Chapter 10 Leander #2
Phoenix presses on. “And the media? They live for this shit. They’ll write whatever gets clicks. That’s their game. Ours is on the ice. That’s where we prove them wrong. Don’t let them get in your head.”
He’s good at this. He sounds convincing, strong, even when the sting is still raw.
But I can see it—the flicker behind his eyes when Eric mutters, “Easy for you to say.”
Phoenix’s gaze snaps to the back. “You got something to share?”
Eric crosses his arms and shrugs. “You’re the one they’re saying can’t keep up. Feels like all season you’ve been more focused on one guy.” His eyes flick toward me, quick and sharp.
My stomach drops. The bus goes quiet.
Phoenix doesn’t blink. He just grins, slow and sharp. “You mean the guy who’s scoring us goals, keeping us in games, and dragging us through the grind? Yeah, damn right I’m focused on him. You should be, too.”
The tension hangs for a beat. Then someone chuckles. A few others nod. Eric doesn’t push it further.
Phoenix eases back, but I can tell it cost him. He slouches into his seat again, jaw tight, eyes fixed out the window. No one reads out loud after that.
The hotel lobby is bright—too bright after the bus’s gloom. Keycards are handed out, and groups split off into elevators.
I end up with Jax and Phoenix. Figures. The two people I least want to be trapped between right now.
The room is decent—two queen beds and a pullout couch. It has neutral walls, ugly carpet, and the faint smell of chlorine from the pool downstairs.
Jax throws his bag onto one of the beds with a dramatic flop. “Called it!”
I roll my eyes, dragging my bag toward the couch. “Real mature.”
Phoenix just tosses his bag down by the pullout couch. Doesn’t even argue. “Lee, take the bed. I’ll crash here.”
I blink. “You don’t have to—”
“Not up for debate.” He’s already yanking at the folded couch, metal creaking as it pulls out.
His muscles flex with the motion, easy, controlled, like he’s done this a hundred times.
Jax whistles low. “What, Captain’s sacrificing for his star rookie? That’s sweet.”
Phoenix doesn’t look at him. “That’s leadership.”
I sink down onto the bed, the sheets crisp and cool against my palms. My knee throbs faintly—a reminder of the game, the bruises still healing. Phoenix’s eyes flick to it, quick, protective, before he returns to arranging the couch.
“You wrapped your knee tonight, right?” he says casually. But I can tell he wants me to ice it and force some painkillers down my throat.
“Yep. About to ice it now.”
Phoenix’s shoulders relax slightly.
Jax sprawls across his bed, phone in hand. “So, Leander. How’s it feel to be the media’s golden boy?”
I grimace. “Shut up.”
He grins. “C’mon, don’t be modest. Half the articles are about you. The fans love you. Hell, even my sister texted me asking if you were single.”
Phoenix’s head snaps up. “What?”
Jax smirks, enjoying the reaction. “I know, right? I told her he’s way too innocent for her.”
“Those hickies say otherwise.” Phoenix smirks.
Jax bursts out laughing.
I groan, dragging a pillow over my face. “Please stop talking.”
Phoenix mutters something under his breath, low enough I can’t catch it. He finishes with the couch, strips down to a t-shirt, and flops onto it like he doesn’t care that the springs squeak.
But I know him. I can feel it—the storm still brewing under his skin.
The room settles into a weird quiet. The TV hums with some late-night rerun, Jax scrolling on his phone, Phoenix staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head.
I lie there, staring at the glow of the clock, feeling the weight of everything pressing in—the loss, the headlines, the way Phoenix keeps putting me first whether I ask him to or not.
Later, the hotel room is quiet, except for the low hum of the heater and Jax’s soft snores from the other bed. I should be asleep too, but every time I close my eyes, the game replays in my head. Missed chances. Bad passes. Phoenix yelling across the ice until his throat was raw.
I roll onto my side, staring at the wall, trying to will myself into rest.
The pullout mattress squeaks. I stiffen. Then the dip of my bed gives him away. Phoenix slides in behind me, careful but not careful enough—his thigh brushes mine, his breath ghosts against my neck.
