Chapter 2
Magnus
The ice still sings in my blood.
That sound—the whistle, the horn, the way the crowd roared when Leander buried the puck—it’s still echoing in my head as I stride down the tunnel with the boys. My heart pounds with adrenaline, my grin stretching wide, sharp enough to split my face.
God, I love this game.
But what I love even more? The look on Alaric Hale’s face when I got under his skin.
That’s a fucking masterpiece I’ll replay all night.
The way his jaw tightened. The way his body froze for just a second, just long enough for me to steal the puck.
He prides himself on being untouchable, all icy composure and rich-boy discipline.
But tonight? I cracked him wide open with one little whisper.
Maybe a good fuck will loosen you up.
God, I wanted to laugh at his shocked expression—the way he flushed, eyes wide, like the thought actually hit him. Like maybe he wanted it.
I chuckle low, shaking sweat-damp hair out of my face as we hit the locker room.
Helmets thunk into cubbies, sticks clatter against racks, the air already thick with the ripe smell of victory sweat.
The Wolves are loud, celebrating, slapping each other’s backs, replaying plays in fast, excited bursts.
Me? I lean back against my locker, watching the room, still riding that high. My knuckles sting faintly from a scuffle earlier in the game, little cuts lining my hands. I flex them, savoring the ache. Proof of the fight. Proof I earned this.
Unlike Alaric.
That’s the part that really gets me. I clawed my way into this league—fights in junior, endless hours on shitty community rinks, blood and sweat and busted bones.
Meanwhile, Alaric Hale had the world handed to him on a silver platter.
Daddy’s money. Daddy’s influence. Sure, he’s good—no denying that.
But no one ever doubted he’d make it. No one ever whispered he was trash, told him to quit, said he’d never amount to shit.
And yet, despite everything, despite all my fire and rage—he still manages to look down at me. With those dark gray eyes, cold as steel, like I’m something to be managed.
It makes me want to ruin him. It makes me want him writhing under me so he knows I’m the one in control. I’m the one who clawed my way here and he can’t do anything about it.
Fuck.
Leander walks by me—still in half his gear, cheeks flushed, eyes bright like he hasn’t quite realized the game’s over. “Nice setup, Magnus,” he says, voice quick and eager. “Couldn’t have buried it without you.”
I grin, softer for him than I mean to. “Kid, you would’ve found a way. But yeah, I’ll take the assist.”
Across the room, Phoenix Locke watches us with that sharp captain’s gaze, head tilted, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Careful, Leander,” he calls over the music. “Don’t let Flint steal you away. I’ve spent months training you to be useful.”
The whole room erupts in laughter, guys banging their sticks against lockers, the energy bouncing back and forth like a live wire.
I lean back, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Captain. I’m not poaching. Just keeping the rookie warm for you.”
Phoenix narrows his eyes, all mock-seriousness. “That’s my job.”
Leander rolls his eyes, caught between us, muttering, “I’m not anyone’s,” but his grin gives him away. He’s eating this up, and good for him. Kid deserves it.
The Wolves are a family, dysfunctional as hell, but solid. And I’ll protect Cameron same as anyone else—kid reminds me of myself when I first clawed my way in, before the league hardened me.
Still, while they joke, while Leander basks in praise, I drift. My gaze slides, unbidden, toward the other side of the building. Toward the Titans’ locker room. Toward him.
Alaric’s probably in there right now, tearing himself apart. He’ll blame himself for that puck, for the goal. He’ll sit there, shoulders tight, jaw locked, trying to bury the shame. And I’ll smile knowing I put it there.
“Flint.” Somebody calls my name over the noise.
I blink back to the room. Guys are sprawled on benches, half-dressed, laughing and tossing towels.
The smell of sweat and liniment hangs heavy in the air.
Someone’s phone is playing a bad pop remix through tinny speakers.
I’m still leaning against my locker, still replaying that moment on the ice like a looped highlight reel.
“What the hell did you say to Hale out there?” asks Grayson, one of our wingers. He’s grinning as he unlaces his skates. “He looked like he saw a ghost. You chirped him and he just—bam—lost the puck.”
There’s a chorus of chuckles, a few “Yeah, what was that?” thrown in from across the room. They’re all hungry for the secret, like it’s a new trick they can add to their arsenal.
I smirk, slow and lazy. “Trade secret.”
“C’mon, man,” Jax chimes in. “You gotta tell us. You had Ice Prince Hale looking like a rookie. Bet it was filthy.”
