Chapter 17
PHOENIX
Bliss doesn’t last forever. The championship game is coming fast over the horizon, and it’s my job to lead us to victory.
The chill of the rink feels cleaner today.
Colder, sharper, like it’s rinsing the last of my old chaos out of me.
For the first time in months, I’m not running off adrenaline or rage—I’m steady.
Calm. My skates slice the ice in smooth strokes as I circle the team, watching how they move, how the lines connect, how our energy holds together.
I’ve been different these last few weeks, and I know they feel it.
The guys used to tense up when I barked orders, waiting for me to snap or blow a fuse.
Now, they actually meet my eyes. They listen.
Not out of fear, but because they trust me.
And damn if that doesn’t feel better than the temporary high of screaming until my throat burns.
Leander’s at center, locked in, his stick fast and confident.
He has that spark in his stride, the one I’ve learned to read, the one that tells me he’s happy.
He’s loose, laughing with Jax between drills, and I can’t stop watching him even though I should be paying attention to the whole line.
He’s why I’ve changed, why I’ve slowed down. Why my fire finally has direction.
We close out the drill with a clean breakout, Eric tapping the puck into the net at the last second. He throws his arms up like he just scored in overtime of the championship, skating backward to grin at me.
“Tell me you’re not loving this new Captain Sunshine vibe,” he calls, his helmet tilted back on his head. “I’m just saying, man, I’ve seen you a lot grumpier. Must be something in the air.” His eyes slide toward Leander, and that grin sharpens. “Or someone.”
The guys laugh. Leander’s cheeks pink, but he rolls his eyes and skates off toward the bench, ignoring him.
I don’t ignore him. I cut across the ice, hard enough that my blades screech, stopping inches from Eric. “Careful,” I warn. My tone’s even, but the look I pin him with isn’t.
Eric lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m all for it. Hell, half our fanbase is, too. You’ve seen the edits, right?”
I blink. “The what?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb. TikTok. Instagram. Phoenix-and-Leander fan pages. The ship edits. ‘Phander.’ Or was it ‘Leonix’? Shit, I can’t keep up, but they’re everywhere. The girls are going feral for you two.”
He smirks like it’s the funniest thing in the world. My jaw tightens.
Leander, though—he hears it. He skates right back, planting himself between us. His shoulders square like he’s ready to throw down, and his voice cuts through the rink, sharp as a slap.
“Lay off, Eric.”
Eric’s grin falters. He tries to laugh it off, but his eyes dart away. Everyone remembers the fight. The way Leander dropped a guy twice his size on the ice and didn’t blink. He’s not the rookie they thought he was at the start of the season.
The rink goes quiet.
Leander doesn’t move until Eric backs up a step. Then he turns, shooting me a look—steady, protective, like he’s standing guard. Something in my chest twists, something equal parts gratitude and guilt.
I nod once. Blow the whistle. “Line drills. Let’s go.”
The tension breaks as the guys scatter back into formation. But it sticks in me like a splinter.
Because Eric isn’t wrong. The edits, the speculation—I’ve seen them, too.
I just don’t acknowledge it. Don’t let it live in my head.
But lately, it’s been harder to ignore. Reporters ask sly questions during press conferences.
Fans scream shit from the stands. Everyone wants to know what’s going on between me and Leander.
And the worst part is, they’re not wrong. They can sense it. The way I look at him. The way he looks at me.
We can’t hide forever.
The whistle shrieks again, and the drill starts.
But my focus is fractured. The weight of eyes, of rumors, of the goddamn championship breathing down our necks—it’s pressing in.
The guys push hard, but I see cracks. Lazy passes.
Sloppy shifts. My calm wavers, replaced with a familiar itch.
The one that says if I don’t snap them into shape now, it’ll all fall apart.
I try to swallow it down. Breathe. Remember the steadiness. But as the minutes tick by, as Eric fumbles a pass and Jax drifts too wide, as the sloppiness mounts, the itch claws deeper.
I blow the whistle harder than I need to. “Again.”
They groan.
“Again!” My voice echoes sharply against the rafters.
This time, they hustle. They know that tone.
The drill sharpens. Cleaner. But not enough.
Not with the championship coming. Not with the media breathing down our necks and everyone waiting to see if we’ll choke.
I don’t even realize when my calm slips away, when my voice rises.
The old, reckless fire takes over. My commands turn sharp, punishing.
Skates pound the ice harder. Sticks crack against boards.
