Chapter 20
Against the Boards
Leo
The garage fight is still in my fists.
Every stride burns. Every pass clangs off my stick like it’s allergic to control.
I can hear the scrape of my blades louder than the puck, louder than the shouts from the guys running the drill.
My body’s here on the ice, but my head’s still in that damn garage, knuckles split and voice hoarse from yelling at Grayson.
The echo of Sage’s voice—sharp, desperate—won’t stop replaying.
“Voss, wake up!”
Coach’s bark slices through my fog. I fumble a puck, curse under my breath, and shove off again, trying to reset. The whistle blasts, shrill and final.
“Everybody water up,” Coach calls, then hooks a finger at me. “You. Stay.”
The rest of the team peels away, skates scratching ice. I feel their eyes flick my way—some pity, some curiosity, a few smirks that say damn, he’s in trouble. I drag a glove down my face and skate to the boards.
Coach doesn’t yell right away. He just stares, chewing on a piece of gum like it personally offended him. “You skating angry today?”
I bite down on my mouthguard. “Just off, I guess.”
“Off?” His tone sharpens. “You’re dragging the whole line with you. You think you can muscle through it, but you’re not fooling anyone. Timing’s off. Edgework sloppy. You’re a second late on every read.”
Each word lands like a hit. I want to argue. Tell him I’m fine. Tell him to back off. But he’s right, and we both know it.
“I don’t know what’s eating at you,” he continues, softer now, “but you better figure it out before tomorrow night. Because right now, you’re skating like a guy who’s lost.”
He skates off before I can answer, leaving me standing alone on the blue line, chest heaving.
Lost. Yeah. That’s one way to put it.
I skate a few lazy laps, trying to shake it off, but everything feels heavier than it should—the ice, my gear, the noise in my head.
I glance toward the bench where the guys are laughing, tossing jokes back and forth like nothing in the world’s wrong.
I used to be that easy. Used to be able to switch it off the second I stepped onto the rink.
Now it’s like the ice knows what I did.
When practice ends, I’m the last one to hit the tunnel. My gloves are soaked, my shoulders aching. I yank off my helmet, and sweat drips down my temples. A few of the guys glance at me, quiet now. They know something’s off but won’t say it—not yet. Not until someone else does first.
In the back of my mind, I can still feel Grayson’s collar in my fist. The sound of Sage’s breath hitching. The look on her face before I walked out.
I jam my stick into my bag and slam the zipper closed.
Lost, Coach said.
No. Worse than that.
I’m unraveling.
The locker room smells like damp gear and disinfectant. Normally, it’s white noise—guys talking over the sound of the showers, the clatter of sticks, the thud of tape rolls hitting the floor. But today, the noise cuts out all at once.
I look up. Half the team’s attention has shifted toward the TV mounted above the trainer’s station. The volume’s low, but the banner across the screen is impossible to miss: Puck Whisperer Exclusive — Voss Cracks? Surge Star in Late-Night Confrontation.
My stomach drops.
The footage is nothing but shadows and motion—two figures in a garage, one throwing a punch, the other ducking out of frame. No faces, no proof. But the voiceover sells it anyway. “Sources close to the team say tension between Leo Voss and Grayson Locke reached a boiling point last night…”
“Holy shit,” someone mutters.
“Dude, that’s gotta be fake,” another says, but no one sounds convinced.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I can feel eyes shifting toward me, quick and cautious. A couple guys glance down, pretending to mess with their skates. One of the rookies blurts, “That—uh—wasn’t you, right, Voss?” and instantly regrets it.
I don’t answer. My jaw locks so tight I taste blood. I grab my duffel and sling it over my shoulder, ignoring the awkward shuffle that follows me to the door.
Behind me, I hear someone whisper, “Man’s losing it.”
They’re not wrong.
I shove out into the hallway, where the hum of the arena feels colder than usual. My phone buzzes in my pocket—three missed calls from Sage. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Not yet. Not with my head spinning, not with that segment still looping behind my eyes.
I thought hitting Grayson would make me feel better.
Instead, it’s like I cracked something wide open, and now everyone can see the mess inside.
By the time I get home, the sun’s already down, bleeding through the blinds in long streaks of red.
The apartment feels wrong—too quiet, too clean, like it’s holding its breath.
Sage is sitting on the couch, hair pulled into a loose braid, eyes rimmed red.
The TV’s on mute, the same damn Puck Whisperer logo frozen on the screen.
She stands when I walk in. “Leo—”
“Why was he there?” I don’t let her finish. My voice comes out low, sharp. “Why was Grayson anywhere near you?”
Her shoulders stiffen. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“I don’t?” I drop my bag, the sound cracking through the silence. “He was in our garage, Sage. The same guy who’s been running his mouth about me all season, and you just—what—invite him in?”
“I didn’t invite him in!” she snaps, stepping forward. “He showed up, Leo. He wanted to talk, and I told him to leave. You didn’t even give me a chance to explain before you—before you lost it!”
I laugh, bitter and hollow. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ve had enough of people trying to ‘talk.’ That’s how this always starts, right? You talk, they twist it, and I’m the one who ends up the villain.”
Her eyes flash. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you. You keep swinging at ghosts, and you’re gonna destroy everything that’s real.”
The words hit harder than any punch. I can’t even look at her. The air between us feels electric—anger, regret, something darker pulsing underneath. My pulse spikes, breath ragged.
“I was trying to protect you,” I say, voice breaking. “You don’t know what guys like him can do.”
“I know exactly what they can do.” Her voice softens, trembling. “You’re not the only one who’s been hurt, Leo.”
