The rink goes quiet.
Leander doesn’t move until Eric backs up a step. Then he turns, shooting me a look—steady, protective, like he’s standing guard. Something in my chest twists, something equal parts gratitude and guilt.
I nod once. Blow the whistle. “Line drills. Let’s go.”
The tension breaks as the guys scatter back into formation. But it sticks in me like a splinter.
Because Eric isn’t wrong. The edits, the speculation—I’ve seen them, too. I just don’t acknowledge it. Don’t let it live in my head. But lately, it’s been harder to ignore. Reporters ask sly questions during press conferences. Fans scream shit from the stands. Everyone wants to know what’s going on between me and Leander.
And the worst part is, they’re not wrong. They can sense it. The way I look at him. The way he looks at me.
We can’t hide forever.
The whistle shrieks again, and the drill starts. But my focus is fractured. The weight of eyes, of rumors, of the goddamn championship breathing down our necks—it’s pressing in. The guys push hard, but I see cracks. Lazy passes. Sloppy shifts. My calm wavers, replaced with a familiar itch. The one that says if I don’t snap them into shape now, it’ll all fall apart.
I try to swallow it down. Breathe. Remember the steadiness. But as the minutes tick by, as Eric fumbles a pass and Jax drifts too wide, as the sloppiness mounts, the itch claws deeper.
I blow the whistle harder than I need to. “Again.”
They groan.
“Again!” My voice echoes sharply against the rafters.
This time, they hustle. They know that tone. The drill sharpens. Cleaner. But not enough. Not with the championship coming. Not with the media breathing down our necks and everyone waiting to see if we’ll choke. I don’t even realize when my calm slips away, when my voice rises. The old, reckless firetakes over. My commands turn sharp, punishing. Skates pound the ice harder. Sticks crack against boards.
Leander catches my eye mid-drill, sweat on his brow, breath harsh. He sees it. He knows. His look says everything:You’re slipping.
But I can’t stop. Not now. Because if we fall apart on the ice, everything else—everything I’ve built with him, with this team—will crash with it.
I don’t care if they hate me for it. I don’t care if they bleed. We’re going to win, even if it kills us.
The drill ends in chaos—sweat, curses, the burn of lactic acid in our legs. I finally blow the whistle, sharp enough to slice the tension, and the guys collapse onto the bench. Helmets clatter to the floor, water bottles hiss open. The rink smells like rubber, ice, and exhaustion.
I keep standing, hands on my hips, chest heaving. The old fire hums in my blood, even though I know I pushed them too hard.
Leander throws me a look across the bench—stern, steady. Not angry, but warning. I know that look. I’ve been pushing. I’ve been slipping back into the version of me I promised him was gone.
But before I can even think about it, Eric drifts over to him, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat dripping down his temple. He’s grinning like an idiot, even though he looks half-dead from the drills.
“Hey, Leander,” he says, loud enough that the whole bench can hear. “Do us all a favor, huh? Let Phoenix get some tonight. Captain Sunshine plays way better than Captain from Hell.”
The rink erupts with half-choked laughs, water spraying out of bottles. My stomach drops.
Leander’s face goes still. Then red. He stands so fast his water bottle clatters to the ground. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Eric blinks, still smirking. “Relax, man, I’m just?—”
Leander’s fist connects with his jaw before the sentence finishes. The crack echoes through the rink, sharp as a puck against the boards. Eric stumbles back, clutching his face.
“Leander!” My voice rips out of me, but it’s too late. He’s on Eric again, fists flying, pure fury in every hit. The bench explodes into chaos, guys scrambling to pull them apart, shouting over each other.
I launch forward, grabbing Leander around the chest, hauling him back with everything I’ve got. He thrashes, wild, teeth bared like an animal.
Johnny gets Eric pinned on the other side, shouting at him to shut the fuck up.
“Leander!” I bark in his ear, dragging him toward the boards. “Enough!”
But he shoves against me, trying to break free. “No! He doesn’t get to talk about you like that! He doesn’t—” His voice cracks, rage and something else bleeding through.
