Chapter 10 Leander
LEANDER
I’ve stopped counting the nights I go home to my own apartment. Most of my clothes are in Phoenix’s closet now, my toothbrush shoved between his aftershave and his cologne in the bathroom. My body fits against his mattress like it’s where I belong.
And yet, every morning, we roll out of bed like strangers.
Phoenix’s car idles in the parking lot outside the rink, frost biting at the windshield. His hand is still on my thigh from the drive—possessive, grounding, like he needs the contact as much as I do. But the second headlights sweep across the lot, his fingers slide away, leaving my skin cold.
By the time we climb out, he’s Captain Locke again. Broad shoulders, sharp grin, confidence dripping from every step. I trail a half second behind, knee still aching some mornings, but I keep my expression even.
We don’t talk about how he kept me awake last night until two in the morning, his mouth on me, his hands making me forget my own name.
We don’t talk about how I wanted him again when the alarm went off at six.
We don’t talk at all.
Not here.
Inside the rink, the guys greet us like nothing’s different.
It’s not unusual for me to carpool with him.
The team assumes we’ve just become really good friends.
No one knows I’m gay besides Jax, and I don’t think Phoenix ever mentioned being bi to the guys.
Our life can just be us for a little longer.
No one seems to care if Phoenix pays me more attention during drills, if his eyes flick to me just a little too often during scrimmage. They just think he’s keeping an eye on the rookie, making sure I don’t blow my knee out again.
But I feel it. Every time his gaze lands on me, I feel the weight of it like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
During practice, he pushes me harder than anyone else.
Barking orders, skating circles around me until my lungs burn.
I’m not stupid—I know he’s trying to make sure no one can accuse him of favoritism.
But the second we’re alone again, that control he keeps on the ice flips into something darker, hotter.
The kind that has me biting pillows so the neighbors don’t call the police with a noise complaint.
My teammates have no idea. They slap my back in the locker room, ask if I’m hitting up the bar after practice, joke about how Phoenix rides me harder than the rest of them. They don’t know how true that is.
Because what we have—what Phoenix gives me—is mine.
Private. Dangerous in ways I can’t explain.
If the team knew, they’d never shut up about it.
They’d say Phoenix is protecting me on the ice because he’s sleeping with me off it.
And maybe they’d be right. Maybe he does watch my every move like he can’t stand the idea of me taking another hit. But it’s not favoritism. Not really.
It’s obsession.
And I can’t even bring myself to be scared of it.
After practice, we shower in separate stalls. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t glance my way while the guys are still around. I try not to stare at the broad line of his back, the dark ink snaking over his shoulder blades and hips, the faint marks my mouth left on his skin the night before.
The hot water hits my shoulders like fire, steam rising around me until the whole row of showers feels hazy, half-hidden. My muscles scream from drills, but it’s the good kind of ache—the kind Phoenix lives for, the kind he drags out of me until I’m gasping.
I’m scrubbing shampoo through my hair when Johnny’s voice cuts over the rush of water.
“Hey, Cameron.”
I glance sideways. He’s two stalls over, grinning at me like he’s got a secret. Which, knowing Johnny, means trouble.
“What?” I mutter, rinsing the suds out of my hair.
He tilts his chin toward me, eyes flicking down my chest, my neck. “Gotta ask… who’s been leaving those marks all over you? You look like a horny teenager.”
Shit.
Heat shoots up my neck that has nothing to do with the water. I almost choke on air, yanking the washcloth higher against my chest like that’ll hide the obvious dark smudges trailing over my collarbone, my ribs. Hickeys. Bruises. Phoenix’s fingerprints carved into my skin like signatures.
Johnny just laughs. “C’mon, man, don’t look so guilty. Nobody’s dumb enough to think you’re beating yourself up like that.”
“I’ve been… seeing someone,” I blurt. The words come faster than I mean them to, bouncing off the tile. It’s not a lie, not exactly, but my stomach twists anyway.
“Ohhh,” Johnny drawls, like he’s just been handed the juiciest gossip of the year. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Before I can figure out how to answer, Phoenix’s voice cuts in. Smooth. Too smooth.
“Yeah, rookie.” He steps out from his stall, water sliding over his chest, towel hung low on his hips. His grin is wicked as hell. “Tell us about this mysterious someone.”
My mouth goes dry.
