Chapter 13 Phoenix
PHOENIX
Ican’t stop smiling.
The words keep replaying in my head like a favorite song: the boyfriend.
Yeah, I said it half like a joke just to make Leander squirm in front of his roommate, but the thing is—it’s real now.
It’s mine. He didn’t deny it, didn’t push me away, didn’t look at Jeremy like he was trapped.
He owned it. My chest still buzzes with that memory, his wide eyes, the way his cheeks flushed pink like he’d been caught naked.
I called him my boyfriend, and he didn’t run.
Relief isn’t even the word. It’s like I’ve been white-knuckling a steering wheel at eighty miles an hour for months, fighting the skid on black ice, and suddenly—I’ve hit dry ground.
The car steadies. My lungs expand. I can breathe again.
And underneath that relief, something steadier spreads through me. Like quiet. Like stability. Like him.
Leander has no clue the effect he has on me. He thinks I’m the one who owns him, obsesses over him, bends him to my reckless edges. But it’s him anchoring me—him with his stubborn jaw, his sharp little comebacks, his stupidly earnest way of looking at me like I’m worth all the chaos.
I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours a night since the season started. But last night? He curled against me, his hand on my chest, his breathing evening out as he sank into sleep. And I followed him down like he dragged me there. No nightmares. No jolt awake. Just quiet. Just Lee.
He’s mine. Finally, fully mine.
That’s why, this morning, I went and ordered a bigger bed.
My apartment’s queen was fine for me. Barely fine with him in it.
We’d spend half the night tangled so tightly one of us woke up sore.
But fine isn’t good enough anymore. He deserves more than waking up at the edge of the mattress.
He deserves to stretch, to sprawl, to feel like he belongs here the way I’ve already decided he does.
The king gets delivered this week. Black frame, sturdy headboard. Sheets soft enough I’d bleed for them. And while I was at it, I bought him a dresser. Not some spare hand-me-down piece of crap either—oak, clean lines, space enough for his hoodies and all the gym shorts he lives in.
He doesn’t know yet. He’ll probably roll his eyes, tell me I’m overdoing it, mutter something about casual. But the way his bag sits half-open in the corner of my room every night tells me casual is already out the window. He’s here. With me. And I want him to know that he can stay.
Practice that afternoon feels different.
Leander is buzzing, shoulders looser, his focus razor sharp. It hits me halfway through drills—he’s starting to take after me. Not the reckless parts, not the dangerous late-night self-destruction. The other side. The hunger. The one that lives for the ice, for competition, for being undeniable.
I watch him skate, cutting fast and precise, and I can almost see the shift in the way the guys look at him.
He isn’t just the rookie anymore, shiny and untested.
He’s theirs. One of the pack. Even the defensemen who grumbled about him last week are starting to nod when he scores, to smack his helmet after drills.
It makes my chest swell.
I want to believe it’s me rubbing off on him—my leadership, my grit—but I know the truth. It’s us. It’s what we do to each other. He’s steadier because I’m obsessed with holding him steady. And I’m calmer because his presence settles something in me I didn’t even know was restless.
I’ve been told my whole life that I can’t be contained.
That I don’t know when to quit. That I’m fire and gasoline and too much for anyone to hold.
But then there’s Leander—quiet strength, careful anger, discipline like sharpened steel.
He doesn’t put me out. He redirects me. Makes the blaze burn clean.
Watching him in practice, seeing him jaw back at Johnny when the guy ribs him about his stick handling, hearing him actually laugh instead of freezing up—fuck, it’s like watching him come alive in real time.
And maybe it’s selfish, but I like to think I’ve got a hand in that.
That he’s becoming more of himself because of me.
After practice, we linger in the locker room. He’s slower to change now, less guarded. A month ago, he would’ve bolted the second he could, ducking questions, dodging eyes. Now? He leans against his locker, towel slung low on his hips, actually talking with the guys. Laughing, even.
Johnny throws him a grin, says something about the bruise on his collarbone, and for a second my chest tightens with that possessive spark.
But Leander just shrugs, mutters something back that makes Johnny laugh, and I let it slide.
Because I know where those bruises came from.
I know he didn’t cover them up this morning on purpose.
When he finally pulls his shirt over his head, our eyes catch again. His smile is small but sure, like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he knows that all I want is to drag him home, push him onto that bed that’s too small for us, and remind him over and over that he’s mine.
