Chapter 5
PHOENIX
Iwake up buzzing.
It’s been two days since the phone call, but the sound of Leander’s voice still curls low in my gut like an ember I can’t stamp out.
I can still hear him, that quiet, reluctant way he breathed into the receiver, the almost-broken hush when I pushed too far. I can’t decide what satisfied me more—dragging those words out of him or knowing he let me.
Either way, I’m starving for more.
All weekend, my mind hasn’t slowed. Every little detail from that night replays when I close my eyes: the way his silence stretched, taut and shaking; the hitch of breath when I told him what I’d do if we weren’t separated by a phone line. He cracked, just enough. And he let me hear it.
That’s the part that’s driving me insane.
Leander—guarded, disciplined, stiff-as-concrete Leander—gave me a piece of his restraint. Not willingly, not completely, but enough that I know there’s more waiting. It’s buried deep under those walls he’s built, but I’ve seen the fracture lines. I’ve touched them.
And today, practice is my stage.
I’ve been plotting since Friday, a whole arsenal of ways to test him.
Not obvious enough to tip off the coaches or the rest of the team—just subtle, sharp little needles he’ll feel whether he wants to or not.
A shove here. A look there. A comment whispered just close enough to his ear that he can’t shake it.
I’m not stupid. I know I’m playing with fire. But hell if I care. Fire feels good when it’s aimed at me.
I grin to myself in the mirror while pulling my hoodie over my head. My reflection stares back, smug, hungry. This is the part I love—before the game begins, when all the pieces are still on the board, and I know I’m already in control.
By the time I hit the rink, the buzz in my veins is thrumming loud enough to drown out the chatter of teammates trickling in.
The air is sharp with that cold, metallic tang of ice, layered over by the rubbery smell of pads and sweat never fully washed out of gear bags.
I love it. Feels alive. Feels like possibility.
And then I see him.
My Leander.
He’s already taping his stick, hunched low on the bench, headphones in.
The movement is sharp, precise, like even tape jobs need to meet some impossible standard.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in, doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a glance.
But I know he feels me. His body gives it away—the stiff set of his shoulders, the too-straight line of his spine.
He’s trying to avoid me, and that alone lights me up like gasoline on a match.
“Morning,” I toss casually, dropping my bag a little too close to his skates.
No answer. He peels his headphones out, stands, and moves down the bench to another spot without a word.
I laugh under my breath. Predictable. Delicious.
Fine, he can run. Running only makes the chase sweeter.
Once we hit the ice, drills start as usual—whistles sharp, skates carving into clean grooves, the crack of pucks against boards. I glide through warmups, stick handling smooth, body loose. But my eyes keep straying back to him.
Leander’s quick, deliberate; the kind of player who wastes no movement. Every stride looks measured, every shot lined up to perfection. But I catch the tiny tells—the second-too-long hesitation when I cut across his path, the clipped nod when the coach pairs us for a passing sequence.
He doesn’t want this pairing, but he doesn’t get to choose. Neither of us do. And now, we’re tethered together on ice for the next half hour.
Perfect.
I let my glove brush his wrist as I take the puck from him, just the faintest graze of leather over skin. His eyes flick to mine with warning but the faintest flush climbs his neck above his collar. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t break stride, but the tension coils tighter in his body.
Good. That’s exactly what I want.
“Nice feed,” I murmur, voice low enough that only he catches it.
His jaw clamps down. He whips the puck back to me harder than necessary, the slap reverberating up my stick. I bite back a laugh.
It turns into a dance after that, me pushing, him resisting.
A shove of my shoulder into his as we pivot along the boards.
A comment slipped under my breath when the coaches aren’t close enough to hear.
A look held a second too long after a drill.
He never snaps, never gives me the explosion I almost crave, but the storm is right there under his skin.
I can feel it.
And the more he tries to avoid me, the more I know he can’t.
By the first water break, my pulse is pounding and not from skating, but from the thrill of him.
I tug my helmet up, down half my bottle, then let my gaze slide to where he’s posted alone at the far end of the bench.
He drags a towel over his face, studiously avoiding me like his life depends on it.
I grin into the plastic rim of the bottle. He thinks distance will save him.
It won’t.
Not when he’s already mine in his head.
