Fuck.
Leander walks by me—still in half his gear, cheeks flushed, eyes bright like he hasn’t quite realized the game’s over. “Nice setup, Magnus,” he says, voice quick and eager. “Couldn’t have buried it without you.”
I grin, softer for him than I mean to. “Kid, you would’ve found a way. But yeah, I’ll take the assist.”
Across the room, Phoenix Locke watches us with that sharp captain’s gaze, head tilted, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Careful,Leander,” he calls over the music. “Don’t let Flint steal you away. I’ve spent months training you to be useful.”
The whole room erupts in laughter, guys banging their sticks against lockers, the energy bouncing back and forth like a live wire.
I lean back, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Captain. I’m not poaching. Just keeping the rookie warm for you.”
Phoenix narrows his eyes, all mock-seriousness. “That’s my job.”
Leander rolls his eyes, caught between us, muttering, “I’m not anyone’s,” but his grin gives him away. He’s eating this up, and good for him. Kid deserves it.
The Wolves are a family, dysfunctional as hell, but solid. And I’ll protect Cameron same as anyone else—kid reminds me of myself when I first clawed my way in, before the league hardened me.
Still, while they joke, while Leander basks in praise, I drift. My gaze slides, unbidden, toward the other side of the building. Toward the Titans’ locker room. Towardhim.
Alaric’s probably in there right now, tearing himself apart. He’ll blame himself for that puck, for the goal. He’ll sit there, shoulders tight, jaw locked, trying to bury the shame. And I’ll smile knowing I put it there.
“Flint.” Somebody calls my name over the noise.
I blink back to the room. Guys are sprawled on benches, half-dressed, laughing and tossing towels. The smell of sweat and liniment hangs heavy in the air. Someone’s phone is playing a bad pop remix through tinny speakers. I’m still leaning against my locker, still replaying that moment on the ice like a looped highlight reel.
“What the hell did you say to Hale out there?” asks Grayson, one of our wingers. He’s grinning as he unlaces his skates. “Helooked like he saw a ghost. You chirped him and he just—bam—lost the puck.”
There’s a chorus of chuckles, a few “Yeah, what was that?” thrown in from across the room. They’re all hungry for the secret, like it’s a new trick they can add to their arsenal.
I smirk, slow and lazy. “Trade secret.”
“C’mon, man,” Jax chimes in. “You gotta tell us. You had Ice Prince Hale looking like a rookie. Bet it was filthy.”
I laugh low, shaking my head. “Filthy enough that I’m not repeating it.”
That earns a wave of groans and wolf whistles. Someone tosses a rolled-up sock at me; it bounces off my shoulder. Leander, still glowing from his goal, calls across, “Seriously, Magnus. What did you say? He looked ready to murder you.”
“I’m not telling,” I say again, this time softer, almost to myself.
Because the truth isn’t a clever insult, it’s a whisper. It’s the way I leaned close, lips at his ear, and said the thing I’ve wanted to do to him for two seasons running. And the way his eyes widened, pupils blown, just for a second before his mask snapped back into place.
That moment plays in my head now, vivid as a photograph. The small hitch of his breath. The red creeping up his neck. The look that wasn’t just anger. My pulse spikes, a warm pulse low in my stomach. Christ. I’m getting turned on in the middle of the locker room.
I drop down on the bench, elbows on my knees, hiding my face in my hands for a second like I’m just tired. But I can feel it—heat curling in me, the taste of him still in my mouth even though I’ve never had him. I told myself it was about rattling him, about revenge for every cold look and rich-boy smirk. But the image of him frozen under my whisper is something else entirely.
Phoenix’s voice cuts through the din. “Leave him alone, guys. He’s not gonna spill.”
There’s some playful booing, but one by one they drift back into their own conversations, planning where to go if the buses ever show, bragging about hits and shots.
Phoenix comes over, towel slung around his neck, captain’s gaze steady. He stands over me for a beat before speaking, voice pitched low so the others can’t hear. “You’ve got that look.”
I glance up, trying for a blank expression. “What look?”
“The look I used to get when I would torment Cameron.” His mouth tilts into a wry smile. “The one you get when you’re not just trash-talking someone. When you’re hunting.”
I huff a laugh. “Hunting? You make me sound like a creep.”
“You sound like one.” His smile fades, eyes sharpening. “Careful, Magnus. Obsession gets guys in trouble. Especially when it’s someone like Hale.”
