Chapter 6 Leander
LEANDER
The ice feels wrong beneath my skates today.
Usually, it’s the one place where everything quiets down, where the noise of the world and the gnawing in my head are replaced by rhythm and speed.
But this morning, every glide feels unsteady, every shift clumsy because my thoughts aren’t on hockey. They’re on Phoenix.
I can’t stop replaying the locker room in my head, over and over, like some shameful, horny loop I can’t tear away from.
The press of his body against mine, the heat of his breath in my ear, the way he took me apart and then—after.
That’s what unravels me most. He wasn’t just brutal; he was gentle.
He held me after, like I mattered, like I was something worth protecting.
And that doesn’t fit.
Not with everything I know about him. Not with the way he toys with people, breaks them down, chews through them for fun. Not with the way I swore I’d never let myself be dragged into someone’s gravity again.
So why can’t I shake him?
I circle the rink with the rest of the team, but the drills blur past me.
I hear the coaches barking orders, the scrape of blades cutting sharp turns, but it’s all background noise.
My body moves on autopilot. My head’s back in that damn locker room, back on my knees, back with the taste of him.
Discomfort prickles under my skin. The memory of my own helpless sounds rings in my ears.
And worse—worse than all of it—is the twisted ache in my chest that wants it again.
“Earth to Leander,” Jax calls, skating up beside me. He’s grinning, helmet tilted, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually means trouble. “You sleeping with your eyes open or what?”
I force a thin smile. “Just focused.”
He barks out a laugh. “Focused? You’ve been skating like you left your brain in the locker room. What’s got you so—” He cuts himself off, but the grin lingers, sharp. “Never mind.”
I roll my eyes and push ahead, but my stomach twists. Jax is the kind of teammate who feeds on secrets. The moment he senses weakness, he digs until he unearths something. Much like Phoenix but without the draw of him. I don’t need that kind of attention right now.
Because Phoenix is consuming my mind and I don’t have room to worry about another guy trying to make me fumble.
I see him on the other side of the rink, skating like a force of nature, sharp and fast and flawless. Every time I catch sight of him, something in my chest stutters. And I know he sees me—he always sees me. Even when I try not to look, I can feel his eyes cutting through me like blades.
The drill shifts into scrimmage, and I try to focus. Puck drops, blades slice, bodies collide. This should be where I come alive, where instinct takes over. But my reaction time’s off, my stick handling sloppy. I chase after the puck late, miss passes I shouldn’t. My head isn’t in it.
“Come on, Leander!” someone shouts, frustration biting.
I grit my teeth, pushing harder, but it’s like skating against a current. And then Jax decides today’s the day to be an ass.
I see him out of the corner of my eye, the way he angles himself.
He’s not going for the puck—he’s watching me.
He swings in closer than he should, a reckless move that has nothing to do with the play.
At first, I think it’s just normal roughhousing.
But then his stick jabs low, catching the back of my skate just enough to throw me off balance.
My blade snags, my weight tips wrong, and I go down hard. The crack of my knee against the ice echoes sharp, pain flaring hot and immediate.
“Shit!” I hiss, curling instinctively. It’s not broken, but it throbs viciously, a bruise blooming under the pads.
Jax skids to a stop, laughing. “Relax, rookie, it’s just a love tap!”
The world narrows into white-hot pain and humiliation. I try to push myself up, but the sting in my knee makes me falter. I can already imagine the bruise spreading purple and black. My stomach twists with anger at Jax for being reckless, at myself for being distracted enough to fall for it.
And then Phoenix is there.
He cuts across the ice with terrifying speed, stopping so hard that snow sprays up. His eyes are dark, locked on Jax like a predator sighting prey.
“What the fuck was that?” Phoenix snarls. His voice carries across the rink, low but dangerous.
Jax blinks, taken aback. “It was a joke, man.”
“That wasn’t a joke.” Phoenix’s stick jabs the ice, sharp enough to echo. “You don’t trip your own fucking teammate for a laugh. You could’ve blown his knee out.”
The ferocity in his voice makes the hairs on my neck rise. He’s not joking, not exaggerating. His whole body is taut, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. For a moment, it looks like he might actually drop his gloves and go after Jax then and there.
Jax raises his hands defensively, grinning like it’ll smooth things over. “Relax, man, he’s fine. Look—”
Phoenix cuts him off, skating closer, towering over him. “You think that’s funny? Risking his season—his career—for a fucking prank?”
