Chapter 3
PHOENIX
The bar buzzes—loud music, sticky floors, the sharp tang of spilled beer mixed with fry grease.
First win of the season, and Coach Bryant has loosened the leash enough to let us celebrate. Shots line up, rookies get teased, everyone laughs loud enough to drown out the exhaustion still riding our legs.
I don’t like waiting for the buzz to build. I like shortcuts.
Jax leans in, sensing my frustration, voice low, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Hey, you want to hit the back for a sec?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Got something for me?”
He smirks, producing a tiny baggie from the pocket of his hoodie. “Nothing wild. Just enough to feel a little… better. You in?”
I glance around the bar—teammates too wrapped up in their own chaos to notice a thing. “Why not?” I shrug.
The back hallway swallows us. I follow Jax into the shadows of the bathroom, where the fluorescent light flickers and casts everyone in half-shadows. He moves first, careful and practiced, setting the powder on the counter.
“I’m not taking it on that nasty ass counter.” I grimace.
“Your loss,” Jax pulls quickly while there’s no one in sight.
I tap it to the back of my hand, inhale, and let it slide smoothly. Fire up the sinuses, edge sharpened.
My limbs feel lighter, my thoughts just a fraction more focused. Jax coughs, grimaces, shaking his head like he’s been hit by a truck. “Goddamn, that’s strong,” he mutters.
“Part of the fun,” I say, wiping my nose casually. He’s still staggering a little as we leave, grinning dumbly.
Back in the bar, the team has staked out a long stretch of tables. Glasses clink and voices rise in bursts of laughter. Everyone looks loose, electric from the win. I slide into the crowd,
throwing an arm around Nolan’s shoulders, stealing a fry off his plate. “Boys,” I drawl, letting the grin spread. “Finally looks like a team worth watching.”
Cheers erupt around me. Easy. Too easy.
But then my eyes catch on him.
Leander.
He sits at the far edge of the group, not quite apart but not in it either. His beer sits untouched, condensation dripping slowly down the glass. He laughs at the right moments when someone tosses a joke his way, but it’s soft, delayed. Always a step behind.
Most of the others wouldn’t notice. Too wrapped up in noise and booze. But of course I see him.
I lean back, watching him. Something about the way he carries himself, like he’s trying so hard to disappear and failing. Like he’s holding himself together with invisible thread.
I want to tug on those loose strings and see what unravels.
I push up from my chair, weaving through the crush of bodies until I land in the empty seat next to him.
“Quiet night for you, Cameron,” I say, voice casual, grin sharp.
His eyes flick up, wary, then down again. “Just tired.”
I drum my fingers against the table, leaning forward. “Come on. First win. You’re supposed to be celebrating, not brooding like some tragic hero.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not into a smile. More like irritation. “I’m not brooding.”
“Sure you’re not.” I tilt my head, studying him. Up close, I can see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He’s hiding something. I’d bet my next paycheck on it.
Most people, I’d leave it there, take the jab, move on. But with him? I want more. I want to know what’s under that carefully sealed surface.
I soften my tone just a notch. “Seriously, though. You good? Yesterday you were flying on the ice. Today you looked… off.”
His gaze snaps up, sharp this time. Defensive. “I’m fine.”
I let the silence stretch, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. Manipulation is an art, press too hard and people shut down. Better to leave the question hanging, make them wonder why you asked.
“Alright,” I say lightly, grabbing one of his untouched fries. “But if you tank next practice, I’m telling Coach it’s because you don’t know how to party properly.”
That earns me a look half irritation, half something else I can’t name. Is that his version of amusement? Intrigue, maybe. Or suspicion. Either way, it means I’ve hooked him enough that I’ll stay in his head tonight.
The team starts a round of shots, yelling over each other, daring anyone to skip.
I take one with a dramatic flourish, tossing it back without flinching—then Leander’s, before he can pour it on the floor.
Around me, the rookies cheer, some spilling beer on the table, laughing so loud I can barely hear myself think.
Leander’s eyes flick to each person, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when a kid next to him knocks back a shot and promptly coughs it out. He stays cool, collected. Perfect.
His brown hair is growing longer. Slightly curling under his ears, like he missed his last haircut. Have his eyes always been such a startling green or was that the coke making the lights brighter?
I lean back in my chair, trying to look casual, letting my eyes drift over to him every so often. Then I nudge him lightly with my elbow. “You’re not playing along?”