He’s not even looking at Johnny. His eyes are on me, trailing slowly and deliberately down my body. My shoulders, my chest, lower—too low. My pulse trips over itself.
Johnny snorts, oblivious. “Yeah, come on, Lee. You’re all marked up like a damn canvas. Spill.”
I manage a shrug, pretending like my heart isn’t about to explode. “It’s… nothing serious.”
Phoenix leans against the wall, water still running down the ridges of his stomach, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Looks like somebody’s been keeping you busy.”
Johnny snorts, rinsing the soap off his shoulders. “It looks like our little rookie was up all night, and that’s why he bombed on the ice today.”
Phoenix just laughs, light and playful. “Is that true, Cameron? Fucked all night long and came to practice with a horny hangover?”
“Phoenix,” I warn under my breath.
Johnny shakes his head, chuckling as he shuts off his water. “Whoever it is, they’re doing a damn number on you. I expect details eventually.”
He leaves, whistling.
Which just makes it worse. Because now it’s only me and Phoenix, the sound of water pounding against tile, the air thick with steam.
He glances over, eyes burning hotter than the spray. “Nothing serious, huh?”
My stomach flips. “I had to say something.”
His grin widens. “Sleeping in my bed every night is nothing serious?” He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. His voice is low, so only I can hear. “You coming in my mouth this morning was nothing serious?”
“Nix.”
“Don’t try to be cute. You’re gonna have to make it up to me later.” He smiles, glancing down at my naked body. I can almost feel his hands skating over my skin.
“You’re playing with fire,” I mutter, though my voice comes out thinner than I want.
Phoenix stops just outside the stream of my shower, water dripping down his hair into his eyes, his smirk too sharp to be safe. “Baby, I am fire.”
And then, just like that, he turns and saunters back to his own stall, leaving me flushed, rattled, and hard as hell under the water.
The locker room is dead quiet. No sticks banging, no jokes, no banter bouncing off the walls. Just the squeak of tape being ripped, the dull thud of skates hitting the floor, the occasional cough. Defeat sits heavy on the air, thicker than the stink of sweat.
We got crushed tonight—not just beaten—flattened.
Their forwards cut through our defense like paper, and their goalie shut us down like we were a bunch of kids playing street hockey.
And the worst part? We knew it was happening.
From the first period on, we could feel the momentum slipping away, and none of us managed to claw it back.
I tug off my jersey, trying not to think about the scoreboard still glowing in my head. 5–1. An embarrassment. This is the kind of loss that follows a team, sticks in the headlines for weeks.
The bus ride back to the hotel is worse. Darkness blurs past the windows, the hum of the road filling every silence. Some guys pop in headphones, some scroll their phones, others just stare straight ahead like they’re still in the arena.
But I can tell when it starts—the shift in energy. A low curse from somewhere behind me. A muttered “shit” from the front. Then the quick, harsh clatter of typing.
“Fuck,” Eric, our defenseman, groans. “They’re already writing about it.”
I glance over the aisle. Two guys are huddled around a phone, scrolling. Their expressions go from pissed to bitter to… something darker.
“What’s it say?” another teammate asks.
One of them reads out loud, tone mocking: “Phoenix Reigns Slipping? Frosthaven Captain Loses Grip as Rookie Shines.”
The words sting, even though they’re not about me. Or maybe because they are, too.
More heads lean over shoulders, more screens light up. The sound of articles being read—aloud or under breath—fills the bus.
“Fans question whether Locke has what it takes to lead.”
“Leander Cameron: Season Favorite, Carrying Frosthaven on His Back.”
“When your rookie outpaces your captain, how long before the locker room cracks?”
My stomach knots. I sink lower into the seat, wishing I could disappear into the upholstery.
Phoenix sits two rows up, stretched back in his seat, arms folded. At first, I think he’s ignoring it, but then I see the way his jaw shifts, the way his fingers tap against his arm like he’s holding something back.
Finally, he stands. The bus jolts over a bump, but he keeps his balance, turning toward us with that grin he pulls out when he needs to rally a crowd.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter. “You all scrolling like vultures isn’t gonna change the score.”
A few guys look away guiltily. A few don’t.
Phoenix grips the back of a seat, his eyes scanning the bus like he’s taking us all in at once.
“Yeah, we got smoked. Big deal. One game. Doesn’t define the season, doesn’t define us. Unless you let it.”
There’s a rumble of agreement, half-hearted but there.