Chapter 16
Cracks in the Armor
Leo
My stick smacks the bench with a harsh crack when it hits the bench. Not hard enough to break—though God knows I want to—but enough to turn heads. I mutter a curse under my breath and drop it at my feet, palms stinging.
Practice is over, but the noise in my head won’t quit. Every stride today felt like I was pushing through sludge, every drill just off by half a beat. I can feel the coaches watching, waiting for me to screw up again.
The locker room smells like sweat and rubber and frustration. I tug off my gear piece by piece, ignoring the chatter around me. Someone jokes about my “media fan club” and a few guys laugh, but it’s thin—the kind of laugh people use when they’re not sure if it’s safe.
I don’t even look up. I just shove my helmet into my bag and focus on the floor. The concrete’s safer than faces right now.
From the lounge, the sound of a sports show drifts in—loud enough for every word to cut clean.
“Leo Voss hasn’t been the same since the flood,” one panelist says. “Stats don’t lie—his production’s down twenty percent.”
Another voice chimes in. “Maybe Voss has other priorities these days.”
The laughter that follows hits harder than any cross-check.
A few guys glance at me. No one says anything, but they don’t have to. The silence is enough. I grab my towel, wipe my face, and tell myself it’s just noise. Just talk. It’s what they do.
Still, my chest burns.
Because they’re not wrong—not completely. My life’s been chaos since the flood. A new bed that’s not mine. New walls that don’t feel like home. And Sage—steady, kind, infuriatingly patient Sage—has become the only thing holding my balance in place.
Which makes the whispers sting even more.
I catch Gabe watching me from across the room. He nods once, like he’s telling me to let it roll off. I nod back, but the words echo anyway—other priorities.
They think I’m distracted. Weak.
I used to play through worse. Injuries. Breakups. Death in the family. I was the guy who thrived under pressure. But now every sound, every article, every damn question about my headspace feels like a puck ricocheting off bone.
I sit there long after the room empties out, tape bits stuck to my hands, sweat drying on my skin. The TV’s still droning, and my name flashes across the ticker at the bottom of the screen—another segment about my “decline.”
It’s almost funny, the way they talk like I’m already a headline instead of a person.
Almost.
I shove my gear into the bag and sling it over my shoulder, muscles tight and aching. As I leave the locker room, I can still hear the echo of that joke—maybe he’s got other priorities.
If they mean Sage, they’re right.
And that’s exactly what scares me.
The sun’s down by the time I pull into the parking lot.
My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache.
I sit there for a full minute, staring at the glow from the kitchen window.
She’s moving around inside—light, easy, like she doesn’t feel the weight that’s sitting on my chest.
I wish I could leave it in the car. The anger. The noise. The headlines. But it follows me up the stairs.
The moment I step inside, the warmth of her place hits me—garlic and herbs, the low hum of music, the soft clutter of her kind of order. She looks up from the counter and smiles, but it falters when she sees my face.
“Rough day?” she asks.
“Something like that.” I drop my gear bag too hard, the thud echoing through the apartment. She jumps slightly, and guilt flashes sharp in my gut. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she says, but her voice is careful now, quiet. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I yank open the fridge and grab a bottle of water. The cap cracks in my hand as I twist it. “Same shit, different day.”
She wipes her hands on a towel, watching me. “You sure? Because your ‘same day’ face looks like it’s about to start a bar fight.”
That gets a bitter laugh out of me. “They were talking about me again. On the panel. Stats, attitude, whatever. Apparently I’m not just slumping—I’m a headline.”
Her expression softens. “Leo…”
“I know it’s stupid. It’s noise. Coach says ignore it, the guys say ignore it. But every time I close my eyes, it’s there. That word. Distraction.” My jaw tightens. “They think I’m off my game because of where I’m living. Because of you.”
She blinks. “Because of me?”
“I didn’t mean it like—” I stop, exhale, drag a hand through my hair. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. The flood, the constant cameras. I can’t breathe without someone making a story out of it.”
Sage doesn’t flinch. She steps closer, eyes steady. “You’re allowed to be human, Leo. You don’t have to play goddamn perfect all the time.”
Her words are soft, but they hit like a body check. I look at her, really look, and the pressure in my chest shifts—turns into something else entirely. Something dangerous.
She doesn’t know what she does to me when she looks at me like that.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. The kitchen light halos around her hair, and the scent of whatever she was cooking clings to the air—warm, grounding. She’s the calm I can never seem to hold onto, the one thing that feels real when everything else is static.
“I don’t want to talk about hockey anymore,” I say, voice low. “Not tonight.”
She studies me for a heartbeat, then nods. “Okay. Then don’t.”
Her hand moves toward the stove, reaching for a pan to check on, but before she can, I catch her wrist.
“Leo—” she starts, but I shake my head. I don’t even know what I’m doing until I’ve already stepped closer. The distance between us shrinks until there’s nothing left but heat.
She tilts her chin up, breath hitching. “You’re wound so tight, you’re going to break.”
