We tumble under the sheets, and I can feel the familiar hunger rising in me—but it’s different this time. Not desperate, not obsessive. Just… need. For him. For us. I roll on top of him, holding him down gently at first, brushing my lips over his jawline, his neck, his collarbone. He sighs, soft and trembling, leaning into me.
“You feel so good,” I murmur, voice low, reverent even. I trace the curve of his shoulder with my hand, feeling the warmth, the softness.
He tries to push me gently, stopping me from going further. “Phoenix… wait,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself.”
“I’m all better now,” I say roughly into his neck.
“Nix,” His eyes are pleading. “Be gentle with yourself.”
I pause, meeting his gaze. And that’s when it hits me—the tenderness, the trust, the vulnerability in his eyes. This isn’t about domination or obsession. This is about us. About being together. About him thinking he almost lost me.
I nod, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Alright,” I murmur, “gentle.”
We move together slowly, deliberately, each kiss, each touch meaningful. My hands slide over his sides and along his back, memorizing every inch. He gasps softly as I trail my lips down his chest, and I hold him close, making sure every movement is gentle and attentive.
Finally, he parts his lips slightly, whispering, “Phoenix…” I lift my eyes, and his gaze meets mine, filled with longing and trust. I feel the familiar heat build but tempered by care.
I pull off his clothes, kissing every flash of skin. I align myself with him, slowly entering, savoring every reaction. He arches under me, soft moans escaping his lips, but his hands stay steady on my arms, guiding, grounding, letting me know he’s present.
We move together, slowly, passionately. It’s soft, but every motion is intimate, every breath shared. I feel him clench around me, a shiver running down my spine at the pure trust he gives me. He’s not hiding from me, not holding back. And I respond in kind, cherishing him, loving him with every movement.
The rhythm builds naturally, but we stay tender, taking time to explore the closeness, the warmth, the connection. His hands grip my shoulders lightly, his lips brushing mine between breaths, whispering my name. The world outside ceases to exist.
Afterward, we collapse into each other, tangled in blankets and limbs, the weight of us pressing together, soft and steady. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling, memorizing the scent of him, the warmth, the quiet rise and fall of his chest.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur, lips brushing over his temple. “I could stay like this forever.”
He laughs softly, a content, sleepy sound. “It’s a good thing you’re buying me a house so we can do this forever.”
I stroke his hair, pressing my forehead against his, savoring this moment of quiet intimacy. Soft, tender, filled with trust. Not the rough, aggressive nights of obsession and hunger—but this. This is ours. This is love, in its simplest, purest form.
And as he drifts off in my arms, I realize—this is what I’ve been fighting for all along. Not just him in my bed, not just victories on the ice—but this. Him, with me, completely, utterly, and gently mine.
I step onto the ice and feel the familiar bite of the cold, the sharp scent of the rink filling my lungs. My skates cut into the surface with precision, the scrape of metal against ice a rhythm that instantly centers me. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been out here, days spent nursing my head, letting Leander fuss over me, letting Silas’ calm presence remind me what normal feels like. But now, with the championship only five days away, it’s time to get back to what I do best—lead.
The team is lined up, waiting for me to call the first drill. Jax gives me a nod, a mix of respect and reassurance, and I feel a warmth in my chest. He kept them in line while I was out, ran practices, yelled at the boys, and didn’t let anyone slip. But now it’s my turn again. My turn to push them, to mold them, to remind them that this team isn’t just about skill—it’s about grit, heart, and unity.
“Alright, Wolves,” I say, voice cutting across the rink. The chatter dies down immediately, eyes locking on me. “Five days to the championship. I don’t care what anyone says—this is our ice, our game, our city. Everyone’s going to come at us hard. Every hit counts. Every pass counts. Every single one of you needs to be ready to fight for each other.”
I glance at Leander. He’s skating next to Jax, looking focused but relaxed, muscles taut and ready. I can see him listening, but he’s also watching me, that look in his eyes that reminds me he’s mine, that we’re in this together. I feel a swell of pride. Not just for him—but for all of us.
The first drill is aggressive, high tempo. I call for puck control under pressure, rapid passes, rapid movement. My body remembers the rhythm instantly, and I watch as the team responds. It’s smoother than I expected—better than I hoped. They’ve learned from my absence, from Jax’s guidance, from being forced to adjust on their own.
I push them harder, faster. I demand more precise passes, sharper angles, quicker reactions. Leander keeps up effortlessly, ducking a body check from a teammate and sending the puck flying to me in perfect sync. I catch it mid-stride and fire it at the goal—watching the boy who moments ago dodged me now slip into the net to redirect a rebound perfectly.
I can’t stop the grin. He’s growing into his role, becoming a force on the ice, and the rest of the team is responding to him, too. No longer are they ignoring him or avoiding passes; they’refeeding him the puck, trusting him to make the plays. My chest swells with pride, but it’s not just for him—it’s for the cohesion I see blooming.
We move into line drills and aggressive scrimmage scenarios, and I watch as the team works seamlessly together. Hits are timed, passes are anticipated, and everyone moves as one unit. I bark instructions and challenge them to think faster, hit harder, and skate smarter. And they do. They rise to it.
Leander catches my eye during a pause. He’s grinning, sweat dripping down his face, chest heaving, but there’s that fire there, that raw joy of being alive, of being part of something bigger than himself. And I know he feels the bond between us, the unity with the team, the sheer electricity of being in the rink at this moment and being fully present.
I call for a full scrimmage next. Body checks come hard and fast. I put Leander on my line, knowing he can handle the intensity. We move like a machine—puck possession, strategic plays, aggressive defense. The team is sharp, and I can see the way they watch each other, anticipate, communicate silently. The tension from the media, the whispering from fans, none of it matters now. Here, on this ice, it’s just us, just the Wolves.
After nearly an hour of non-stop drills, I blow the whistle. The boys skid to a stop, breathing hard, sweat freezing on their helmets.
“Good. That’s the pace I want for the championship,” I shout, voice echoing off the walls. “Five days, and we move like this. Tight. Focused. Relentless. You’re not just playing against them—you’re playing for each other.”
The team starts to gather their gear, joking and laughing as the tension eases. I watch Leander high-five teammates, smiles all around. No awkwardness, no resentment. Just respect and camaraderie.
