I roll my shoulders, leaning back against the locker. “It’s just a game, Locke. Mind games are part of it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And you always get that little half-smile when it’s ‘just a game’?”
I look away, down at my hands, flexing my knuckles. The sting of the cuts is grounding, but not enough. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Phoenix says quietly. “Keep it that way. Because Hale’s not some scrappy rookie you can rough up and forget about. He’s got a reputation. A family name. If you tangle with him off the ice, it’s not gonna be a fair fight.”
For a heartbeat, something like a warning flickers in his eyes, like he’s my older brother, not my captain. He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, firm. “Enjoy the win, Flint. Don’t start a war you can’t finish.”
Then he’s gone, striding back to Leander, ruffling the rookie’s hair and barking instructions about cooldown stretches.
I stay seated, staring at the scuffed floor.
The laughter fades into smaller conversations—guys dissecting plays, arguing about who had the dirtiest hit, who owes who a drink. It’s the usual chaos of victory, and for a moment, I let it wash over me. This is family, messy and loud and mine.
But even here, surrounded by my team, my head drifts. I picture the Titans’ locker room on the other side of the arena. I can see it in my mind’s eye: quieter, colder, heavy with loss. Hale sitting stiff-backed on the bench, his expression carved from ice, teammates giving him space because they know better than to poke at the rich boy when he’s brooding.
I know he’s blaming himself. That’s the kind of man he is—takes every loss like it’s a personal failure, like the whole weight of the team sits square on his narrow, aristocratic shoulders. And I know he’s thinking about me.
The way his eyes widened when I whispered in his ear. The way his body locked up, just for a second. The way his control cracked. It makes my blood surge hotter than the win itself.
I should be celebrating with my team, focused on the points we just earned, the climb in the standings. Instead, I’m sitting here half-hard, grinning like a maniac, because I got Alaric Hale to stutter. That icy bastard. That polished, perfect defenseman who thinks he’s untouchable.
He’s not, and I want to prove it again.
The locker room is still humming when the first staffer pushes through the door. She’s bundled in a parka, snow dusting her shoulders, hair damp from melt. The second I see her face—pinched, wary—I know something’s off.
“Everyone, listen up,” she calls over the music. “The storm’s gotten worse. Whiteout conditions. No buses are running, and the roads are closing. It’s not safe to send anyone home tonight.”
A beat of silence, then groans roll through the room.
“You’re kidding.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
“We’re stuckhere?”
The woman lifts her hands, calm but firm. “Yes. Both teams. We’ve arranged cots, food, extra blankets. You’ll have to stay in the arena until morning.”
The complaints rise like a wave—guys swearing, tossing gloves, muttering about shitty timing. One of the rookies grumbles about missing his girlfriend’s birthday. Another snaps his towel at a teammate, half-joking, half-pissed.
Me? I sit there and smile.
Because fate just handed me a gift. The Titans are stuck here, too. Which meanshe’sstuck here. Alaric Hale, trapped in the same building, nowhere to run, no way to slam a locker door and pretend I don’t exist. The thought makes my blood heat. The storm outside is a monster, but inside my chest, another one’s already awake—hungry, restless.
I strip off the rest of my pads, slower now, letting the noise of my teammates blur into the background. They’ll grumble, they’ll joke, they’ll pass the time with cards and stories and too much caffeine from the vending machines. Me? I’ve got other plans.
Because I can still see him—out on the ice, that split-second where his composure shattered. The way his stick faltered, the way the puck slipped free, the way shame twisted across his perfect features when I stole the game right out from under him.
He hates me. He hates that he wants me. And I’m going to make damn sure he can’t hide either one tonight.
Phoenix throws his gear into his bag with a grunt. “Guess we’re making this a slumber party,” he mutters, smirking over at me. “Try not to corrupt the rookies, Flint.”
I bare my teeth in a grin. “No promises.”
The room laughs, easy and loud, but none of them know the truth humming under my skin. This isn’t about the rookies. This isn’t about the Wolves. It’s about the man in the other lockerroom, probably pacing like a caged tiger, stewing in his anger and shame. And the storm outside making sure he can’t escape me.
The contents of my flask burns on its way down, whiskey curling fire into my veins. I tilt it back again, longer this time, until the edges of the world soften and that warm, reckless glow spreads through me. Yeah. That’s better.
