Chapter 2 #2
The woman lifts her hands, calm but firm. “Yes. Both teams. We’ve arranged cots, food, extra blankets. You’ll have to stay in the arena until morning.”
The complaints rise like a wave—guys swearing, tossing gloves, muttering about shitty timing. One of the rookies grumbles about missing his girlfriend’s birthday. Another snaps his towel at a teammate, half-joking, half-pissed.
Me? I sit there and smile.
Because fate just handed me a gift. The Titans are stuck here, too.
Which means he’s stuck here. Alaric Hale, trapped in the same building, nowhere to run, no way to slam a locker door and pretend I don’t exist. The thought makes my blood heat.
The storm outside is a monster, but inside my chest, another one’s already awake—hungry, restless.
I strip off the rest of my pads, slower now, letting the noise of my teammates blur into the background. They’ll grumble, they’ll joke, they’ll pass the time with cards and stories and too much caffeine from the vending machines. Me? I’ve got other plans.
Because I can still see him—out on the ice, that split-second where his composure shattered. The way his stick faltered, the way the puck slipped free, the way shame twisted across his perfect features when I stole the game right out from under him.
He hates me. He hates that he wants me. And I’m going to make damn sure he can’t hide either one tonight.
Phoenix throws his gear into his bag with a grunt. “Guess we’re making this a slumber party,” he mutters, smirking over at me. “Try not to corrupt the rookies, Flint.”
I bare my teeth in a grin. “No promises.”
The room laughs, easy and loud, but none of them know the truth humming under my skin.
This isn’t about the rookies. This isn’t about the Wolves.
It’s about the man in the other locker room, probably pacing like a caged tiger, stewing in his anger and shame.
And the storm outside making sure he can’t escape me.
The contents of my flask burns on its way down, whiskey curling fire into my veins. I tilt it back again, longer this time, until the edges of the world soften and that warm, reckless glow spreads through me. Yeah. That’s better.
Because if I’m going to do what I’m thinking—if I’m going to push this thing with Alaric to the edge and see if it breaks—I need the fire.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean against the locker.
Around me, the room has calmed—guys showering, laughing, peeling out of their gear.
Phoenix is wrangling Leander, telling him to save his energy for morning practice.
Nobody notices me slip the flask back into my jacket, nobody cares when I stand and stretch like I’m restless.
Which I am. Not restless. Hunting, as Locke called it.
The storm’s clawing at the walls of the arena, a constant howl that seeps into the concrete. The air outside the locker room is different—hollow, colder, every footstep echoing through the empty halls. Most of the arena is shut down, dark, the vending machines humming in the silence.
It feels like the world’s been reduced to just this building. Two teams locked inside. No exits, no escape.
I grin. Fate’s a cruel bitch, but tonight, she’s working for me. I know where he’ll be.
Alaric’s not the type to join his boys in poker games or junk food raids. He’ll want space, order, silence. Somewhere to brood about the puck he lost, about me. Because I know he’s thinking about me. He can’t not.
I follow the sound of the storm deeper into the arena.
My skates are gone, traded for sneakers, but I still move like I’m gliding, my body wired to prowl.
The conference rooms are near the offices, glass-walled spaces meant for team strategy and sponsor meetings.
Sterile, too bright under the fluorescents.
And sure enough—there he is.
Alaric sitting alone at the far end of the room, his long body folded into one of the uncomfortable chairs, head bowed into his hand. His silver-blond hair catches the harsh light, throwing sharp edges across his profile. He looks like a fucking painting.
Perfect. Controlled.
I can’t stand it.
I push the door open without knocking. It squeals against the hinges, and his head snaps up. Those dark gray eyes narrow the second they land on me.
“Of course.” His voice is low, warning. “Get out, Flint. I’m sure there’s somebody else you can fuck with tonight.”
I step inside, let the door click shut behind me, and lean against it with a slow grin. “What’s the matter, Ice Prince? Afraid to be alone with me?”
He exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed. “I’m not doing this.”
“Not doing what?” I stalk closer, each step deliberate. “Talking about how you cost your team the game? Or admitting you liked it when I whispered in your ear?”
His jaw tightens. Bingo.
“I didn’t like anything about it,” he says, clipped, each word like it’s carved from stone.
I circle him, slow, predator’s pace, until I’m behind his chair. “Funny,” I murmur. “Because I swear I felt you stutter. Just for a second. Just enough for me to slip in and take what I wanted.”
He grips the armrests like he’s holding himself down. I want to pry those hands loose, see what they do when they’re on me instead.
I lean closer, my mouth just inches from his ear. “Tell me, Alaric… what’s it like to be perfect all the time? Cold, untouchable, Daddy’s money keeping you shiny and clean. Must be exhausting. No wonder you cracked.”
“Fuck you.” The words are hissed, but his voice betrays him—low, strained, not steady.
I laugh, sharp and rough. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He jerks up, spins the chair, and suddenly he’s on his feet, towering over me with that icy fury burning in his eyes. He shoves me back, hard, until my spine hits the glass wall. My flask clatters to the floor.