That stops me cold. She turns away before I can say anything else, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
The fight drains out of me, leaving only the ache. The kind that lives in your ribs long after the bruises fade.
I take a step toward her, but she doesn’t move.
The silence stretches, heavy and fragile, until it starts to feel like something else entirely.
The air between us snaps.
One second we’re glaring, the next I’m moving. She’s standing too close, chest rising and falling fast, lips parted like she’s about to say something—only I can’t wait to hear it. My hand finds her jaw, fingers trembling, and then I’m kissing her.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. A collision more than a kiss, the kind that steals the air right out of your lungs. She meets me halfway, fists curling in my shirt, tugging me closer like she’s just as angry, just as lost.
We stumble backward, bumping the counter.
The sound of glass rattling somewhere registers, then disappears under the rush in my ears.
She tastes like salt and adrenaline. Every inch of me burns for her—the way her breath hitches, the way her body arches against mine like she’s trying to burn the fight away too.
My hands slide to her hips, dragging her closer, until the space between us is gone. She pulls back just enough to whisper, voice rough, “This doesn’t fix it.”
“I know,” I breathe, and then I’m kissing her again anyway.
I kiss her again, harder, deeper, my tongue tangling with hers, claiming her, owning her.
Her hands are everywhere—clawing at my shirt, yanking it over my head, her fingers tracing the muscles of my chest. I’m tearing at her clothes too, ripping her shirt open, exposing her perky breasts, her nipples tight and begging for my mouth.
I latch onto one, sucking hard, my tongue swirling, my teeth grazing, and she arches into me, a sharp cry escaping her lips.
The world narrows to heat and need and the sharp edge of want that’s been building for months. It’s furious, consuming, the kind of release that feels like it could break us or save us. Every touch is an apology I can’t say out loud, every gasp a confession we’re too stubborn to make.
“Leo,” she moaned, her voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. “Not here. The bed—”
“Fuck the bed,” I snarl, lifting her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist. I’m grinding against her, my throbbing cock pressed into her wet heat, and she is rocking against me, her pussy dripping, her breath coming in jagged gasps.
I kiss down her neck, biting, sucking, marking her as mine, my hands sliding down her thighs, pulling her closer.
Her skirt was bunched around her waist, her panties already torn and discarded, and I am fucking desperate to be inside her.
I tear open my jeans, my cock springing free, and she is reaching for it, stroking it, her fingers tight around my shaft.
“Fuck me,” she demands, her voice hoarse. “Now, Leo. Please.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I line up my cock, her wetness coating the head, and I thrust into her, hard and deep, burying myself in her tight, hot pussy. She cries out, her head falling back, her body trembling as I fill her.
“Fuck, Sage,” I groan, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
She meets my thrusts, her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs tightening around me. Her pussy is clenching around my cock, milking me, and I am losing it. I pound into her, the counter creaking under us, the sound of our skin slapping together filling the air.
“Harder,” she pants, her eyes glazed with need.
“Fuck me harder, Leo.” I don’t hold back.
I am fucking her like I am trying to break her, like I am trying to erase every doubt, every hurt, every fucking word we’d thrown at each other.
Her breasts are bouncing with every thrust, her nipples hard and red from my mouth, and I am reaching down, fingering her clit, rubbing it in time with my strokes.
“Cum on my cock,” I growl, my voice rough.
She was shaking, her walls tightening, her breath hitching, and then she was screaming my name.
Her orgasm sent me over the edge, and I begin roaring her name, my balls tightening, my cum shooting deep inside her, pulse after pulse of hot, thick seed.
I am buried inside her, and I don’t want to move. I don’t want to let her go.
When it’s over, we stay there, tangled and breathless. Her head rests against my chest. My heartbeat’s still wild, slamming against my ribs. I want to say something—anything—but the words die in my throat.
The silence stretches again, this time heavier, loaded with everything we didn’t fix.
Sage pulls away first, wrapping her arms around herself. “You should shower,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
I nod, even though I don’t move. The air between us feels thick, like we’re both standing in the aftermath of something we can’t undo.
For a second, I almost tell her I’m sorry. Almost tell her I don’t know how to stop ruining things that matter.
But instead, I stay silent and watch her walk down the hall.
The ache in my chest makes it hard to breathe.
The room feels different after she’s gone—too still, like the air forgot how to move. I lean against the counter and hang my head. The quiet hum of the fridge fills the space she left behind.
From down the hall, I hear water running. The shower. A few minutes ago, that sound meant something else. Now it’s just another reminder of what I can’t fix.
I drag in a slow breath, trying to get my pulse under control. The smell of her still clings to me—soap and sweat and that faint hint of vanilla she always wears. It hits harder than I expect.
When I finally push off the counter, the apartment feels smaller, like the walls are closing in. I head for the bedroom and find her lying on her side, facing the window. The streetlight outside cuts across the room in slanted gold, painting her skin in quiet light.
I lie down beside her but keep my distance. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch when the mattress dips under my weight.
For a long time, we just breathe. Her inhale, my exhale, the rhythm out of sync. My hand itches to reach for her—to smooth the hair from her shoulder, to bridge the space between us—but I don’t. I can’t.
Because if I touch her now, I’ll want too much.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” I whisper finally.
Her eyes open, but she doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches until it feels like a wall between us. I close my eyes and let the weight of it sink in. The fight, the kiss, the mess I made of all of it.
She shifts slightly, just enough that our hands almost touch. Not quite. It’s enough to wreck me.
We lie there, two people caught between what we want and what we’re afraid of. Too close to be strangers. Too far to feel safe.
And as the city hums outside our window, I realize something I can’t take back:
I might’ve just lost the one thing I was fighting to protect.