Chapter 18
LEANDER
The investigation feels endless, even though it only lasts a couple of weeks.
Meetings behind closed doors. Owners with their tight suits and tight smiles.
Coaches with their carefully blank faces.
They go through everything—my shifts, my stats, my interviews.
Every pass Phoenix has given me, every decision he’s made about lines or ice time.
They’re not looking for the truth. They’re looking for cracks. Proof that I’ve been handed something I didn’t earn. They don’t find it.
Because it isn’t there.
When the official word comes down—no evidence of favoritism—it should feel like relief. It doesn’t. It feels like a pause before the storm. And I’m right. The story leaks within days.
“Frozen Scandal? Wolves’ Captain, Phoenix Callahan, Under Fire for Alleged Relationship with Rookie, Leander Hayes.”
I read the headline three times, waiting for my stomach to stop dropping. It never does.
The article makes us sound like a cautionary tale. Phoenix as the predatory captain, using his power to seduce me. Or me as the conniving rookie, climbing into his bed so I can climb the ranks faster.
There’s no mention of how hard I’ve worked to get here. No mention of how many bruises, how many hours of sweat and drills and exhaustion it took just to make the roster. Just gossip dressed up like journalism. And the fire spreads.
Sports channels run with it, talking heads debating whether Phoenix should step down as captain, whether I even deserve my spot on the team.
TikToks blow up with slow-motion edits of me and him on the bench, hearts floating across the screen.
Twitter is full of ship names like “LeoNix” and “PheanDer.” Some of it’s flattering.
Some of it’s disgusting. None of it feels real.
The Wolves are trending every day. And the owners are fucking thrilled.
Ticket sales skyrocket. Jerseys with my number, with his, sell out. There are new fans everywhere—girls with signs, queer kids wearing rainbow versions of the Wolves’ logo. The franchise has never been this popular. But with the attention comes the hate.
The comments I don’t mean to read but can’t stop myself from seeing.
Disgusting. He’s ruining hockey.
Figures. Should’ve stayed in juniors.
Bet he can’t even skate without holding the captain’s hand.
It’s a poison. I try to shake it off, but it clings. The arena and locker room feel different now.
At first, it’s subtle. Missed passes in drills. No one looking me in the eye. Laughter in the corner stalls that cuts off when I walk by. But it grows.
During scrimmages, I’m wide open at the blue line and the puck goes anywhere but my stick. Nobody calls my name. Nobody calls plays to me. Even warnings—those sharp yells when a defender’s coming hot—go silent. It’s like I’m not there.
Jax is the only one who isn’t treating me like some ghost whore skating on the sidelines. He runs drills with me, throws me the puck when no one else will. He plants himself next to me during warm-ups, daring anyone to make a joke loud enough for him to hear. I owe him more than I can say.
Phoenix sees it all. I know he does. He doesn’t blow up, though—not like he used to. He doesn’t throw his stick or slam lockers or tear strips off the team. Instead, he doubles down. He pushes practice harder. He demands more. He drives everyone until sweat soaks through pads and tempers fray.
I know what he’s doing. He’s saying: if you want to cut Leander out, then you’ll suffer for it. It helps, but it also makes me ache. Because every time he pushes them harder, I can feel the weight of it settling on his shoulders.
At night, when we’re home and the world is quiet, he doesn’t have to say anything. I can see it in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his hands tremble when he finally lets himself rest.
I cup his face sometimes, force him to look at me. “Don’t carry it all. Don’t tear yourself apart for me.”
But I know he will because that’s Phoenix. Part of me loves him all the more for it. Still, every day in that locker room, I feel smaller. Every practice, more invisible.
And I can’t stop asking myself the question that keeps me awake at night.
If the investigation didn’t find proof… if I’ve worked for every inch of ice time I’ve gotten… then why does it feel like the team has already decided I don’t belong?
The locker room is suffocating the next morning. Practice hasn’t even started, and the air feels thick. Sticks clatter against concrete. Tape squeaks against blades. But the silence between words is louder than everything.
I sit at my stall, tying my laces slow, steady. Trying to look unfazed. I don’t flinch when a helmet gets slammed too close. Eric mutters something under his breath to another guy. They both laugh. I don’t need to hear the words to know what they mean.
I keep my head down, but my fists curl tight against my knees. No matter how much I try to pretend or how much Phoenix tries to lead, I can feel it: the team doesn’t see me as one of them anymore.
