“Just don’t let it screw with your head before playoffs.” Jafar’s voice cut in again, smooth and cold.
I stood, tossing my towel into my locker, and let my eyes sweep over every single one of them.
“Persephone isn’t some game-day distraction,” I said evenly. “And she’s not a prize to win.”
They fell quiet.
“She’s the whole damn reason I’m playing like this,” I added, voice dropping like a hammer.
Because she was.
The fire in her. The storm in her spine. The way she surrendered without ever losing herself—that was the thing I’d been chasing long before I ever knew her name.
And now that I had her?
I wasn’t letting go.
The engine purred beneath my hands, smooth and obedient—unlike the chaos pulsing in my chest.
I’d just left the rink, adrenaline still in my blood, but my thoughts weren’t on the ice anymore. Not the drills. Not the goals.
They were on her.
Persephone.
Naked in my sheets, flushed and boneless, her curls spilling across my pillow like ink. Her lips parted. Her voice hoarse from screaming my name into the dark. I could still feel the drag of her nails down my back, the way she clenched around me like she didn’t want to let go.
Like she wouldn’t.
The memory gripped me harder than any opponent ever had.
God, I wanted to get back.
My fingers tightened around the wheel, every nerve ending buzzing with a need that bordered on dangerous. I didn’t want to just take her again—I wanted to worship her. Slowly. Intentionally. I wanted to feel her come apart piece by piece, not just from my hands… but from trust. From knowing she was mine.
Only mine.
I turned down our street; the houses blurring past like noise. The real image lived behind my eyes: her, curled under my sheets, maybe holding that damn book I gave her. Probably smirking at the dedication I didn’t leave, because she’d know it was from me, anyway.
“She’s mine.”
I said it out loud this time.
Didn’t care how it sounded.
Because it was true.
And it wasn’t about possession anymore. Not just that.
It was about belonging.
She belonged in my bed. In my house. In my arms.
With me.
The idea of us—something real, something permanent—tightened in my chest like a vice. I’d never let myself want anything before. Not like this. Wanting meant weakness. Vulnerability. Control slipping through your fingers.
But wanting her?
