Instinct takes over. I dodge their exhausted winger, heart hammering, and see Phoenix cutting through the slot like a blade. Perfect lane. Perfect timing. I thread the pass. He doesn’t hesitate. One-timer. Stick to the puck to the net. The red light flashes. The horn blares.
Goal.
The arenadetonates.
For half a second, the world freezes. Then my teammates swarm me, arms crushing, gloves pounding my helmet, voices deafening in my ears.
Phoenix fights through the chaos until his arms lock around me so tight it steals my breath. His helmet presses against mine, his voice a rough growl. “You did it.” Notwe.You.
I choke on a laugh, half a sob. “We did it,” I shoot back, voice cracking.
Because he’s wrong. I couldn’t have done it without him. But deep down, some part of me finally, finally believes it. I earned this.
The final buzzer comes with agony and glory. We hold them off, every second dragging, until the horn screams again. Final score: Wolves 3, them 2. We’re champions. The arena erupts into chaos—confetti, sirens, the trophy being hauled onto the ice. Cameras flash. Fans scream our names. I skate in circles like I don’t know what to do with myself, until Phoenix catches me by the jersey and yanks me back to him. His helmet is gone, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes burning with pride. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. Together, we lift the trophy.
The locker room is chaos. Beer cans popping, champagne spraying, music blasting loud enough to rattle the walls. Guys are shouting, laughing, tackling each other into piles of gear. The trophy sits in the middle of it all, sticky with alcohol, kissed and smudged and loved. I sit on the bench for a second, drenched in sweat, helmet dangling from my fingers, just trying to take it all in. The weight of it. The proof.
Phoenix drops down beside me, hair wet from a beer shower, eyes sharp even in the madness.
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Still think you don’t belong?”
I shake my head, throat tight. Words won’t come. He smirks, softer than usual, and for once he doesn’t push. Just lets me sit there, breathing it in. Around us, the team has shifted. They’re not ignoring me anymore. Not treating me like a ghost or a mistake. Tonight, I’m one of them. For the first time, I feel it.
The celebration doesn’t end in the locker room. It spills out into the night like a storm too big to be contained. Jax is the first one to shout it: “We’re hitting the bar!”—and before I can even ask which one, half the team is already cheering. They meanthatbar. The one where it all started. The dim little dive with neon lights and sticky floors, where Phoenix ran his hands over me with that infuriating smirk.
We pile into cabs, some of the other guy’s girlfriend’s waving championship towels out the windows, the trophy itself shoved awkwardly across knees and laps like a sacred relic. The streets are alive with fans in Wolves jerseys, honking horns, slapping the cars as we crawl past. Everyone knows. Frosthaven’s champions are here.
By the time we spill through the doors, the bar is already packed, buzzing with energy. The jukebox can’t compete with the noise, but someone feeds it quarters anyway, and soon a bass-heavy anthem rattles the floorboards. People cheer when they see us, when they seePhoenix—their captain, their star—and then me at his side.
My chest tightens, remembering how different it felt the first time I stood in this room. Back then, I kept to the shadows, ordered a drink and pretended to be invisible. I was careful,restrained, terrified of drawing attention. Phoenix noticed anyway.
Now the same bar feels too small for the life burning in my chest. I don’t hide. I don’t shrink. I throw my head back when Jax drags me into a toast, my throat burning from cheap whiskey, my laugh loud enough to cut through the music. I climb onto a chair when the whole team shouts for a speech, and for once, my voice doesn’t tremble.
“We earned this!” I shout, hoarse and grinning. “Every single one of us. Wolves forever!”
The room erupts, glasses clinking, fists slamming tables.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Phoenix stays steady. He’s not the loudest, not the drunkest. He doesn’t need to be. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he watches us tear the place apart. His calm isn’t cold, not like it used to be. It’s warm, centered, magnetic. A still point in the storm. I catch him watching me, eyes gleaming with pride that steals the breath right from my lungs.
I think about the boy I used to be—the one who played it safe, who never shouted, who never let himself be reckless. He wouldn’t recognize the man I am tonight. The wildness in me isn’t reckless like I once feared—it’s alive, burning, a pulse I didn’t know I carried until Phoenix pulled it to the surface. I’m not calm, not steady. I’m fire and motion, shouting until my throat aches, hugging teammates until my ribs crack, kissing the trophy like it is salvation. I used to see that as a weakness.
Now, it’s my strength.
And Phoenix is the opposite. He’s no longer fire barely contained, lashing out, burning himself down in the process. He’s the anchor. The calm that lets me be wild without fear of drifting too far. When our eyes meet across the room, it feels like something clicks into place—wild and calm, storm and shore. Perfect balance.
I catch him staring, and something inside me stirs—hot, magnetic, inevitable. I don’t look away. He pushes off the wall and walks straight toward me.
“You’re loud tonight,” he murmurs when he reaches me, sliding an arm around my waist.
I lean into him without thinking. “I’m alive tonight.”
His lips brush my temple, barely there. My throat closes tight with emotion.
For a while we stand like that, letting the night swirl around us. But when the music slows, when the rookies start passing out at tables and Jax drunkenly declares himself king of Frosthaven, Phoenix leans down to my ear.
“Come with me,” he says.
There’s no hesitation. I follow him out the back door, into the cold. The night air hits sharp, the kind that wakes you up evenwhen you don’t want it to. Phoenix leads me around the side, past the dumpsters, to a narrow staircase that clings to the brick wall.
