The way he sayswehits something heavier than I want to admit—reminding me what being captain really means, how much weight I keep hidden behind control. The way he sayswehits somewhere deeper. The team’s been on edge lately, half the guys waiting for the next scandal or injury to drop. They look to me for balance, for control. And the truth is, the only reason I feel any of that lately is because of Sage — her calm, her steadiness. The quiet way she resets a room just by being in it.
I keep that thought buried, pushing it down with the rest of the things I shouldn’t be thinking during season. Gabe doesn’t need to hear about her.
He claps my shoulder, solid and warm. “Whatever’s going on off the ice, man, just… don’t let it eat at you. You’re playing like yourself again. That’s what matters.”
I nod once, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That’s the plan.”
He studies me a second longer before heading toward the showers, leaving me with the faint scent of eucalyptus soap and victory sweat.
I let out a slow breath, the tension unspooling just enough for fatigue to slip in. The laughter from the rookies echoes from down the hall, light and stupid, and for a moment, the world feels normal again.
Then one of them yells, “Hey, party at your place, Voss?”
The words hit wrong — heavier than they should. My throat goes dry.
My chest tightens with the truth of it, the silence after stretching too long, like everyone feels the crack I’ve been pretending isn’t there. Then, quieter, I say, “I don’t have a place.”
The room goes quiet for a heartbeat too long before the laughter kicks back in, someone making a joke to cover it. Butthe words hang there anyway — bitter and raw — echoing louder than the noise around me.
Chapter 7
Rules of Engagement
Sage
Morning light spillsthrough the blinds, scattering stripes across the quartz countertop. The hum of the fridge and the faint sizzle of eggs in the pan are the only sounds in my kitchen — my small, efficient, perfectly ordinary kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleam, but they’re not luxury-grade. The island is compact, the counter space barely enough for meal prep if I spread out too much. It’s cozy. Mine. But compared to Leo’s penthouse kitchen — or what used to be his penthouse kitchen — it suddenly feels small.
I glance around, trying to see the space through his eyes. The cheap overhead light, the single oven, the faucet that drips when it feels dramatic. Fine for me, but to him? Probably quaint. Functional, not impressive.
He’s at the counter.
Shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his iPad — game film, I think. His hair’s damp from his post-practice shower, curling just enough to look unfairly good forsomeone who grumbles through breakfast. There’s a half-drunk mug of black coffee beside him, steam curling lazily.
I chop strawberries for his recovery bowl, the knife rhythmic against the cutting board. My cheeks warm before I can stop it. Why do I care what he thinks of my kitchen? I lived here for years before he showed up. I love this place. Except now, the air feels… smaller. Like I’m performing.
Grayson’s voice sneaks in, uninvited, curling through my memory with the faint smell of his cologne and the echo of his drawl—sharp as the blade in my hand:“Cute setup, Sage. Very Food Network Jr.”He used to smirk when he said it, leaning against my counter like he owned it.“Real chefs need real kitchens.”
I blink, forcing the thought away, and stir the chia base instead. “It’s not about the kitchen,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s about the food.”
Leo doesn’t look up, but his voice rumbles low. “You say something?”
“Nothing.” My laugh comes out light, practiced. Deflect, always. “Just talking to my fantasy kitchen. You know — double ovens, six-burner gas range, endless counter space. The works.”
He finally glances over, and for a beat my breath stalls—the wordefficientlands in my chest like a tiny bruise, equal parts praise and distance, eyes flicking up from the iPad. “Efficient,” he says, then returns to scrolling.
Efficient. That’s it? My chest tightens, stupidly. I was aiming for charming banter, and he gave me a performance review.
I slide the recovery bowl toward him — precise timing, twenty minutes post-workout. The mix is perfect: chia, oats, protein, fruit, honey drizzle. I shouldn’t care if he notices. But when he takes a bite and murmurs, “Thanks,” something tightens low in my stomach.
“You’re welcome,” I say, too fast, turning away to rinse the knife. My reflection catches in the window — hair messy, shoulders tense — and I let out a slow breath. I remind myself I’m not here to impress him. I’m here because it’s temporary. Because the universe flooded a hockey legend’s penthouse and I happened to have a guest room.
Still, when I glance back, he’s watching his screen, not me. The silence stretches. The kitchen feels even smaller.
I wipe my hands on a towel, trying to shake off the weird twinge in my chest. This isn’t a date. It’s breakfast. For an injured, displaced hockey player who just happens to have a jawline sculpted by the gods and a vocabulary that could fit on a sticky note.
He’s still at the counter, reviewing game film, the blue glow from the iPad painting his face in cold light. Every so often he rewinds, pauses, scribbles something in a small notebook. The level of focus he has — it’s both impressive and infuriating. Like nothing exists outside those clips.
I open the fridge for almond milk, mostly to give my hands something to do. “You know, ‘efficient’ might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