“I’m watching,” he says, flat.
I grin. Challenge accepted.
The next dare comes, loud and ridiculous: someone bets they can chug a beer while balancing a fry on their nose. Of course, everyone wants to see it, and the group descends into chaos and laughter, with bets flying.
I pick up Leander’s untouched beer and hold it in front of him. “Come on, Cameron. Don’t just sit there. You’re gonna watch the rookies embarrass themselves while you do nothing?”
He tilts his head, gaze measuring. “I don’t need to prove anything,” he says evenly.
I let my grin widen. Perfect answer. That little edge, that subtle defiance—it’s exactly what I want to see. I nudge him again, lighter this time, teasing. “Right, because being the quiet, mysterious guy is really working out for you tonight.”
His eyes flick to me, the faintest crack of amusement, but he doesn’t break. Not fully. That’s the point. I let it hang there, the invisible pull between us stretching tight.
Shots keep coming around the table, louder now, faster.
Someone dares me to do a lap around the bar while juggling beer bottles.
I laugh, jump to my feet, and do it. Leander doesn’t even blink, but I notice the way his eyes follow my movement, scanning the chaos like he’s analyzing it, cataloging it.
I return to my seat, grinning from the adrenaline, and nudge him again. “See? That’s how you make an entrance.”
He smirks faintly, but it’s brief.
I lean forward, lowering my voice just enough so no one else catches it. “You know, I could make things… interesting. Care to play?”
His gaze snaps up, sharp, wary, but not afraid. Not yet. “I don’t play games,” he says.
“Maybe you just don’t like losing,” I tease.
The corner of his mouth twitches again.
I stand, grabbing his chin and turning it towards me. “Cameron says he’s going to chug his beer all in one go!”
The team whoops as Leander’s eyes narrow. I drop a shot into the beer glass, watching it fizzle over the brim.
I pick up the glass and press it to Leander’s lips. “Open up, Leander.”
Leander’s eyes blaze with something I can’t quite place. But whatever it is, it’s fucking delicious.
His full mouth opens, downing the drink steadily as our team cheers him on. The beer overflows down his neck, soaking the top of his t-shirt. But his eyes never look away from mine.
When he finishes, I pull the glass away and smirk down at him. “You really don’t like losing, do you?” and let it linger, a whisper, a challenge.
Around us, the team was oblivious to the subtle battle I was waging. To everyone else, it was just another night celebrating. But for me, it was a chessboard, and Leander had just become my favorite piece to move.
Leander pulls his chin from my hand, wiping the beer from his mouth as I slide back into the seat next to him.
“You know,” I murmur, leaning just enough so only he can hear, “for someone who claims not to care about impressing anyone, you’re doing a really good job of keeping my attention.”
He stiffens slightly, almost imperceptible, but enough for me to notice. A flicker of tension. A crack in that calm, measured exterior he always carries.
“I’m not trying to impress you,” he says, voice low, controlled.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug and a sly grin. “I didn’t even realize I was watching you until you started standing out. Kind of distracting, actually.”
I lean back in the seat, feigning disinterest while my hand slides low and casual beneath the table.
The chatter and laughter above us is a perfect cover—no one’s looking, no one’s paying attention.
My knee brushes against Leander’s first. Just a tap, testing.
His thigh shifts minutely, a twitch he probably hopes no one notices.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I press again, slow, deliberate, letting the contact linger. My fingers trail across the fabric of his jeans, light enough to be deniable, heavy enough that he knows it’s deliberate. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push me away. But I see a flush growing up his neck.
He shifts just a fraction in his seat, jaw tightening. Good. I let my fingers trail just a little lower under the table, brushing his thigh lightly, careful to stay hidden.
“You always this… untouchable?” I ask softly.
Leander tries to shift away from me, but I grab his knee, pulling it back to me.
He scoffs but doesn’t pull away. “I’m… careful.”
I chuckle under my breath, letting my hand linger, just enough for him to feel it. “Careful’s good,” I whisper, leaning closer. “But sometimes careful is boring. Don’t you think?”
My fingertips skate along his thigh, tracing idle shapes. Circles. A slow drag upward. When I reach halfway, I pause, hovering like I’m about to retreat. He exhales through his nose, sharp, and it fuels me. I press higher. The warmth radiating off him makes my own pulse throb in my throat.