Phoenix is unsurprisingly competitive—snapping at Jeremy when he cheats in Mario Kart, barking orders at Jax like he’s still on the ice.
“Don’t go that way, you idiot. Red shell him! Red shell him!”
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts, watching Phoenix lose his mind over cartoon racing. He catches me staring once and grins, softening instantly, like I’m the only one who exists. And maybe I am, in that moment.
Later, when everyone’s gone and the house is quiet again, I realize how normal it felt. Howgood. Friends, games, laughter. A life I want to keep.
Valentine’s Day sneaks up on me. I’m not expecting much—I’ve never been the type to make a big deal out of holidays. But Phoenix, of course, has other plans.
“Pack a bag,” he tells me one morning, smirking like he knows he’s about to get away with something.
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re leaving tomorrow. Weekend away. Mountains. Don’t argue.”
“Phoenix—”
“Don’t. Argue.” He leans in and steals a kiss before I can press him further. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”
The drive up to the mountains feels different from every other trip I’ve ever taken.
For once, I’m not thinking about hockey. I’m not obsessing over drills, shifts, or whether the coaches are counting every mistake on the ice. There’s no schedule ticking in the back of my mind, no pressure about film sessions or cardio. The team gave us the weekend off, and Phoenix grabbed the opportunity as if it were the only opening in a crowded defense.
Now it’s just the two of us in his car, the hum of the heater filling the silence as snow builds along the shoulder of the winding road. Phoenix drives with one hand on the wheel, the other stretched casually across the console, fingers brushing mine like even here, he can’t stand not to touch me.
I catch myself staring more than once. The way his jaw flexes when he’s focused, how the pale winter light cuts across his cheekbones—he looks like he belongs in one of those gritty magazine spreads, the kind that makes people forget hockey’s supposed to be brutal. He’s sharp lines and quiet fire, every movement deliberate.
“Stop staring, Lee,” Phoenix mutters, not even glancing at me. “You’re gonna make me drive us into a snowbank.”
I grin, leaning back. “You’d never let that happen. You’re too controlling.”
“Damn right,” he says, no hesitation.
We pull up on a gravel road tucked between large patches of trees. The cabin is cute. There’s no other word for it. A wraparound porch, soft light spilling from the windows, snow piled thick on the roof like it’s been waiting for us. It’s so different from the locker rooms, the cold rinks, the constant noise of teammates.
Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and something warm, like someone baked cookies here earlier. The living room has a stonefireplace already set with a fire, and thick wool blankets are draped over the couch.
“Damn,” I say, kicking my boots off. “You really went all out.”
Phoenix drops our bags near the door, shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only the best for you.”
It shouldn’t make my chest ache the way it does, but it does. We wander through the cabin, checking out the bedrooms and the kitchen, until Phoenix tugs me toward the back door. He slides it open, and steam hits my face immediately—there’s a hot tub on the patio, bubbling under fairy lights strung overhead. Beyond it, the snow is untouched, glowing gold under the lights.
“Tell me that’s not perfect,” he says, smug.
I laugh. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”
He smirks, pulling me close by the waist. “So. How long before you strip and get in?”
I shove at his chest, heat rushing to my face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Prude,” he fires back, already nipping at my jaw.
Phoenix doesn’t let the hot tub go.
All through dinner—steak searing in the pan, potatoes roasting in the oven, a bottle of red wine cracked open just because he insists—it’s like he’s circling the idea, dropping comments with that sharp grin that makes me sweat.
“Bet you’ll last ten minutes out there before you’re begging me to warm you up.”
