“Yeah, we got smoked. Big deal. One game. Doesn’t define the season, doesn’t define us. Unless you let it.”
There’s a rumble of agreement, half-hearted but there.
Phoenix presses on. “And the media? They live for this shit. They’ll write whatever gets clicks. That’s their game. Ours is on the ice. That’s where we prove them wrong. Don’t let them get in your head.”
He’s good at this. He sounds convincing, strong, even when the sting is still raw.
But I can see it—the flicker behind his eyes when Eric mutters, “Easy for you to say.”
Phoenix’s gaze snaps to the back. “You got something to share?”
Eric crosses his arms and shrugs. “You’re the one they’re saying can’t keep up. Feels like all season you’ve been more focused on one guy.” His eyes flick toward me, quick and sharp.
My stomach drops. The bus goes quiet.
Phoenix doesn’t blink. He just grins, slow and sharp. “You mean the guy who’s scoring us goals, keeping us in games, and dragging us through the grind? Yeah, damn right I’m focused on him. You should be, too.”
The tension hangs for a beat. Then someone chuckles. A few others nod. Eric doesn’t push it further.
Phoenix eases back, but I can tell it cost him. He slouches into his seat again, jaw tight, eyes fixed out the window. No one reads out loud after that.
The hotel lobby is bright—too bright after the bus’s gloom. Keycards are handed out, and groups split off into elevators.
I end up with Jax and Phoenix. Figures. The two people I least want to be trapped between right now.
The room is decent—two queen beds and a pullout couch. It has neutral walls, ugly carpet, and the faint smell of chlorine from the pool downstairs.
Jax throws his bag onto one of the beds with a dramatic flop. “Called it!”
I roll my eyes, dragging my bag toward the couch. “Real mature.”
Phoenix just tosses his bag down by the pullout couch. Doesn’t even argue. “Lee, take the bed. I’ll crash here.”
I blink. “You don’t have to?—”
“Not up for debate.” He’s already yanking at the folded couch, metal creaking as it pulls out.
His muscles flex with the motion, easy, controlled, like he’s done this a hundred times.
Jax whistles low. “What, Captain’s sacrificing for his star rookie? That’s sweet.”
Phoenix doesn’t look at him. “That’s leadership.”
I sink down onto the bed, the sheets crisp and cool against my palms. My knee throbs faintly—a reminder of the game, the bruises still healing. Phoenix’s eyes flick to it, quick, protective, before he returns to arranging the couch.
“You wrapped your knee tonight, right?” he says casually. But I can tell he wants me to ice it and force some painkillers down my throat.
“Yep. About to ice it now.”
Phoenix’s shoulders relax slightly.
Jax sprawls across his bed, phone in hand. “So, Leander. How’s it feel to be the media’s golden boy?”
I grimace. “Shut up.”
He grins. “C’mon, don’t be modest. Half the articles are about you. The fans love you. Hell, even my sister texted me asking if you were single.”
Phoenix’s head snaps up. “What?”
