Chapter 8 #2
The referees finally swarmed in, dragging Leo away. He didn't fight them. He let them escort him to the penalty box.
He sat down, slamming the door. He leaned his head back against the glass, right in front of where I was sitting.
He was three feet away from me.
He didn't turn around. He just sat there, breathing hard, staring at his skates.
I leaned forward. "Leo," I whispered against the glass.
His shoulders tensed. He slowly turned his head.
There was a cut over his left eyebrow, bleeding sluggishly. His lip was split. His knuckles were raw.
He looked at me with an expression of such intense, raw hunger that my knees buckled.
He pressed his gloved hand against the glass.
I placed my hand over his on the other side.
The cold glass was the only thing separating us.
"Are you okay?" I mouthed.
He didn't answer. He just stared at me, drinking me in, using the sight of me to tether himself back to reality.
Then, he winked.
A dark, dangerous, bloody wink.
And turned back to the game.
The rest of the game was a blur. Blackwood won 4-1. Leo scored two more goals, playing with a cold, terrifying precision that felt more like an assassination than a sport.
When the final buzzer sounded, I didn't wait for Harper.
"I have to go see him," I said.
"Go," Harper said, checking her phone. "I have to file my story anyway. 'Captain Blood and the night of the living fist.' It practically writes itself."
I ran. I navigated the crowded concourse, dodging drunk students, and made my way to the Family & Friends waiting area outside the locker room tunnel.
It was a concrete corridor, smelling of damp cement and high-voltage lighting. A few other girlfriends were there, checking their makeup. I ignored them. I paced.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty.
Finally, the door to the locker room opened.
Players started trickling out. Silas walked out, looking exhausted but happy. He saw me and grinned.
"He's coming," Silas said, patting my shoulder as he passed. "He's... coming down. Just give him a second."
A moment later, Leo appeared.
He had showered and changed into a charcoal grey suit, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. His hair was wet, slicked back. The cut over his eye had been stitched and taped. His jaw was bruised purple.
He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.
He saw me standing there in his oversized jersey.
He stopped. He dropped his gym bag on the floor.
"Maya."
I didn't think. I moved.
I ran to him. He met me halfway, catching me as I slammed into his chest. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me off the ground.
He buried his face in my neck, inhaling sharply. He groaned—a low, pained sound that vibrated through my bones.
"You're okay," I whispered, my hands tangling in his wet hair. "You're okay."
"I needed to see you," he rasped against my skin. "I needed to know you were still here."
"I'm here. I'm wearing your name, Leo. I'm not going anywhere."
He set me down but didn't let go. He backed me up until my back hit the concrete wall of the corridor. He boxed me in, his hands on the wall on either side of my head.
His eyes were frantic, scanning my face. The adrenaline from the fight was still coursing through him. I could feel it in the heat radiating off his body, in the tremors in his hands.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
"Yes," I admitted. "When you hit the boards... I stopped breathing."
"Not that," he said impatiently. "The fight. When I... when I lost it. Did I scare you?"
I reached up and cupped his bruised jaw. His stubble grazed my palm.
"No," I lied. "You stopped. You looked at me, and you stopped. You didn't lose control, Leo. You found it."
He closed his eyes, leaning his cheek into my hand. "Because of you. All I could hear was the noise... and then I saw you. And it went quiet."
He opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated. "God, you look good in that jersey."
"It's too big."
"It's perfect," he growled. "It smells like you now. I'm never washing it."
He leaned in. He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It tasted of blood and mint toothpaste and adrenaline. It was a claiming kiss. He devoured my mouth, his tongue sweeping in, taking everything I had.
My hands gripped his lapels, pulling him closer. I wanted to crawl inside his skin. I wanted to heal the bruises with my own body.
"Take me home," I whispered against his lips. "I don't care about the rules anymore."
He pulled back, his forehead resting against mine. He was breathing hard.
"I can't," he said, his voice strained. "Tomorrow is the recital. You need sleep. You need focus."
"I don't need sleep," I argued. "I need you."
"Maya," he warned. Then he winced. A sharp intake of breath. His hand went to his side, clutching his ribs.
I froze. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just a bruise."
"Leo." I pushed his hand away and touched his side, gently, through the crisp cotton of his shirt.
He hissed in pain, his body going rigid.
"That's not a bruise," I said, panic rising in my throat. "That's a broken rib. Number 55 hit you harder than you let on."
"It's just a crack," he dismissed. "Shifter healing. It'll be gone by morning."
"You need a doctor."
"I need you," he corrected. "I need you to stop looking at me like I'm broken."
"I'm not looking at you like you're broken," I said fiercely. "I'm looking at you like you're human. And humans break, Leo. It's allowed."
He stared at me, his expression softening into something raw and vulnerable.
"Not for me," he whispered. "Alphas don't break. If I break, the pack breaks."
"Then let me be the glue," I said.
He let out a short, bitter laugh. "You're supposed to be the music, Maya. Not the glue."
Before I could answer, a shadow fell over us.
"Leo Vance."
We sprang apart. Leo turned, shielding me with his body instantly.
A man was standing at the end of the corridor. He was wearing a trench coat and holding a clipboard. He looked like a shark in a cheap suit.
"Good game," the man said, his eyes flicking to Leo's bruised jaw, then to his side where he was holding his ribs. "But that temper? That’s going to be a problem in the pros, son. The NHL doesn't like liabilities."
He tapped his pen against his clipboard. "And neither do I."
The scout turned and walked away.
Leo went still. Deadly still.
I felt the tension radiate off him. The shame. The fear.
"Leo?" I touched his arm.
He pulled away. Gently, but firmly. The wall was back up.
"I have to go," he said, his voice cold. "I have to do press. Silas will drive you home."
"Leo, wait—"
"Go home, Maya," he said, not looking at me. "Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow."
He turned and walked back into the locker room, closing the door between us.
I stood there in the cold corridor, wearing his jersey, feeling the sudden, crushing weight of the silence.
He had won the fight. He had won the game.
But watching him walk away, holding his broken ribs and his broken pride, I knew he felt like he had lost everything.
And I didn't know how to fix it.