I turn my head slightly. “Can’t sleep?”
“Nope.” His voice is low, rough. Tired.
There’s something broken in it, something I’m not used to hearing. The loss, the media, the team doubting him—it’s all sitting heavy on him, and for once, he doesn’t have the shield of confidence up.
He digs his face into my neck, sighing deeply.
I can’t stand it. Can’t stand seeing him like this.
So I do something reckless. My hand slips under the blankets, brushing his hip, then lower. He jerks, sharp inhale cutting the silence.
“Leander,” he hisses my name in warning.
But I don’t stop. I keep going, bolder than I’ve ever been, fingers slipping below his sweatpants and boxers.
My pulse is in my throat, but I can’t pull back.
Not when I can feel the heat flooding off him, not when I know I can make him forget for a while.
His cock doesn’t take long to come to its full attention.
His mouth finds my shoulder, teeth grazing skin as he tries to smother the sounds threatening to spill out. The danger of it—the knowledge that Jax is asleep just feet away—makes my skin prickle, and my body tightens with every muffled breath Phoenix lets out.
“Fuck,” he breathes, so quiet it’s almost inaudible. His hand covers mine, not to stop me, but to guide me, pace quickening. His forehead presses to my neck, damp with sweat, and when he shudders, biting down on my shoulder to stay silent, I nearly lose it myself.
I want to laugh, to tell him I won, that I made him break. But instead I lie still, heart pounding, holding him through the tremor.
For once, Phoenix doesn’t pull away after. He stays, arm slung heavy around me, breathing me in like I’m oxygen.
And then—
The bedsprings creak across the room. Jax shifts, groggy. “Phoenix? Why are you in Leander’s bed?”
My blood runs cold. I snap my eyes shut, pretending sleep, forcing my body to stay loose. Phoenix doesn’t even flinch, even with my hand still down his pants under the sheets.
He lifts his head, voice dripping with casual bravado. “Pullout couch is shit. Back’s killing me.”
Jax snorts “Wooow, so you picked to cuddle up with him instead of me? He is your favorite, huh?”
Phoenix laughs, lazy and unbothered. “What, you jealous? Wanna trade? I’ll take your bed, you can come cuddle with rookie instead.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts, fighting to stay still, to keep my breathing even.
Jax groans, rolling back over. “I call cuddles with Leander next away game.”
“You couldn’t handle it,” Phoenix says, smug, settling back down behind me. His arm tightens around my waist under the blankets, subtle but deliberate, like a private joke only I can feel.
I keep my eyes shut until Jax’s snores return, but inside, I’m burning. I pull my hands away from him, trying not to laugh.
Phoenix buries his face in my neck. His body pressed against me, satisfied and cocky, while I’m the one shaking under the weight of what just happened—what almost got us caught.
And the worst part?
I liked it, and Phoenix fucking knows it.
The next day, the bus is too quiet.
A dull hum of wheels on asphalt fills the space, punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffle of gear bags.
Nobody’s joking, nobody’s talking—not after last night.
The loss hangs heavy, sticking to us like sweat that won’t wash off.
Phones glow here and there, headlines cutting sharper than any skate blade: Captain Locke Loses Grip.
Frosthaven Golden Boy Overshadowing His Mentor. Wolves in Freefall.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the blur of highway trees, trying not to read over shoulders. I already know what they’ll say. I already feel the weight of it: that I’m the rising star, and Phoenix is the captain faltering in my shadow.
I can feel the eyes on me, same as always now. It’s not admiration anymore—it’s pressure. Accusation.
Phoenix sits beside me, one leg stretched into the aisle like he owns the place, shoulders loose, head tipped back against the seat.
He’s pretending he doesn’t care. But Phoenix never doesn’t care.
To anyone else, he looks relaxed, but I can feel the tension in him, sharp and coiled.
His hand brushes mine on the seat between us every so often, almost like a warning. Stay calm. Don’t react.
I try.
But the team is restless. Frustrated. Hungry for someone to blame.