I laugh low, shaking my head. “Filthy enough that I’m not repeating it.”
That earns a wave of groans and wolf whistles. Someone tosses a rolled-up sock at me; it bounces off my shoulder. Leander, still glowing from his goal, calls across, “Seriously, Magnus. What did you say? He looked ready to murder you.”
“I’m not telling,” I say again, this time softer, almost to myself.
Because the truth isn’t a clever insult, it’s a whisper. It’s the way I leaned close, lips at his ear, and said the thing I’ve wanted to do to him for two seasons running. And the way his eyes widened, pupils blown, just for a second before his mask snapped back into place.
That moment plays in my head now, vivid as a photograph. The small hitch of his breath. The red creeping up his neck. The look that wasn’t just anger. My pulse spikes, a warm pulse low in my stomach. Christ. I’m getting turned on in the middle of the locker room.
I drop down on the bench, elbows on my knees, hiding my face in my hands for a second like I’m just tired.
But I can feel it—heat curling in me, the taste of him still in my mouth even though I’ve never had him.
I told myself it was about rattling him, about revenge for every cold look and rich-boy smirk.
But the image of him frozen under my whisper is something else entirely.
Phoenix’s voice cuts through the din. “Leave him alone, guys. He’s not gonna spill.”
There’s some playful booing, but one by one they drift back into their own conversations, planning where to go if the buses ever show, bragging about hits and shots.
Phoenix comes over, towel slung around his neck, captain’s gaze steady. He stands over me for a beat before speaking, voice pitched low so the others can’t hear. “You’ve got that look.”
I glance up, trying for a blank expression. “What look?”
“The look I used to get when I would torment Cameron.” His mouth tilts into a wry smile. “The one you get when you’re not just trash-talking someone. When you’re hunting.”
I huff a laugh. “Hunting? You make me sound like a creep.”
“You sound like one.” His smile fades, eyes sharpening. “Careful, Magnus. Obsession gets guys in trouble. Especially when it’s someone like Hale.”
I roll my shoulders, leaning back against the locker. “It’s just a game, Locke. Mind games are part of it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And you always get that little half-smile when it’s ‘just a game’?”
I look away, down at my hands, flexing my knuckles. The sting of the cuts is grounding, but not enough. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Phoenix says quietly. “Keep it that way. Because Hale’s not some scrappy rookie you can rough up and forget about. He’s got a reputation. A family name. If you tangle with him off the ice, it’s not gonna be a fair fight.”
For a heartbeat, something like a warning flickers in his eyes, like he’s my older brother, not my captain. He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, firm. “Enjoy the win, Flint. Don’t start a war you can’t finish.”
Then he’s gone, striding back to Leander, ruffling the rookie’s hair and barking instructions about cooldown stretches.
I stay seated, staring at the scuffed floor.
The laughter fades into smaller conversations—guys dissecting plays, arguing about who had the dirtiest hit, who owes who a drink. It’s the usual chaos of victory, and for a moment, I let it wash over me. This is family, messy and loud and mine.
But even here, surrounded by my team, my head drifts.
I picture the Titans’ locker room on the other side of the arena.
I can see it in my mind’s eye: quieter, colder, heavy with loss.
Hale sitting stiff-backed on the bench, his expression carved from ice, teammates giving him space because they know better than to poke at the rich boy when he’s brooding.
I know he’s blaming himself. That’s the kind of man he is—takes every loss like it’s a personal failure, like the whole weight of the team sits square on his narrow, aristocratic shoulders. And I know he’s thinking about me.
The way his eyes widened when I whispered in his ear. The way his body locked up, just for a second. The way his control cracked. It makes my blood surge hotter than the win itself.
I should be celebrating with my team, focused on the points we just earned, the climb in the standings. Instead, I’m sitting here half-hard, grinning like a maniac, because I got Alaric Hale to stutter. That icy bastard. That polished, perfect defenseman who thinks he’s untouchable.
He’s not, and I want to prove it again.
The locker room is still humming when the first staffer pushes through the door. She’s bundled in a parka, snow dusting her shoulders, hair damp from melt. The second I see her face—pinched, wary—I know something’s off.
“Everyone, listen up,” she calls over the music. “The storm’s gotten worse. Whiteout conditions. No buses are running, and the roads are closing. It’s not safe to send anyone home tonight.”
A beat of silence, then groans roll through the room.
“You’re kidding.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
“We’re stuck here?”