He leaves, whistling.
Which just makes it worse. Because now it’s only me and Phoenix, the sound of water pounding against tile, the air thick with steam.
He glances over, eyes burning hotter than the spray. “Nothing serious, huh?”
My stomach flips. “I had to say something.”
His grin widens. “Sleeping in my bed every night is nothing serious?” He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. His voice is low, so only I can hear. “You coming in my mouth this morning was nothing serious?”
“Nix.”
“Don’t try to be cute. You’re gonna have to make it up to me later.” He smiles, glancing down at my naked body. I can almost feel his hands skating over my skin.
“You’re playing with fire,” I mutter, though my voice comes out thinner than I want.
Phoenix stops just outside the stream of my shower, water dripping down his hair into his eyes, his smirk too sharp to be safe. “Baby, I am fire.”
And then, just like that, he turns and saunters back to his own stall, leaving me flushed, rattled, and hard as hell under the water.
The locker room is dead quiet. No sticks banging, no jokes, no banter bouncing off the walls. Just the squeak of tape being ripped, the dull thud of skates hitting the floor, the occasional cough. Defeat sits heavy on the air, thicker than the stink of sweat.
We got crushed tonight—not just beaten—flattened. Their forwards cut through our defense like paper, and their goalie shut us down like we were a bunch of kids playing street hockey. And the worst part? We knew it was happening. From the first period on, we could feel the momentum slipping away, and none of us managed to claw it back.
I tug off my jersey, trying not to think about the scoreboard still glowing in my head. 5–1. An embarrassment. This is the kind of loss that follows a team, sticks in the headlines for weeks.
The bus ride back to the hotel is worse. Darkness blurs past the windows, the hum of the road filling every silence. Some guys pop in headphones, some scroll their phones, others just stare straight ahead like they’re still in the arena.
But I can tell when it starts—the shift in energy. A low curse from somewhere behind me. A muttered “shit” from the front. Then the quick, harsh clatter of typing.
“Fuck,” Eric, our defenseman, groans. “They’re already writing about it.”
I glance over the aisle. Two guys are huddled around a phone, scrolling. Their expressions go from pissed to bitter to… something darker.
“What’s it say?” another teammate asks.
One of them reads out loud, tone mocking: “Phoenix Reigns Slipping? Frosthaven Captain Loses Grip as Rookie Shines.”
The words sting, even though they’re not about me. Or maybe because they are, too.
More heads lean over shoulders, more screens light up. The sound of articles being read—aloud or under breath—fills the bus.
“Fans question whether Locke has what it takes to lead.”
“Leander Cameron: Season Favorite, Carrying Frosthaven on His Back.”
“When your rookie outpaces your captain, how long before the locker room cracks?”
My stomach knots. I sink lower into the seat, wishing I could disappear into the upholstery.
Phoenix sits two rows up, stretched back in his seat, arms folded. At first, I think he’s ignoring it, but then I see the way his jaw shifts, the way his fingers tap against his arm like he’s holding something back.
Finally, he stands. The bus jolts over a bump, but he keeps his balance, turning toward us with that grin he pulls out when he needs to rally a crowd.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter. “You all scrolling like vultures isn’t gonna change the score.”
A few guys look away guiltily. A few don’t.
Phoenix grips the back of a seat, his eyes scanning the bus like he’s taking us all in at once.
