Chapter 2
LEANDER
The locker room is finally quiet. The echo of laughter and footsteps fades down the hall until there’s nothing left but the hum of the fluorescent lights above and the drip of water from the showers. I’ve always preferred the silence. The peace to be with my thoughts.
I peel back the sleeve of my shirt, revealing a faint bruise blooming along my bicep.
Phoenix Locke doesn’t pull punches, not on the ice and not off it.
He plays like the world is his battlefield and anyone in his path is collateral.
I rub my thumb over the mark, studying the way it darkens in the mirror’s reflection.
Minor. Nothing I can’t handle. Still, it stirs something sharp in me, something I’d rather keep buried.
Aggression. Chaos. Recklessness. All the things I’ve spent my life steering away from, he wears like armor. And yet, standing across from him today, I felt that old familiar pull—the temptation to give in to the storm instead of resisting it.
I splash cold water on my face, the sting a reminder to stay grounded. But the bruise takes my mind back to before.
To my father’s shaking hands and glassy eyes. To the sound of bottles cracking on the kitchen floor. To nights when he’d scream at shadows no one else could see, rage filled every corner of the house until it felt like the walls might shatter.
I was eight the night my mom walked out.
She didn’t even look back. Just grabbed her jacket, muttered something about not being able to live like this anymore, and left the front door swinging open behind her.
My father had collapsed on the couch with a needle still in his arm.
And Silas—fourteen and furious—was the only one who stayed.
Silas picked up the pieces when no one else would. He worked double shifts, kept food in the kitchen, and kept me alive. I learned fast that the only way to survive in a house like that was to stay small, stay quiet, stay in control. If you didn’t, you became another casualty of his rage.
I catch my own eyes in the mirror. Steady. Calm. That’s the only way I know how to be. And yet, Phoenix… he pushes at those edges like he can sense what’s underneath. Like he knows there’s something brittle in me waiting to shatter.
I hate how close he got today. How his grin burned into me even when he lost the puck. How his words dug deeper than they should have. He’s too reckless, too wild. The kind of person I should keep at arm’s length. The kind of person who reminds me too much of my childhood.
And still, I can’t stop thinking about him.
My hand clenches around the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Stay calm. Stay easy.
“Not this time,” I mutter to my reflection, my voice low, certain. “I won’t let someone like him pull me under.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
Phoenix isn’t just anyone. He represents the storm I’ve been running from my whole damn life. The risk of unraveling. Of finally screaming at the sky. If I ever get to the point, I couldn’t pull myself back together again.
I lean forward, palms flat on the sink, water dripping down my face in steady trails. For a second, my reflection blurs, and I almost see another boy there. Younger. Smaller. Wide-eyed and braced for the next storm inside a house that was never safe.
Back then, bruises weren’t from hockey. They were from ducking too slowly when a glass bottle flew across the room. From trying to shield my father from himself when the drugs took over and he thrashed against anyone who came near.
Silas always told me, Stay calm, Leander. Don’t let him see he can hurt you. His voice became a mantra, a rope I clung to in the chaos. He carried the weight no kid should’ve carried, and he taught me early that composure was our sharpest weapon.
Rage and tears just made us targets.
So I learned to control everything: my breath, expression, and words. I learned to shrink into silence when noise could destroy me. I learned never to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing my emotions—of seeing me.
Phoenix is the opposite. He’s all noise and fire, every emotion pouring out of him in a way that demands attention.
He thrives on chaos, where I suffocate from it.
Being near him feels too much like being back in that house—heat, danger, unpredictability clawing at the edges of my carefully built walls.
And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I didn’t back away. Not when he leaned too close, not when his voice dipped low like a dare. A part of me wanted to step into that fire. To feel something raw and unrestrained, even if it burned.
I drag in a breath, staring myself down in the mirror until the old ghosts fade from my vision. I tell myself Phoenix is just another teammate. Just another emotion to avoid.
But my chest still tightens with the truth I don’t want to admit:
He’s already deep under my skin.
The whistle blows sharply, slicing through the heavy rink air. Coach barks orders for another drill, and skates carve into the ice as the team splits into lines. My lungs already burn, sweat sticking damp beneath my pads.
