeping an eye on the rookie, making sure I don’t blow my knee out again.
But I feel it. Every time his gaze lands on me, I feel the weight of it like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
During practice, he pushes me harder than anyone else. Barking orders, skating circles around me until my lungs burn. I’m not stupid—I know he’s trying to make sure no one can accuse him of favoritism. But the second we’re alone again, that control he keeps on the ice flips into something darker, hotter. The kind that has me biting pillows so the neighbors don’t call the police with a noise complaint.
My teammates have no idea. They slap my back in the locker room, ask if I’m hitting up the bar after practice, joke about how Phoenix rides me harder than the rest of them. They don’t know how true that is.
Because what we have—what Phoenix gives me—is mine. Private. Dangerous in ways I can’t explain. If the team knew, they’d never shut up about it. They’d say Phoenix is protecting me on the ice because he’s sleeping with me off it. And maybe they’d be right. Maybe he does watch my every move like he can’t stand the idea of me taking another hit. But it’s not favoritism. Not really.
It’s obsession.
And I can’t even bring myself to be scared of it.
After practice, we shower in separate stalls. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t glance my way while the guys are still around. I try not to stare at the broad line of his back, the dark ink snaking over his shoulder blades and hips, the faint marks my mouth left on his skin the night before.
The hot water hits my shoulders like fire, steam rising around me until the whole row of showers feels hazy, half-hidden. My muscles scream from drills, but it’s the good kind of ache—the kind Phoenix lives for, the kind he drags out of me until I’m gasping.
I’m scrubbing shampoo through my hair when Johnny’s voice cuts over the rush of water.
“Hey, Cameron.”
I glance sideways. He’s two stalls over, grinning at me like he’s got a secret. Which, knowing Johnny, means trouble.
“What?” I mutter, rinsing the suds out of my hair.
He tilts his chin toward me, eyes flicking down my chest, my neck. “Gotta ask… who’s been leaving those marks all over you? You look like a horny teenager.”
Shit.
Heat shoots up my neck that has nothing to do with the water. I almost choke on air, yanking the washcloth higher against my chest like that’ll hide the obvious dark smudges trailing over my collarbone, my ribs. Hickeys. Bruises. Phoenix’s fingerprints carved into my skin like signatures.
Johnny just laughs. “C’mon, man, don’t look so guilty. Nobody’s dumb enough to think you’re beating yourself up like that.”
“I’ve been… seeing someone,” I blurt. The words come faster than I mean them to, bouncing off the tile. It’s not a lie, not exactly, but my stomach twists anyway.
“Ohhh,” Johnny drawls, like he’s just been handed the juiciest gossip of the year. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Before I can figure out how to answer, Phoenix’s voice cuts in. Smooth. Too smooth.
“Yeah, rookie.” He steps out from his stall, water sliding over his chest, towel hung low on his hips. His grin is wicked as hell. “Tell us about this mysterioussomeone.”
My mouth goes dry.
He’s not even looking at Johnny. His eyes are on me, trailing slowly and deliberately down my body. My shoulders, my chest, lower—too low. My pulse trips over itself.
Johnny snorts, oblivious. “Yeah, come on, Lee. You’re all marked up like a damn canvas. Spill.”
I manage a shrug, pretending like my heart isn’t about to explode. “It’s… nothing serious.”
Phoenix leans against the wall, water still running down the ridges of his stomach, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Looks like somebody’s been keeping you busy.”
Johnny snorts, rinsing the soap off his shoulders. “It looks like our little rookie was up all night, and that’s why he bombed on the ice today.”
Phoenix just laughs, light and playful. “Is that true, Cameron? Fucked all night long and came to practice with a horny hangover?”
“Phoenix,” I warn under my breath.
Johnny shakes his head, chuckling as he shuts off his water. “Whoever it is, they’re doing a damn number on you. I expect details eventually.”
