Chapter 20
LEANDER
The air in the arena feels different tonight. Charged, alive, like a storm has been locked inside four walls and given blades to skate on. Every sound—sticks tapping, blades carving across ice, the distant roar of the crowd—lands sharper, heavier.
My laces are too tight. I know they are, but I don’t loosen them. Not tonight. My chest already aches with nerves, so what’s one more thing pressing down? I keep tugging until the strings bite red marks into my fingers, until it feels like my skates are part of me.
Around me, the locker room buzzes with noise—helmets clicking into place, water bottles squirting, nervous laughter.
Everyone pretends they’re calm, but I can see the tension in their hunched shoulders, in the way their hands flex like they’re itching to swing.
Phoenix is across the room, standing like he owns the place.
Helmet under his arm, posture straight, voice firm as he runs over the last drills and reminders.
His presence pulls everyone’s chaos into orbit.
He doesn’t have to scream to be heard—every word cuts through the noise.
He looks calm like the eye of a hurricane. But I know him. I see the storm crackling behind his eyes, the way his jaw ticks when he thinks nobody’s looking. He catches me watching and gives me the smallest nod.
A message only for me. You’re ready. I trust you. My chest loosens, just a little.
Still, the doubts are there, coiled like snakes in the back of my mind. Every headline. Every whisper.
Rookie doesn’t deserve his spot.
Captain’s boyfriend gets special treatment.
Pillow talk gets you power in Frosthaven.
I’ve carried those words for weeks. Tonight, I bury them under my ribs and hope the ice burns them away.
I close my eyes for a second, forcing a deep breath.
When I open them, Phoenix is still watching me.
His mouth curves—not a grin, not quite—but enough to ground me. Enough to remind me why I’m here.
We hit the tunnel as a pack, shoulder to shoulder, the clatter of skates echoing like war drums. The crowd’s roar builds with every step until it slams into us the second the doors open.
Lights blind, cameras flash, and the anthem of the Wolves shakes the rafters.
This is it. The biggest night of my life.
The puck drops, and the world narrows to ice, speed, and violence.
They’re bigger than us. Faster in bursts.
Their defense is a wall, and every hit rattles me down to my teeth.
I don’t care. I take it, dish it back twice as hard.
Every second is a test where you have to prove that you belong, prove you’re not weak, prove you’re not just Phoenix’s shadow.
I win battles on the boards, feed passes through traffic, backcheck like my lungs aren’t on fire.
Jax keeps us steady, always in the right spot, always ready to clean up when chaos erupts.
Phoenix, though—he’s everywhere. Captain mode.
Smart, sharp, calculated. The wild, reckless fire he used to play with has turned into something colder, deadlier.
He directs traffic with a glance, controls tempo with a flick of his wrist. But no matter how hard we grind, they match us.
One goal. Then another. Tied at one after twenty minutes.
The second period feels longer than any I’ve ever played. Every line change is a gasp for air before drowning again. We trade goals, each one slicing deeper into my nerves. Every shift I hear the whispers in my head—you don’t deserve this, you don’t belong.
At one point, I catch a glimpse of Eric on the bench, pale and stiff, still nursing guilt for what happened with Phoenix weeks ago. He doesn’t say much now. Nobody does.
The only words that matter are Phoenix’s. “Stay sharp. Don’t give them an inch. Trust each other.”
Simple. Direct. But it sticks. By the end of the period, it’s tied 2–2. The crowd is feral, chanting until the glass shakes. My heart pounds like it’ll break through my chest. One period left. One chance to prove everything.
The first five minutes of the third are a blur of desperation.
Every stride feels like skating through mud, every hit rattles harder.
I’m bent over on the bench, sucking air, when it happens.
One of their defensemen slams into Jax after the whistle, shoulder to chest, sending him sprawling across the ice.
Cheap, brutal, unnecessary. I’m up before I know it, stick clattering to the ice as I shove the guy back.
He smirks, mutters something I don’t hear, and then gloves drop.
Mine too. Fists fly. Bodies crash. The arena explodes into chaos.
I get tangled with a forward twice my size, my helmet knocked crooked as we grapple. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice—but he’s still coming, snarling. He rips my helmet off, shoves me back. I stumble, chest heaving. He charges—
“To your right, Lee!” Phoenix’s voice cuts through the storm.