And soon, when the new bed comes, he won’t just be mine in the quiet moments. He’ll be mine in the space we share. The drawers. The sheets. The life that bleeds together until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
A few days later a knock comes earlier than I expect. I’m still shirtless, sprawled across Leander, tracing the scar near his rib like it’s a secret map only I’m allowed to follow. He grumbles, shifting against me.
“What the hell—” His voice is low, groggy.
I grin, kiss the crown of his head, and slide out from under him. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
He mutters something about bossy captains, but he stays.
Two delivery guys stand outside, sweating under the weight of the oak dresser wrapped in blankets. Behind them waits the mattress, sealed tight in plastic. My chest thrums.
“This way,” I tell them, voice sharper than I intend, nerves buzzing in my veins.
The thud of wood against the walls echoes through the place. My heart won’t slow down, not until I see him.
Leander emerges half-awake, hair messy, shirt twisted, blinking like he’s not sure what planet he’s on. He freezes as soon as his eyes hit the dresser. The mattress. The frame.
He goes still, the kind of still that makes my stomach knot.
“Phoenix…” His voice is low, cautious.
I cross the room quick, my arm brushing his. “We needed more space. For your stuff, I mean.”
His gaze flicks from the dresser to me, and I see it—guilt, sharp and sudden, like I’ve caught him stealing something. He swallows, throat tight.
“Phoenix, this is… a lot.”
I force a smile, keep my tone easy even though my chest is caving in. “I have all this money and nothing to spend it on. Let me spoil you.”
The delivery guys finish and leave. The apartment is quiet, just the two of us and the smell of new wood. Leander steps closer, fingertips brushing the dresser like he’s not sure if he deserves to touch it.
His jaw works, guilty and grateful all at once. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” My voice cracks, rawer than I mean it to. “I don’t want you living out of a bag. You’re not temporary, Lee. Not to me.”
He laughs softly, but it’s weighted, not carefree. He shakes his head like I’m ridiculous, but then he looks back at the bed, and I catch the truth flicker across his face.
He’s thrilled.
Thrilled, but terrified of showing it. “I don’t know what to say.”
I step behind him, my hands settling on his hips. “Say you’ll stay.”
He exhales a shaky sound and leans back against me. His guilt is still there—I can feel it in the way his muscles tense—but under it is something warmer. Something soft.
“This is insane,” he whispers, almost to himself.
“Wanna break it in?” I breathe against his ear.
“You’re insane.”
For a heartbeat he goes still again, like he might run. Then he lets out another quiet laugh—smaller, almost shy—and I know I’ve hit the mark.
He presses into me, forehead against my chest, and even if guilt gnaws at him, he doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you.”
The rink always smells like blood before it’s even spilled. Maybe it’s the metal of the boards, maybe it’s the sweat soaked into the concrete under the ice. Or maybe it’s just what I bring with me every time we face the Hornets—our goddamn rivals.
I skate onto the ice, chest buzzing with that familiar hate. Their yellow jerseys swarm like wasps on the other end, cocky grins under their helmets, already chirping. My stick bites into the ice.
But my eyes aren’t on them. They’re on him.
Leander glides out, jaw tight, mouthguard shifting between his teeth. He looks steady, calm—too calm for a night like this. I know better. I’ve seen the tension in his body since warm-ups, the coiled anger, the hunger. He’s ready to blow.
The puck drops. The game is chaos.
Bodies crash, blades carve. I’m shouting plays, screaming shifts, trying to keep the team from unraveling. But every time the Hornets make a dirty hit, every time they shove one of ours into the boards, I catch Leander’s head snap toward them. He’s waiting for an excuse.
And then it happens.
Midway through the second, their enforcer—Grant, a six-two meathead with hands like concrete—lines Leander up on the boards. The crack of impact rattles the glass. My chest seizes.
“Get off him!” I roar, shoving my stick into Grant’s ribs, but Leander’s already on his feet.
Helmet crooked, eyes black with fury.
Grant smirks, shoves him again. “Stay down, rookie.”
That’s it.
Leander drops his gloves. The arena erupts.
I’m frozen, breath sharp in my chest, as Leander barrels into him. The sound is sickening—fists on flesh, helmet bouncing, their skates cutting trenches in the ice as they grapple.
Grant swings first, heavy and wild. Leander ducks it, counters with an uppercut that snaps the bastard’s head back. Blood sprays on the ice.
The crowd loses its mind. Something twists hot in me.