Yesterday, I was sharp, alive in every play. Today, I can’t keep my focus straight. Every mistake and misstep feels like it has Phoenix Locke’s name on it. And of course, he notices.
“Careful, Cameron,” Phoenix coos from across the ice after I bobble a puck during a transition drill. His grin is wide, wolfish. “Wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself after that hot streak yesterday. Must’ve been a fluke, huh?”
The guys laugh, a ripple of amusement skating down the line. Not cruel, not yet, but Phoenix knows how to twist the knife just enough to make the whole rink lean his way. He thrives on it.
I roll my shoulders back, refusing to give him more than a glance. “Maybe you should focus on keeping your stick on the ice instead of running your mouth.”
A few snorts of approval come from the line behind me, but Phoenix only smiles bigger. He loves this. Loves the back-and-forth. Somehow, the more I resist, the harder he pushes. I don’t know how to fucking get him off my back.
The drill resets. The puck drops. We tear across the ice, blades biting hard. I keep low, chest forward, determined not to give him another excuse. But Phoenix is on me like a shadow, dogging my every stride. His stick clatters against mine, body pressing too close in what should be a clean drill.
“Don’t choke this time,” he hisses near my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
I shove him off with my shoulder and send the puck forward, sharp and clean, to Nolan waiting near the crease. A perfect pass—textbook.
“Finally,” Phoenix drawls, tapping his stick against the ice. “Took you long enough.”
More chuckles from the other guys. My jaw locks. I want to ignore him, but every word digs deep, stirring something between fury and fascination. Why me? Why single me out when half the team is dragging today?
Scrimmage begins next, blue jerseys against white. I pull my helmet tighter, forcing myself into the zone. If Phoenix wants to make me a target, that’s fine. I’ll show him that I thrive under pressure.
The puck drops. Sticks clash, bodies slam into the boards, blades shriek across the ice.
I skate hard, adrenaline burning through the fog in my head.
The puck finds its way toward me, and I drive forward, cutting past defenders with clean strides.
But Phoenix is there. Always there. He matches me move for move, his presence like a weight pressing on my back.
His stick jabs, forcing me wider, my angle shrinking.
“You had that yesterday,” he taunts, voice low, meant only for me. “What’s wrong? Getting scared?”
I grit my teeth, forcing the puck through his reach. He clips my hip with his stick, too aggressive for practice. My balance wobbles, and the puck slides free. Phoenix snatches it, skating off with a laugh that makes the blood roar in my ears.
The drill ends with his team scoring. He lifts his arms like he’s just won the Stanley Cup. “Guess the prodigy’s human after all!”
Laughter again. Louder this time. Not cruel, but enough to sting. Enough to make my chest tighten with that old familiar heat. I skate back to the line, face blank, pulse hammering.
Breathe. Don’t give him what he wants.
But beneath the calm mask, something twists.
I’m not particularly angry at the attention.
Part of me is lit up in a way I can’t explain.
Phoenix doesn’t bother hazing people he doesn’t care about.
If he’s this relentless, it means I’ve gotten under his skin, too.
Or maybe, I’m just good enough to catch his eye.
Another whistle. Coach barks for one last scrimmage. “Tighten it up out there! No passengers.”
The puck drops again, and this time I skate with a clarity I haven’t felt all practice. Phoenix wants me rattled. He wants me stumbling. I won’t give him that. Not today.
I cut across the ice, intercepting the puck clean. My legs pump harder, my lungs screaming, but I push past it and drive through.
Phoenix barrels after me, his stick clashing against mine.
“Come on, Cameron,” he growls, breathless. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And I do. I snap the puck hard to the top corner of the net, slipping it past the goalie’s glove with precision. The red light flares. Goal.
The team whoops, sticks tapping the ice. Even Coach gives a short nod of approval. I skate back slowly, meeting Phoenix’s gaze as he pulls up near the blue line. His grin is still there, sharp as ever, but there’s something else beneath it—something tight, sparking.
“I see you, Lee,” he says finally, tapping his stick once against the ice.
I don’t answer. Just glide past, every nerve alive under his stare. Did he just call me Lee? Like we’re friends? Like he’s proud of me?