Before I can turn, Phoenix barrels in, fist connecting with the guy’s cheek so hard he drops like a rag doll.
Blood spatters the ice. Phoenix plants himself in front of me, broad and furious, daring anyone else to try.
The sight of him—wild, protective, unstoppable—burns through me like fire.
For a moment, I forget about the game, the crowd, everything except him standing there like he’d fight the whole damn league just to keep me safe.
The refs swarm, whistles screaming. Penalties rain down, and when the dust settles, we’ve got a two-man advantage.
Five-on-three. A golden gift. Phoenix finds my eyes through the cage of his helmet.
His glare is hot, furious, but not at me.
For me. Something sharp and certain settles inside me. We have to finish this.
The face-off drops. My hands shake on my stick, not from fear, but from the pressure pressing down on me like a mountain. Jax takes the draw. Wins it clean, sliding the puck back. It lands on my tape.
Instinct takes over. I dodge their exhausted winger, heart hammering, and see Phoenix cutting through the slot like a blade. Perfect lane. Perfect timing. I thread the pass. He doesn’t hesitate. One-timer. Stick to the puck to the net. The red light flashes. The horn blares.
Goal.
The arena detonates.
For half a second, the world freezes. Then my teammates swarm me, arms crushing, gloves pounding my helmet, voices deafening in my ears.
Phoenix fights through the chaos until his arms lock around me so tight it steals my breath. His helmet presses against mine, his voice a rough growl. “You did it.” Not we. You.
I choke on a laugh, half a sob. “We did it,” I shoot back, voice cracking.
Because he’s wrong. I couldn’t have done it without him. But deep down, some part of me finally, finally believes it. I earned this.
The final buzzer comes with agony and glory.
We hold them off, every second dragging, until the horn screams again.
Final score: Wolves 3, them 2. We’re champions.
The arena erupts into chaos—confetti, sirens, the trophy being hauled onto the ice.
Cameras flash. Fans scream our names. I skate in circles like I don’t know what to do with myself, until Phoenix catches me by the jersey and yanks me back to him.
His helmet is gone, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes burning with pride.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. Together, we lift the trophy.
The locker room is chaos. Beer cans popping, champagne spraying, music blasting loud enough to rattle the walls.
Guys are shouting, laughing, tackling each other into piles of gear.
The trophy sits in the middle of it all, sticky with alcohol, kissed and smudged and loved.
I sit on the bench for a second, drenched in sweat, helmet dangling from my fingers, just trying to take it all in. The weight of it. The proof.
Phoenix drops down beside me, hair wet from a beer shower, eyes sharp even in the madness.
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Still think you don’t belong?”
I shake my head, throat tight. Words won’t come.
He smirks, softer than usual, and for once he doesn’t push.
Just lets me sit there, breathing it in.
Around us, the team has shifted. They’re not ignoring me anymore.
Not treating me like a ghost or a mistake.
Tonight, I’m one of them. For the first time, I feel it.
The celebration doesn’t end in the locker room.
It spills out into the night like a storm too big to be contained.
Jax is the first one to shout it: “We’re hitting the bar!
”—and before I can even ask which one, half the team is already cheering.
They mean that bar. The one where it all started.
The dim little dive with neon lights and sticky floors, where Phoenix ran his hands over me with that infuriating smirk.
We pile into cabs, some of the other guy’s girlfriend’s waving championship towels out the windows, the trophy itself shoved awkwardly across knees and laps like a sacred relic.
The streets are alive with fans in Wolves jerseys, honking horns, slapping the cars as we crawl past. Everyone knows. Frosthaven’s champions are here.
By the time we spill through the doors, the bar is already packed, buzzing with energy.
The jukebox can’t compete with the noise, but someone feeds it quarters anyway, and soon a bass-heavy anthem rattles the floorboards.
People cheer when they see us, when they see Phoenix—their captain, their star—and then me at his side.
My chest tightens, remembering how different it felt the first time I stood in this room. Back then, I kept to the shadows, ordered a drink and pretended to be invisible. I was careful, restrained, terrified of drawing attention. Phoenix noticed anyway.