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’tbring 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 damnPuck Whispererlogo 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.
