“You couldn’t handle it,” Phoenix says, smug, settling back down behind me. His arm tightens around my waist under the blankets, subtle but deliberate, like a private joke only I can feel.
I keep my eyes shut until Jax’s snores return, but inside, I’m burning. I pull my hands away from him, trying not to laugh.
Phoenix buries his face in my neck. His body pressed against me, satisfied and cocky, while I’m the one shaking under the weight of what just happened—what almost got us caught.
And the worst part?
I liked it, and Phoenix fucking knows it.
The next day, the bus is too quiet.
A dull hum of wheels on asphalt fills the space, punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffle of gear bags. Nobody’s joking, nobody’s talking—not after last night. The loss hangs heavy, sticking to us like sweat that won’t wash off. Phones glow here and there, headlines cutting sharper than any skate blade:Captain Locke Loses Grip. Frosthaven Golden Boy Overshadowing His Mentor. Wolves in Freefall.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the blur of highway trees, trying not to read over shoulders. I already know what they’ll say. I already feel the weight of it: that I’m the rising star, and Phoenix is the captain faltering in my shadow.
I can feel the eyes on me, same as always now. It’s not admiration anymore—it’s pressure. Accusation.
Phoenix sits beside me, one leg stretched into the aisle like he owns the place, shoulders loose, head tipped back against the seat. He’s pretending he doesn’t care. But Phoenix never doesn’t care. To anyone else, he looks relaxed, but I can feel the tension in him, sharp and coiled. His hand brushes mine on the seat between us every so often, almost like a warning.Stay calm. Don’t react.
I try.
But the team is restless. Frustrated. Hungry for someone to blame.
Eric is slouched across the aisle, arms folded, bitterness rolling off him like a storm cloud. He got benched last night after blowing two coverages, and he hasn’t stopped sulking since.
“So, Captain,” Eric drawls, loud enough to break the hush, “what’s the plan now? Keep giving us those half-ass pep talks or just wait until management rips theCoff your chest?”
A couple of guys chuckle under their breath. Most don’t react. Phoenix doesn’t either. He just tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed, like Eric’s not even worth acknowledging.
Eric grins, encouraged. “Come on, Locke. You always got something to say. Or maybe you’re just too busy polishing the rookie’s halo to notice the rest of us drowning.”
Heat creeps up my neck. If I look, if I react, it’ll only make it worse. Phoenix releases an annoyed sigh.
Eric leans forward now, sensing blood. His voice sharpens, meaner. “That it, huh? You’re too worried about your fruitcake rookie to remember how to play the damn game yourself?”
The word hits like a fist. Fruitcake.
It’s ugly. It’s my father’s voice echoing through years I’ve tried to bury. The exact kind of venom that used to get spit acrossdinner tables, through locked doors, in fists and slammed walls. My breath catches, nausea crawling up my throat.
And Phoenix?—
He’s out of his seat in a blur, a wild snarl tearing from his throat as he lunges across the aisle. The bus seems to rock as his weight slams into Eric, fists already flying. The sound is wet, brutal—flesh on flesh, knuckles cracking against bone.
Shouts explode. Guys leap to their feet, the coach shouting from the front, but Phoenix doesn’t hear any of it.
“The fuck you call him, asshole?!” He’s gone, lost to rage, teeth bared like an animal as he pummels Eric’s face.
I’m moving before I think, heart in my throat. I grab Phoenix’s arm, pulling with everything I have. “Phoenix! Stop!”
He doesn’t. His muscles strain under my grip, hard as iron, every punch fueled by something more than Eric’s insult. This isn’t about the game, or the team. This is about me.
Jax dives in on the other side, both of us hauling back with all our weight. Finally, Phoenix staggers, yanked off his prey. Eric slumps into his seat, blood dripping from his split lip, muttering curses even as he wipes at his face.
Phoenix doesn’t stop fighting. He jerks against us, chest heaving, eyes wild and blazing. And then he spits. A streak of red splattersacross the floor between them, flecked with blood. And Phoenix grins. Wide. Ferocious. A grin that says he’d do it all again, ten times harder, and love every second of it.
“Talk like that about Leander again and I’ll fucking grind your teeth into the cement.”
“You done?” Eric sneers through his swollen lip.