For a moment, we just breathe. His chest heaves against mine, close enough I can feel the heat of him, smell the clean sweat and faint cologne clinging to his skin.
I grin up at him, hungry. “There it is. The fire under all that ice.”
His hands fist in my shirt. He should push me away. He should storm out, leave me standing here drunk and cocky.
He just stands there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with sharp, measured breaths. His stormy eyes blaze with fury, but I see it—restraint, the leash he refuses to drop.
I grin. “That’s it? One shove? Thought you had more in you, Hale.”
He exhales slow, steady. “I’m not doing this with you.” His voice is even, but tight, like he’s strangling every word on the way out. He steps back, just far enough to give himself room. “You’re drunk. Go bother someone else.”
I tilt my head, savoring the cracks in his armor. “Drunk, sure. But I’m not wrong.”
He turns, like he might walk out, so I pounce.
“You felt it,” I say, low, sharp, threading the words like barbed wire. My fingers hook onto his belt loops, pulling him back against my chest. “Out there on the ice. When I leaned in, when I whispered—your body lit up like a fuse.”
He freezes. Just for a second. That’s all I need.
I push harder. “You can stand here, all stiff and perfect, pretending you’re untouchable. But I know the truth. You’re hard right now, aren’t you? Just from me talking.”
His shoulders lock, and heat flares in his cheeks. That’s my answer.
I laugh, dark and satisfied. “God, that’s pathetic. All it takes is a few dirty words and you’re burning under all that fucking ice. Tell me—what exactly is it that does it for you? The way I said I’d loosen you up? Or are you imagining me shoving you down to your knees right here?”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t deny it.
“You think I don’t notice the way you watch me? All that hate in your eyes—it’s just a cover. You want me to break you. You want me to ruin that perfect little image you’re clinging to.”
“Shut up,” he growls, low, dangerous.
“Make me,” I whisper, grinning.
He snaps his head up, eyes flashing. His forearm presses against my throat, choking me just enough to make it feel euphoric.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?
You’re just screwing with me. Let’s make fun of the gay rich kid who bought his way onto the team!
You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? This is just some experiment for you, right?
Some ‘let’s see how far I can push him’ phase before you go back to whatever girl’s waiting in your bed? ”
I freeze for a fraction of a second, and then laugh. “You think I’m confused?” My voice is a growl. “Yeah, I’ve got some girl back in my bed, but all my mind can focus on is you.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “You—”
“I want you,” I cut in, low and rough. I press my crotch against his hip so he can see I’m enjoying his threats a little too much.
“I want to get under your skin until you can’t breathe without thinking about me.
And I don’t do experiments.” My hand drags down his chest to his hip, not subtle anymore. “I know who the fuck I am.”
He’s searching my face now, a blush rushing up his neck, his gray eyes soft and vulnerable under all that steel. Alaric is caught, ruined in my hands.
“I—I don’t—”
The tension snaps. I surge forward, forcing his arm out of the way, crushing my mouth against his.
The kiss is anger and teeth, all the things we can’t say with words.
My hands slam into his hips, shoving him back against the glass with a sound like a gunshot.
His lips part under mine, hot and furious, and for a moment he doesn’t resist. His body betrays him again—pressing closer, heat sparking where we collide.
He makes a sound low in his throat, half curse, half groan, and fists my shirt. He’s trembling—not with fear, but with something darker. I push in harder, tilting his head back to take more, bite more. The glass behind him fogs with our breath, streaking under my palms.
I taste him—salt, adrenaline, a faint sweetness like the moment before a fight. He tastes like fury. Like a man trying not to want what he already needs.
He tears his mouth away long enough to rasp, “This—this isn’t—”
I catch his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. “This is exactly what it looks like.” I snarl.
He tries for a smirk, weak but still fighting. “What, me being your trophy?”
My grin is feral. “No. You being mine tonight.” I kiss him again, harder, swallowing whatever protest he was about to make.
His hands tighten in my shirt, pulling me closer even as he shoves weakly at my chest. Our mouths clash, a push-pull of hatred and hunger. It’s not gentle, not even close. It’s a crash of bodies, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, both of us fighting for the upper hand and losing ourselves instead.
I press my thigh between his, feeling the tremor in him, the way his breath catches. His cock is long and hard against my thigh, making a groan rumble in my chest. “Still think I’m experimenting?” I murmur against his lips. “Still think I don’t know what I want?”
He glares at me, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, but his hips shift just enough to answer. The glass rattles behind him. The sound of the storm outside filters in, muted, like the world has shrunk down to just us and this heat.
I drag the kiss out, long and rough, until his hands go slack in my shirt, until he’s panting against my mouth. He tastes like surrender and fury, like the edge of a blade. Every time he pulls back, I take more, until there’s no space left between us.
When I finally ease back, our foreheads are touching, our breath mingling. His eyes are blown wide, pupils huge, chest heaving. I stroke my thumb over his jaw, slow and deliberate, and watch him try to gather himself.
“See?” I murmur against his lips. “I told you. You can’t resist me.”
And the best part? He doesn’t even try.