I force a smile, keep my tone easy even though my chest is caving in. “I have all this money and nothing to spend it on. Let me spoil you.”
The delivery guys finish and leave. The apartment is quiet, just the two of us and the smell of new wood. Leander steps closer, fingertips brushing the dresser like he’s not sure if he deserves to touch it.
His jaw works, guilty and grateful all at once. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” My voice cracks, rawer than I mean it to. “I don’t want you living out of a bag. You’re not temporary, Lee. Not to me.”
He laughs softly, but it’s weighted, not carefree. He shakes his head like I’m ridiculous, but then he looks back at the bed, and I catch the truth flicker across his face.
He’s thrilled.
Thrilled, but terrified of showing it. “I don’t know what to say.”
I step behind him, my hands settling on his hips. “Say you’ll stay.”
He exhales a shaky sound and leans back against me. His guilt is still there—I can feel it in the way his muscles tense—but under it is something warmer. Something soft.
“This is insane,” he whispers, almost to himself.
“Wanna break it in?” I breathe against his ear.
“You’re insane.”
For a heartbeat he goes still again, like he might run. Then he lets out another quiet laugh—smaller, almost shy—and I know I’ve hit the mark.
He presses into me, forehead against my chest, and even if guilt gnaws at him, he doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you.”
The rink always smells like blood before it’s even spilled. Maybe it’s the metal of the boards, maybe it’s the sweat soaked into theconcrete under the ice. Or maybe it’s just what I bring with me every time we face the Hornets—our goddamn rivals.
I skate onto the ice, chest buzzing with that familiar hate. Their yellow jerseys swarm like wasps on the other end, cocky grins under their helmets, already chirping. My stick bites into the ice.
But my eyes aren’t on them. They’re on him.
Leander glides out, jaw tight, mouthguard shifting between his teeth. He looks steady, calm—too calm for a night like this. I know better. I’ve seen the tension in his body since warm-ups, the coiled anger, the hunger. He’s ready to blow.
The puck drops. The game is chaos.
Bodies crash, blades carve. I’m shouting plays, screaming shifts, trying to keep the team from unraveling. But every time the Hornets make a dirty hit, every time they shove one of ours into the boards, I catch Leander’s head snap toward them. He’s waiting for an excuse.
And then it happens.
Midway through the second, their enforcer—Grant, a six-two meathead with hands like concrete—lines Leander up on the boards. The crack of impact rattles the glass. My chest seizes.
“Get off him!” I roar, shoving my stick into Grant’s ribs, but Leander’s already on his feet.
Helmet crooked, eyes black with fury.
Grant smirks, shoves him again. “Stay down, rookie.”
That’s it.
Leander drops his gloves. The arena erupts.
I’m frozen, breath sharp in my chest, as Leander barrels into him. The sound is sickening—fists on flesh, helmet bouncing, their skates cutting trenches in the ice as they grapple.
Grant swings first, heavy and wild. Leander ducks it, counters with an uppercut that snaps the bastard’s head back. Blood sprays on the ice.