Leander catches my eye mid-drill, sweat on his brow, breath harsh. He sees it. He knows. His look says everything: You’re slipping.
But I can’t stop. Not now. Because if we fall apart on the ice, everything else—everything I’ve built with him, with this team—will crash with it.
I don’t care if they hate me for it. I don’t care if they bleed. We’re going to win, even if it kills us.
The drill ends in chaos—sweat, curses, the burn of lactic acid in our legs. I finally blow the whistle, sharp enough to slice the tension, and the guys collapse onto the bench. Helmets clatter to the floor, water bottles hiss open. The rink smells like rubber, ice, and exhaustion.
I keep standing, hands on my hips, chest heaving. The old fire hums in my blood, even though I know I pushed them too hard.
Leander throws me a look across the bench—stern, steady. Not angry, but warning. I know that look. I’ve been pushing. I’ve been slipping back into the version of me I promised him was gone.
But before I can even think about it, Eric drifts over to him, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat dripping down his temple. He’s grinning like an idiot, even though he looks half-dead from the drills.
“Hey, Leander,” he says, loud enough that the whole bench can hear. “Do us all a favor, huh? Let Phoenix get some tonight. Captain Sunshine plays way better than Captain from Hell.”
The rink erupts with half-choked laughs, water spraying out of bottles. My stomach drops.
Leander’s face goes still. Then red. He stands so fast his water bottle clatters to the ground. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Eric blinks, still smirking. “Relax, man, I’m just—”
Leander’s fist connects with his jaw before the sentence finishes. The crack echoes through the rink, sharp as a puck against the boards. Eric stumbles back, clutching his face.
“Leander!” My voice rips out of me, but it’s too late. He’s on Eric again, fists flying, pure fury in every hit. The bench explodes into chaos, guys scrambling to pull them apart, shouting over each other.
I launch forward, grabbing Leander around the chest, hauling him back with everything I’ve got. He thrashes, wild, teeth bared like an animal.
Johnny gets Eric pinned on the other side, shouting at him to shut the fuck up.
“Leander!” I bark in his ear, dragging him toward the boards. “Enough!”
But he shoves against me, trying to break free. “No! He doesn’t get to talk about you like that! He doesn’t—” His voice cracks, rage and something else bleeding through.
Eric laughs cruelly, “Oh, so rookie is your fuck toy, huh, Cap? Cameron wouldn’t be so up in arms if it weren’t true.”
I wrench Lee harder, as he tries to claw out Eric’s eyes, pinning him back against the glass, my chest to his spine. His breaths come ragged, his fists still clenched, his whole body trembling with fight.
And then he says it.
“I’m not his fuck-anything! He’s my partner.” His voice carries, echoing through the rink. “Phoenix is mine. And if anyone has a problem with it—” He jerks against me, eyes blazing at the team, at Eric— “they can look at him as the fucking example.”
The bench falls silent. Every player frozen, wide-eyed, helmets in their laps. The truth hangs in the air like smoke.
Leander breathes hard, chest heaving against mine. His hands shake, but his chin is high, daring anyone to speak.
No one does.
Even Eric, nursing his jaw, keeps his mouth shut.
My grip loosens on him slowly. My heart is a snarl of pride, fear, and something so sharp it feels like love cutting me open. There it is out in the open. No taking it back now. And fuck if part of me doesn’t want to kiss him right here, in front of all of them, just to hammer it home.
The rink is still dead quiet when Coach barrels out of his office, whistle dangling from his neck, eyes sweeping the chaos like a storm front.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Nobody answers. Nobody even breathes.
Leander’s chest heaves against me, his jaw set hard. Eric slumps on the bench, still holding his face, not brave enough to open his mouth again.
Coach’s eyes cut to me. “Captain. Office. Now.”
The team scatters like roaches as he turns on his heel, expecting me to follow. I give Leander’s shoulder one last squeeze—firm, warning—before I stalk after him
His office is cramped, and the smell of coffee and skate polish clings to the walls. He shuts the door behind us and crosses his arms, pinning me with that look that makes rookies crumble.
“Is it true?” he asks, bluntly.
I stay standing. “Is what true?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You and Cameron.”
“Yes.” My jaw tightens. “We’re together.”
Coach’s sigh is sharp, like he’s been expecting it and dreading it all the same. “You realize I have to investigate this, right? The league won’t tolerate whispers of favoritism. I need to know you haven’t been giving him special treatment—more ice time, different drills, bending rules.”
I grit my teeth. “You think I’d compromise the team for a relationship?”