The air around us is tense, the team frozen, watching. My pulse pounds in my throat. I’ve never seen Phoenix like this. Like he’s protecting what’s his. And it’s all for me.
Something tightens in my chest, equal parts awe and dread.
I manage to push myself upright, testing my knee.
It throbs, but I can bear weight on it. I should say something, should defuse this before it explodes, but the words stick in my throat.
My body’s betraying me again—because even through the pain, some part of me thrills at the way Phoenix is defending me.
Jax scoffs, shaking his head. “Jesus, it was nothing. You’re acting like he’s made of glass.”
Phoenix grabs Jax’s jersey, yanking him forward. The motion is sudden, violent, and for a heartbeat, I think fists are coming next. Jax’s grin falters, real fear flickering across his face.
“Try it again,” Phoenix growls, voice low enough only we can hear. “See what happens.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. The whole rink feels like it’s holding its breath. Then Phoenix shoves Jax back, releasing him with a disgusted shove.
“Get off the ice.”
Jax sputters, “What—”
“Off. Now.” Phoenix’s tone is lethal. No room for argument.
And to my shock, Jax actually listens. He mutters something under his breath, skating off, but the tension lingers like static.
I stand there, chest heaving, knee throbbing, caught between the burn of humiliation and the overwhelming pull of Phoenix’s intensity. He turns then, eyes locking on mine. The anger softens, just slightly, when he sees me standing.
“You good?” he asks, voice lower, meant only for me.
I nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just bruised.”
He studies me for a beat longer, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Come with me.”
The antiseptic smell hits me the second I’m wheeled through the hospital doors, sharp and sterile, like every bad memory I’ve tried to keep locked away.
My knee throbs in time with my heartbeat, not unbearable but bad enough to keep me biting the inside of my cheek every time the gurney jostles.
The nurse chirps something about “minor injury, let’s just confirm with imaging,” but I only half-hear her.
Because Phoenix is right there.
Hovering.
He insisted on taking me to urgent care himself, telling the coach to call my family and have them meet us at the hospital. Phoenix just about carried me to his car and made me ice my knee the whole ride.
If the staff is annoyed by him being practically glued to my side, they don’t show it. He’s carrying my bag like it weighs nothing, jaw tight, eyes scanning the hallway like he’s personally going to punch out every obstacle between here and the exam room.
“You can sit in the waiting area,” the nurse tells him once I’m rolled into a curtained bay.
“No, I’ll stay. Thanks.” His voice is low, final, carrying that authority that makes people back off.
I roll my eyes. “Phoenix, I’m not having open-heart surgery.”
His gaze flicks to me, sharp but edged with something I can’t name. Worry. “You went down hard on the ice. You’re not shrugging this off with a sarcastic smile.”
“Don’t act like you’re my mom,” I mutter, pulling at the blanket over my legs.
He smirks, but it’s tight, like he’s holding something back. “Then stop acting like a kid who thinks he’s invincible.”
The nurse coughs gently, like she’s reminding us both this is neither the time nor the place. Phoenix finally steps back, but he doesn’t sit down. He just folds those broad arms across his chest and stares at me like he can will my kneecap to knit itself back together faster.
When the doctor arrives, Phoenix beats me to speaking.
“What’s the damage? Is it ligament, tendon? What’s his recovery time? Will he need crutches?”
The doctor raises a brow, glancing between us. “You’re…?”
“Teammate,” Phoenix says quickly. But the word hangs there like it doesn’t quite cover it.
The doctor turns her attention back to me. “Alright, well Mister…”
“Cameron,” I say. “And I’m fine. Really. Just a bruise, maybe.”
Phoenix makes a low sound in his throat, skeptical.
“Let’s confirm,” the doctor says. She examines my knee with careful pressure, asking me to bend, straighten, and rotate. It hurts, but its not unbearable. After a set of X-rays and what feels like a year of waiting, she returns with her verdict.
“Good news: no fractures, no torn ligaments. It’s a contusion with some strain. You’ll need to stay off it for about two weeks—no skating, no training. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Crutches to help you move around.”
Phoenix exhales like he’s just been told I survived a car crash. He immediately launches into a flurry of questions. “What kind of brace? Should he sleep with it elevated? How much weight can he put on it? Any pain management besides NSAIDs?”