Chapter 4
Fuel to the Fire
Leo
Morning starts like a collision instead of a sunrise.
There’s music somewhere—low, jazzy, the kind that makes you want to move slower. The smell of ginger hits next, bright and sharp, cutting through the fog in my head. Then I see her.
Sage moves through the kitchen. Each step flows into the next, graceful and unhurried, like she’s choreographed it—barefoot, hair up, humming under her breath while steam curls off a pot on the stove.
The fridge is a riot of color when she opens it: containers stacked, every one labeled in neat handwriting.
Her version of control looks a lot prettier than mine.
“Coffee’s ready,” she says without looking back. “Or are you one of those athletes who only drinks sludge and protein powder?”
“Depends who’s asking,” I say, grabbing a mug. “The chef or the roommate?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Both. The chef’s judging, the roommate’s pretending not to care.”
The corner of my mouth tugs. “Honest of you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I take a sip, and the ginger steam catches in my throat. “What’s that smell?”
“Bone broth,” she says. “Anti-inflammatory, full of collagen, good for recovery.”
I grunt. “Fuel.”
She turns, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon. “Fuel can taste good. You just haven’t given it a chance.”
“Pretty sure good food doesn’t win games.”
“Neither does bad food,” she fires back. “Ask your knees.”
That gets a short laugh out of me, and she grins like she’s won something. It shouldn’t feel like flirting, but it does. The air hums with it—something light but dangerous.
She gestures to the counter. “Sit. You’re my test subject today.”
I raise an eyebrow but take the seat. She slides a bowl in front of me: golden quinoa studded with citrus and something green. “Turmeric, lemon, pepper, cherry. For sleep, inflammation, mood.”
“Mood?” I echo.
“You’ve got a grumpy one. Figured I’d fix it.”
She’s not wrong. I take a bite—expecting bland health food—and get hit with a riot of flavor. Warm, earthy, bright. I grunt, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.
She leans on the counter, watching. The faint scent of lemon and ginger drifts closer as she shifts her weight, her laugh humming just before it spills out. “See? Fuel can taste good.”
I don’t answer fast enough, so she adds, “Swallow before you choke, big guy.”
The liquids go down wrong. I cough, trying to cover it, but she’s already laughing—low and musical, the kind of sound that shakes something loose in me.
“You okay there?” she teases. “Need me to perform the Heimlich?”
“Fine,” I rasp, clearing my throat. “You trying to kill me?”
“Not yet.”
Her smile lingers just long enough to turn into something else—softer, heavier. The kind of silence that makes the air thick.
And then we’re too close.
She’s still holding the spoon, and my hand finds the counter behind her, boxing her in without meaning to. The scent of ginger and lemon and her skin fills the small space between us.
Her breath hitches. My heart does, too.
I should move. I don’t.
The air hums—low and electric—as her back grazes the counter. My pulse thunders, too loud, too fast, matching the sound of the bubbling broth behind us.
Sage blinks up at me, eyes wide but not afraid. I catch the faintest hitch of her breath, the way her hand tightens around the spoon like she’s deciding whether to swing it or drop it.
“Leo,” she says quietly, warning in her tone, but her voice isn’t steady enough to convince either of us.
“What?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
“You’re in my space.”
“Pretty sure you stepped into mine.”
Her lips part—ready to fire back—but I’m already closing the gap. The movement isn’t planned, not even thought through. It’s instinct. Heat. The kind of pull that makes logic irrelevant.
One second, she’s glaring at me; the next, her hands are on my chest, pushing—or maybe holding on—as my mouth finds hers.
The kiss hits like a power surge—heat and static colliding.
Beneath the rush, there’s the faint warmth of her skin, soft and grounding, pulling the chaos into something achingly real.
Sharp. Messy. Too much and not enough all at once.
She tastes like lemon and salt, her breath quick against mine.
I feel her gasp more than I hear it, the sound vibrating against my lips.
Her spoon clatters to the tile. My hand finds her waist. Her fingers twist in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of away. For a few wild seconds, the world shrinks to heat and breath and the scrape of metal on countertop as she’s lifted onto it.