“Maybe I need to,” I murmur.
Her lips part just slightly, and that’s all it takes. The dam cracks. I kiss her hard enough that the world falls away.
The pan hisses behind us, forgotten. Her fingers twist into my shirt, dragging me closer. Every ounce of frustration, doubt, and anger burns through me, turning into something raw and hungry.
Sage gasps against my mouth when I back her against the counter. I pause, searching her eyes for any hint of hesitation—but all I see is the same need reflected back. The same ache.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
“Probably,” I say. Then kiss her again anyway.
The kiss deepens, sharp and breathless. Her laugh breaks between us—a sound that’s part surrender, part defiance.
I kiss Sage like I am trying to set her skin on fire, my hands begin gripping her hips as I press her against the cool granite counter.
Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in, and I grind against her, feeling her heat through the thin fabric of her leggings.
Her moans are muffled by my mouth, but I taste her desperation, her need mirroring my own.
I tore my lips from hers, trailing kisses down her neck, nipping at the sensitive spot where her pulse flutters wildly.
“Leo,” she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. “You’re going to break me.”
“Good,” I growl, my hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her leggings down.
She kicks them off, her bare skin electric against mine.
I step back just enough to yank my shirt over my head, tossing it aside.
Her eyes rake over my chest, her breath catching as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull them down with deliberate slowness.
Her pussy was already glistening, wet and ready for me, and I groan, my cock throbbing in anticipation.
“Fuck, Sage,” I mutter, my thumb brushing her clit.
She arches into my touch, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat.
I kiss my way back up, capturing her lips again as my other hand reaches for my belt.
I fumble with it, impatient, my fingers trembling as I unbuckle it and shove my jeans down, my cock springing free.
Sage’s eyes widen as she took in the full length of me, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“You’re so hard,” she murmurs, her hand reaching out to stroke me.
I hiss at the contact, my head falling back as her fingers wraps around my shaft.
“Not as hard as I’m gonna be inside you,” I promise, my voice rough.
I lift her again, positioning her so her ass was on the edge of the counter, her legs still wrapped around me.
I tease her entrance with the tip of my cock, watching her bite her lip as I press in slowly, inch by agonizing inch.
“Please,” she begs, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I thrust deep, filling her completely, and she cries out, her walls clenching around me like a vice.
I pull back, then slammed into her again, setting a relentless pace.
The counter creaks beneath her, the sound of skin slapping against skin is filling the kitchen.
Her breasts bounce with each thrust, and I lean down, taking a nipple into my mouth, sucking hard.
She gasps, her head thrashing back and forth as her orgasm built.
“Cum for me, Sage,” I demand, my voice hoarse.
“Let me feel you fall apart.” Her body tightens, her pussy milking my cock as she screams my name, her release crashing over her in waves.
I follow her over the edge, my balls tightening as I empty myself into her, my cum pulsing deep inside her.
We stay locked together, breathless, our hearts pounding in unison.
Slowly, I pulled out, her legs sliding from my waist as I steady her.
She leans against me, her forehead resting on my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.
The pan on the stove hisses, a reminder of the world outside this moment, but I don’t care.
Right now, there was only Sage, her warmth, her scent, her softness against my hardness.
The frustration I brought home melts into something else entirely. Not peace, not yet—but something that feels like the start of it.
Her smile flickers, small but real. And for the first time in weeks, I feel the noise fade.
For a while, neither of us says anything. I trace lazy circles along her shoulder, my heartbeat finally matching the rhythm of hers. She hums softly, half-asleep already, and the sound feels like an anchor.
“This is insane,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
Her lips curve into a faint smile against my chest. “Probably,” she murmurs. “But you needed it.”
She’s not wrong. For the first time in weeks, my head’s quiet. No coaches, no cameras, no noise. Just her.
When she shifts to look at me, her eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. “You know, your body looks stronger lately. The new meals are working.”
I laugh under my breath. “You mean all the turmeric and quinoa?”
“And magnesium,” she adds, grinning. “Don’t forget the magnesium.”
Her teasing breaks the tension that’s been coiled tight between us for days. I can’t help but smile back, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it.”
I don’t answer that. I don’t have to. It’s written all over the way I pull her closer, the way her laughter melts into a sigh when my lips find hers again.
For a second, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I reach for it, groaning. “Ignore it,” Sage mumbles.
But the screen flashes bright, lighting up the dark room—and there it is. Puck Whisperer. Again.
The headline punches me right in the gut: Flooded Out, Burned Out? Surge’s Golden Boy Slipping.
I scroll through, scanning words that feel like bruises: declining stats, off his rhythm, distracted since the move.
Every sentence is a mirror reflecting the part of me I’ve been trying to drown out.
Sage shifts beside me, sleepy curiosity turning to quiet dread when she sees my expression. “Leo… what is it?”
I don’t answer. I just keep scrolling, jaw clenched, pulse hammering.
Because it’s not just noise anymore. It’s becoming truth.
And for the first time, I don’t know how to fight it.