I tell myself it’s fine, that I can take it, that I knew backlash would come. But all day the silence has gnawed at me: open ice and no one passing, open mouth and no one answering. Just me, isolated, while the rest of the team skated circles around each other.
And layered over it, the media storm keeps raging. Every headline twisting Phoenix into a villain. Every clip of us slowed down, analyzed, replayed like some guilty piece of evidence. They call him obsessive. They call me naive. They call us a scandal.
By the time we get home, my skin feels too tight. I can’t breathe.
Phoenix drops his bag by the door and heads toward the kitchen, like nothing’s wrong. Like he doesn’t feel the whole team icing me out. Like he doesn’t care that the world is painting him as something cruel, something dangerous, when he’s the safest person I’ve ever known.
It makes something in me snap.
“Why aren’t you angry?” The words come out sharp. Louder than I mean.
He pauses mid-step. Turns slowly. “What?”
I push off the couch, pacing fast, restless energy burning under my skin.
“Why aren’t you furious? They’re treating you like a monster, Phoenix.
Like you’ve trapped me. Like I don’t have a mind of my own.
” My chest heaves. “And the team—they won’t even look at me.
Won’t pass me the puck, won’t talk to me. I might as well not exist out there.”
Phoenix watches me with a calm in his eyes that has begun to feel familiar.
I rake a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots. My voice cracks as it rises. “I can’t stand it, okay? Watching them act like you’re some villain and I’m some idiot. Watching them freeze me out like I didn’t bleed to get here. Like I didn’t fight for every damn shift.”
My throat feels raw. My fists ache from clenching so hard.
Phoenix finally moves. Slow, deliberate. He crosses the room and puts his hands on my shoulders. They’re heavy, grounding. His voice is low. “Lee. Breathe.”
I try. I really do. But the anger keeps bubbling. “You should’ve ripped into them today. You should’ve told them to knock their shit off.”
“I know.” His thumbs brush over the line of my collarbones, steady. “But screaming doesn’t fix this. Not this time.”
I shake my head. “So what? We just let them walk all over us? Let the world call you every name under the sun?”
“No.” His eyes catch mine, sharp even in the dim light. “We get smart.”
I freeze, breathing ragged.
Phoenix squeezes my shoulders. “You don’t fight poison with fire. You fight it with trust. With unity. If they’re going to treat you like an outsider, then we remind them you’re not.”
I frown. “How?”
“We’ll host a team party. Before the championship.”
The words hang in the air, unexpected.
I blink. “A party?”
He nods, calm as if this whole plan has already unfolded in his head. “Here. Our place. Food, music, whatever. They need to see you outside the rink, see that you’re not just… the rookie who got tangled up with his captain. You’re one of them.”
I let the idea sink in. My pulse is still pounding, but slower now. “You think that’ll work?”
“I think it can’t hurt.” A small smile curves his mouth. “And it’s better than decking Eric again.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out—short and bitter at first, then warmer. He always knows how to cut through the storm.
Phoenix tilts his head, studying me. “Feel better?”
“Not really.” I sigh, running a hand down my face. “I still feel like I’m going to explode.”
His smile sharpens into something dangerous. Something playful. “Then use it.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Use it on me.” His grip slides from my shoulders down to my arms, fingers pressing into my muscle. “All that anger. All that aggression. Put it where it counts.”
Heat flares through me, sudden and overwhelming.
Phoenix leans close, his breath brushing my ear. “You want to prove to yourself you’re not weak and naive? That you’re not some rookie who lucked into my bed?” His teeth graze the edge of my jaw. “Show me.”
I swallow hard. My body answers before my brain does, blood rushing south, skin prickling with electricity.
“You just want to be fucked,” I manage, but my voice is already rough.
He grins, all sharp edges and mischief. “Maybe. But I bet I can take whatever you’ve got left in you.”
And just like that, the rage that’s been choking me all day shifts. Turns molten, hungry.
Phoenix always knows how to redirect me—on the ice, in life, in this. Where I see fire, he sees fuel.
I fist a hand in his shirt, pulling him closer until our foreheads nearly touch. “Don’t tempt me, Locke.”
“Who said it’s temptation?” His smirk is wicked. “I’m begging for it.”
The laugh that rips out of me is wild, reckless, exactly what I need. And for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe again.
Phoenix’s grin is still sharp on his lips, taunting me, daring me, and I can’t take it anymore.