Then—like hitting a wall—it’s too much.
We break apart at the same time, both breathing hard. The air rushes back in, thick with the scent of ginger and something new I can’t name.
Her eyes search mine, wild and uncertain. “That was—”
“—a mistake,” I finish, too fast, the word rough and uneven. My hands twitch at my sides, caught between the urge to reach for her and the instinct to pull back.
She flinches, and I hate the word the second it leaves my mouth. But I can’t take it back. If I let this spiral, if I give it oxygen, everything I’ve built—the control, the discipline—burns up on contact.
Sage hops down from the counter, face unreadable. “Right. Big mistake. Got it.”
She turns to the sink, grabbing the sponge like she needs something to do with her hands. The sound of scrubbing fills the silence between us.
I reach for my gym bag, desperate for motion. “I’ve got practice.”
“Of course you do.”
I wait for her to look at me, but she doesn’t. Her shoulders stay squared, rigid, like the only thing keeping her upright is defiance.
The words sit heavy in my throat, useless and sharp. I want to apologize, to say something that makes it less awful—but the truth is, I don’t trust myself to speak without wanting to do it again.
So I leave.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. It sounds like the end of something we haven’t even started.
The locker room hums with noise when I get there—music pounding, banter flying, tape snapping around sticks. Normally, it’s white noise, a rhythm that grounds me. Today, it grates. Every sound feels too loud, every light too bright.
I drop my bag. The crash echoes louder than it should, a sharp reminder of the chaos I can’t seem to outrun—on the ice or off it.
I pull off my jacket, and focus on routine.
Tape the stick. Lace the skates. Keep moving.
Don’t think about the taste of lemon or the way her breath hitched against my mouth.
Across the room, Trent’s scrolling his phone, smirking. “Hey, Voss. You see this?”
I don’t look up. “Busy.”
“Come on, man,” he insists, turning his screen toward me. “You made the morning gossip feed.”
The headline glows in bold letters: Puck Whisperer Exclusive: Penthouse Problems—Surge Captain Leo Voss Displaced After Luxury Flood.
The photo underneath is worse. A shot of my building, a blur of contractors and water damage, and me walking out with a duffel. The caption speculates where I’m staying, a few guesses way too close for comfort.
My jaw locks. “Who leaked this?”
Trent shrugs. “Beats me. Probably some maintenance guy or your doorman. You good?”
“Fine,” I lie, scrolling through the comments anyway. The tone’s predictable—half jokes about “roughing it,” half speculation about distractions off the ice.
The last one hits harder than it should: Maybe he’s shacking up with someone. Explains the silence lately.
I lock my phone before I can throw it.
Noise swells around me again—laughter, shouting, the slam of lockers—but all I hear is the echo of that word: distraction.
I can’t afford to be one. Not for the team, not for myself. And especially not for her.
Coach strides in, whistle around his neck. “Alright, boys, let’s tighten it up today. We’ve got Locke’s crew next week, and they’re hungry.”
Grayson Locke. The name lands like a weight on my chest, dragging up flashes of locker room taunts and the bitter taste of every loss he ever gloated over. And now, somehow, Sage is tangled in the same orbit.
I pull on my gloves, flexing my hands until the leather creaks. Locke thrives on noise—feeds off it, weaponizes it. He’s already circling.
When practice starts, I throw myself into the drills. Harder turns, faster sprints, sharper shots. I push until my lungs burn and the only thing left in my head is the sound of my skates on the ice.
It almost works.
Until the end of scrimmage, when the locker-room TV kicks on. Sports panel, mid-laugh. And then his face.
Grayson Locke, smug as ever, leaning toward the mic. “Some teams are… rebuilding chemistry,” he says, smirking. “Should be light work.”
The panel laughs. Everyone knows who he means.
My stick snaps clean in my grip with a sharp, splintering crack that cuts through the noise like a gunshot.
Trent whistles. “Guess he’s talking about us.”
“Guess he shouldn’t,” I mutter, voice low, steady, dangerous.
Inside, the words burn hotter than the ice. Locke wants a reaction. He’s got one.
But he’s not getting the last word.