Eric is slouched across the aisle, arms folded, bitterness rolling off him like a storm cloud. He got benched last night after blowing two coverages, and he hasn’t stopped sulking since.
“So, Captain,” Eric drawls, loud enough to break the hush, “what’s the plan now? Keep giving us those half-ass pep talks or just wait until management rips the C off your chest?”
A couple of guys chuckle under their breath. Most don’t react. Phoenix doesn’t either. He just tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed, like Eric’s not even worth acknowledging.
Eric grins, encouraged. “Come on, Locke. You always got something to say. Or maybe you’re just too busy polishing the rookie’s halo to notice the rest of us drowning.”
Heat creeps up my neck. If I look, if I react, it’ll only make it worse. Phoenix releases an annoyed sigh.
Eric leans forward now, sensing blood. His voice sharpens, meaner. “That it, huh? You’re too worried about your fruitcake rookie to remember how to play the damn game yourself?”
The word hits like a fist. Fruitcake.
It’s ugly. It’s my father’s voice echoing through years I’ve tried to bury. The exact kind of venom that used to get spit across dinner tables, through locked doors, in fists and slammed walls. My breath catches, nausea crawling up my throat.
And Phoenix—
He’s out of his seat in a blur, a wild snarl tearing from his throat as he lunges across the aisle. The bus seems to rock as his weight slams into Eric, fists already flying. The sound is wet, brutal—flesh on flesh, knuckles cracking against bone.
Shouts explode. Guys leap to their feet, the coach shouting from the front, but Phoenix doesn’t hear any of it.
“The fuck you call him, asshole?!” He’s gone, lost to rage, teeth bared like an animal as he pummels Eric’s face.
I’m moving before I think, heart in my throat. I grab Phoenix’s arm, pulling with everything I have. “Phoenix! Stop!”
He doesn’t. His muscles strain under my grip, hard as iron, every punch fueled by something more than Eric’s insult. This isn’t about the game, or the team. This is about me.
Jax dives in on the other side, both of us hauling back with all our weight. Finally, Phoenix staggers, yanked off his prey. Eric slumps into his seat, blood dripping from his split lip, muttering curses even as he wipes at his face.
Phoenix doesn’t stop fighting. He jerks against us, chest heaving, eyes wild and blazing.
And then he spits. A streak of red splatters across the floor between them, flecked with blood.
And Phoenix grins. Wide. Ferocious. A grin that says he’d do it all again, ten times harder, and love every second of it.
“Talk like that about Leander again and I’ll fucking grind your teeth into the cement.”
“You done?” Eric sneers through his swollen lip.
“Not even close,” Phoenix growls, lunging again until Jax and I slam him back into the seat.
“Enough!” Coach’s roar shakes the bus, his boots stomping down the aisle. He glares between them, fury snapping in his eyes. “Both of you, shut it before I throw you out on the highway.”
Phoenix huffs a laugh, still baring teeth. Eric spits into a napkin, face already swelling.
Coach jabs a finger at them. “Congratulations, Locke. You too, Samson. Suspension. One week. No pay.”
Gasps ripple through the bus. Eric groans, dropping his head into his hands. Phoenix just smirks, blood streaking down his chin.
“Worth it,” he mutters.
“Shut up, Nix,” I growl, shoving him into the window seat.
The rest of the ride is suffocating. No one speaks, but the whispers are loud enough anyway. Some look at me like this is my fault. Others look at Phoenix like he’s finally lost it.
I sit rigid, every muscle taut, staring at my hands. They’re still trembling from pulling him back, from feeling the raw fury thrumming through his body. My stomach churns, equal parts fear and guilt. Because I know why he snapped.
Eric’s words weren’t just cheap trash talk—they were poison, the kind I’ve lived with my whole life. And Phoenix recognized it instantly. He heard that word and went feral, like he’d tear apart the world itself before letting it touch me.
Part of me wants to be grateful. Protected. Safe.
But instead, all I feel is dread. Because Phoenix would burn everything down for me, his career, his captaincy, his body—he’d throw it all away if someone came for me.
And that terrifies me.