Because I know the truth—just like me, he hasn’t stopped thinking about that call, I’d bet every paycheck he’s replayed it a hundred times since Friday, hating himself for it, wanting more anyway. He can hide and dodge, but his body has already given him away.
And I plan to remind him of that every chance I get.
The rest of practice is a blur of drills, scrimmages, and contact plays, but the game under the surface keeps me sharper than any coach’s whistle. Every time our sticks clash, every time our shoulders collide near the glass, every time his breath comes ragged inside his cage, it fuels me.
By the time practice winds down, I’m sweating, sore, and more wound up than when I walked in. Not from the workout. From him. Always him.
The locker room hums with silence, that strange after-practice emptiness when the echoes of voices still hang in the air but the bodies are gone. Most of the guys bolted the second the drills ended, chasing food, sleep, or women.
Not him. Not Leander.
He lingers at his stall, methodical in the way he strips down his gear. Gloves first, lined up neatly. Shin guards, one by one. Like he’s got a ritual, a shield of small routines to keep him focused.
I watch him do it, hidden at first, just another guy untying his skates too slow. But when the last player disappears through the double doors, leaving us alone, I rise.
He doesn’t notice until my footsteps are too close to ignore. His back stiffens.
“Forget something?” I drawl, leaning against the corner of his stall like I’ve always belonged there.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps zipping his bag.
That silence digs under my skin like a blade. I tilt my head, pretending to be casual, but inside I’m fucking ravenous. “What, no smart remark? You usually at least mutter something.”
Still nothing.
I smirk. “Maybe you’re shy after Friday. That why you won’t look at me?”
His grip on his stick tightens so much that I can hear the faint creak of leather. A tell, whether he knows it or not. He’s not unaffected. He’s not untouched.
And that’s all the invitation I need.
I plant my hand on the metal locker right by his head, caging him in before he can bolt. He goes rigid, shoulders hunching, but he doesn’t shove me off.
“You know,” I murmur, voice low and coaxing, “I like you better like this. All guarded. All wound tight. Makes me wonder how you’d look if you let go.”
No answer. Not even a twitch this time. Just that hard stare at the floor.
Fine. If he won’t play with words, I’ll use other tools.
I let my fingers trail along his arm, slow, deliberate, feeling the jump of his muscle under damp fabric. He’s solid—built for hockey, for collisions, for fights in the corners. But under my hand, he’s trembling, so faint most wouldn’t notice. I notice.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it,” I whisper. “My voice in your ear, telling you what to do. What I would do to you. You liked it.”
His jaw ticks. Just once. Subtle, but enough.
I lean in, crowding him, my mouth brushing the shell of his ear. He’s not short, but my taller 6’4” frame makes it easy to box him in.
“You got hard for me, didn’t you?” I nuzzle my nose against his hair. “Made a mess of yourself just from my voice.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. Still silent. Still refusing to give me the satisfaction of words.
But that breath—fuck, that’s music.
I smile against his skin, heat pooling low in my stomach. “Thought so.”
My hand slides from his arm to his chest, palm flat, feeling the hammer of his heart beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Faster than before. He’s unraveling.
“You can fight me all you want,” I murmur, pressing a little harder, “but your body is telling me exactly how you feel.”
His eyes flick up then, meeting mine for the first time. And Christ—it’s like being hit in the chest.
Dark, furious, but laced with something he doesn’t want me to see. Want. Fear. Hunger. A mess of it, all tangled together.
I grin wider, intoxicated. “There you are.”
Before he can drop his gaze, I tilt in and brush my lips against his. Not full, not deep—just a ghost of contact. Enough to make him shudder. Enough to taste salt and sweat and stubbornness.
He stiffens but doesn’t shove me off.
That’s permission, whether he wants to admit it or not.
I take more.
My mouth presses harder this time, angling to catch the edge of his, tongue flicking just enough to tease. My free hand slides lower, over the flat of his stomach, tracing the line down toward his waistband.
That’s when he finally reacts. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist in a vise grip before I can go further. His eyes blaze, breath ragged, jaw tight.
But he still doesn’t say stop.
“See?” I whisper, breath mingling with his. “If you really hated it, you’d shove me away. You’d say something. But you’re quiet because you don’t want it to end.”
The war in his face is almost beautiful—rage warring with arousal, shame knotted with want. He’s fighting himself more than me. And I’m winning.