The crowd loses its mind. Something twists hot in me.
It’s not fear or concern, for once. It’s darker, hungrier. My rookie, my golden boy, snapping like an animal. His face, calm no more, twisted with pure rage as he drives Grant down.
Grant tries to wrestle him down, but Leander is relentless—one, two, three punches, each landing with a crunch that echoes through my ribs. The refs swarm, whistles blaring, but Leander doesn’t stop. He wants blood.
And Christ, I want him.
Every punch, every snarl, every burst of violence—it’s everything I’ve been waiting to see crack through his pretty-boy composure. He’s not just playing tonight. He’s devouring.
The refs finally peel him off, arms wrapped tight around his chest, dragging him toward the box. His chest heaves, hair plastered to his forehead, blood—his or Grant’s, I can’t tell—streaked across his cheek. And he looks at me.
Just for a second.
The fire in his eyes damn near buckles me. He doesn’t look guilty. Doesn’t look scared. He looks alive.
The penalty box door slams shut. The Hornets’ bench bangs their sticks in fury, their player crumpled on the ice with trainers rushing him. Our fans roar, half in outrage, half in awe.
My pulse is a drumbeat. My body, already electric from the game, is thrumming with something else entirely. Leander sits there in the box, caged and feral, chest rising and falling, blood still dripping from his knuckles. And all I can think is… mine.
Mine, like no one else gets to see him like this.
I’m supposed to be angry—he’s left us a man down, five minutes of hell we’ll have to claw through—but I can’t. My voice cracks as I shout orders, as I try to rally the bench, but inside, I’m replaying every second of his fists pounding flesh. When the whistle blows for intermission, we trail to the locker room,rattled and ragged. I can barely hold the team together. Eric mutters something about hot-headed rookies, but I snap a glare at him sharp enough to shut him up.
In the corner, Leander slumps onto the bench, still buzzing with fight. His knuckles are raw, split open. Trainers swarm him, but he shrugs them off. He’s vibrating, teeth gritted, legs bouncing.
And I can’t look away.
I crouch next to him, my voice low so no one else hears. “You good?”
His eyes flick to mine. He’s still high off the violence, pupils blown, lips parted. “Yeah.”
I swallow hard. Jesus. The rest of the locker room fades. All I see is him, the rawness, the sharp edges, the unshaken defiance.
I want to drag him into the showers, slam him against the tile, tell him what he just did to me.
Instead, I force myself back, shaking, pretending to focus on the game plan.
But every shift after that, I’m not thinking about the Hornets. I’m thinking about my rookie, bloodied and beautiful, and the dangerous truth sinking into my bones—I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him right now.
The game doesn’t slow down after Leander’s fight. If anything, it ignites something ugly in the arena. The Hornets keep chirping, testing us, trying to draw blood. My team is rattled, some of them shaken by how far Leander went, but not me.
Me? I’m fucking alive.
Every shift I skate, I feel the hunger radiating off him from the penalty box. He’s caged, tapping his stick, jaw tight. His eyes follow the play like he’s starving. When he finally comes out, the roar of the crowd echoes as he tears back onto the ice, and I swear I’ve never seen him move faster.
He hunts.
Not just the puck—he hunts bodies. His checks are vicious, his stick work sharp, every stride fueled by the fight still burning through his blood. And Christ, watching him play like that makes me want to drag him off the ice and fuck him right there in front of everyone.
I bark plays, force myself to stay captain, but every time he’s near me, every time he shoves an opponent off the puck, I feel my pulse spike. The Hornets don’t know what they’ve unleashed.
Third period. Tie game. Both benches frothing, desperate. I line up for the faceoff, heart jackhammering. The puck drops, chaos erupts, and somehow, it’s Leander who digs it out. He explodes up the ice, Hornets swarming him. He should pass, but he doesn’t. He shoulders through them, cuts hard, rips a shot so clean it stuns their goalie.
Goal.
The arena detonates.
Leander throws his arms up, helmet tipping back, mouth open in a roar. My legs are moving before I think—I slam into him, crushing him against the glass with the rest of the boys piling on. His grin is wild, his chest heaving against mine.
