The shame twists in my gut, a knot I can’t loosen. It makes me angry—at him, at myself, at this whole fucking night. I pace the room, bare feet slapping against cold tile. The showers hiss in the distance, but otherwise it’s just me, circling like a caged animal. My mind won’t stop circling, too. Every time I try to push him out, he claws back in, stronger.
I pause in front of the mirror above the sinks. My reflection stares back—silvery hair plastered with sweat, skin flushed, eyes too dark. I don’t look composed. I don’t look controlled. I look… hungry.
The sight makes me flinch.
I grab the edge of the sink, knuckles white, forcing myself to breathe. In, out. In, out. But all I can think about is how close he was on the ice tonight. How his shoulder brushed mine. How his words slid like a blade between my ribs.
And how part of me wanted to lean in closer.
My fantasies shift, unbidden. I picture him different this time—not laughing, not mocking, but looking at me with something sharp and serious, pinning me not just with his body but with hisgaze. Something dangerous there. Something that promises I’ll never be the same.
My cock is hard now, pressing against the fabric, humiliating proof of my weakness. I squeeze my thighs together, fists trembling, trying to will it away. But it only gets worse.
I need to get out of here. Maybe I can slip out before any of the wolves, rush back to the bus, and just rot under the seats. Because I know if I see him, I won’t be able to hide the straining shame in my pants.
I remember the heat of him against me. I remember the way my pulse spiked, the way my control shattered. I can’t let this guy own something of me. He’s so wrapped in my head I think one more thought might kill me.
I don’t know how the fuck to take back my focus, my dignity.
I sit in the silence until my breathing slows, until I can look at myself again, until I can shove the fantasies deep enough down to function. But even as I finally grab my towel and head toward the showers, I know the truth I can’t outrun:
If he ever does corner me here, if he ever follows through on the threats that glint behind his grin?—
I won’t be able to resist.
Not really.
And maybe that terrifies me most of all.
2
Magnus
The ice still sings in my blood.
That sound—the whistle, the horn, the way the crowd roared when Leander buried the puck—it’s still echoing in my head as I stride down the tunnel with the boys. My heart pounds with adrenaline, my grin stretching wide, sharp enough to split my face.
God, I love this game.
But what I love even more? The look on Alaric Hale’s face when I got under his skin.
That’s a fucking masterpiece I’ll replay all night. The way his jaw tightened. The way his body froze for just a second, just long enough for me to steal the puck. He prides himself on being untouchable, all icy composure and rich-boy discipline. But tonight? I cracked him wide open with one little whisper.
Maybe a good fuck will loosen you up.
God, I wanted to laugh at his shocked expression—the way he flushed, eyes wide, like the thought actually hit him. Like maybe he wanted it.
I chuckle low, shaking sweat-damp hair out of my face as we hit the locker room. Helmets thunk into cubbies, sticks clatter against racks, the air already thick with the ripe smell of victory sweat. The Wolves are loud, celebrating, slapping each other’s backs, replaying plays in fast, excited bursts.
Me? I lean back against my locker, watching the room, still riding that high. My knuckles sting faintly from a scuffle earlier in the game, little cuts lining my hands. I flex them, savoring the ache. Proof of the fight. Proof I earned this.
Unlike Alaric.
That’s the part that really gets me. I clawed my way into this league—fights in junior, endless hours on shitty community rinks, blood and sweat and busted bones. Meanwhile, Alaric Hale had the world handed to him on a silver platter. Daddy’s money. Daddy’s influence. Sure, he’s good—no denying that. But no one ever doubted he’d make it. No one ever whispered he was trash, told him to quit, said he’d never amount to shit.
And yet, despite everything, despite all my fire and rage—he still manages to look down at me. With those dark gray eyes, cold as steel, like I’m something to be managed.
It makes me want to ruin him. It makes me want him writhing under me so he knows I’m the one in control. I’m the one who clawed my way here and he can’t do anything about it.
