Because if I’m going to do what I’m thinking—if I’m going to push this thing with Alaric to the edge and see if it breaks—I need the fire. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean against the locker. Around me, the room has calmed—guys showering, laughing, peeling out of their gear. Phoenix is wrangling Leander, telling him to save his energy for morning practice. Nobody notices me slip the flask back into my jacket, nobody cares when I stand and stretch like I’m restless.
Which I am. Not restless. Hunting, as Locke called it.
The storm’s clawing at the walls of the arena, a constant howl that seeps into the concrete. The air outside the locker room is different—hollow, colder, every footstep echoing through the empty halls. Most of the arena is shut down, dark, the vending machines humming in the silence.
It feels like the world’s been reduced to just this building. Two teams locked inside. No exits, no escape.
I grin. Fate’s a cruel bitch, but tonight, she’s working for me. I know where he’ll be.
Alaric’s not the type to join his boys in poker games or junk food raids. He’ll want space, order, silence. Somewhere to brood about the puck he lost, about me. Because I know he’s thinking about me. He can’t not.
I follow the sound of the storm deeper into the arena. My skates are gone, traded for sneakers, but I still move like I’m gliding, my body wired to prowl. The conference rooms are nearthe offices, glass-walled spaces meant for team strategy and sponsor meetings. Sterile, too bright under the fluorescents.
And sure enough—there he is.
Alaric sitting alone at the far end of the room, his long body folded into one of the uncomfortable chairs, head bowed into his hand. His silver-blond hair catches the harsh light, throwing sharp edges across his profile. He looks like a fucking painting.
Perfect. Controlled.
I can’t stand it.
I push the door open without knocking. It squeals against the hinges, and his head snaps up. Those dark gray eyes narrow the second they land on me.
“Of course.” His voice is low, warning. “Get out, Flint. I’m sure there’s somebody else you can fuck with tonight.”
I step inside, let the door click shut behind me, and lean against it with a slow grin. “What’s the matter, Ice Prince? Afraid to be alone with me?”
He exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed. “I’m not doing this.”
“Not doing what?” I stalk closer, each step deliberate. “Talking about how you cost your team the game? Or admitting you liked it when I whispered in your ear?”
His jaw tightens. Bingo.
“I didn’t like anything about it,” he says, clipped, each word like it’s carved from stone.
I circle him, slow, predator’s pace, until I’m behind his chair. “Funny,” I murmur. “Because I swear I felt you stutter. Just for a second. Just enough for me to slip in and take what I wanted.”
He grips the armrests like he’s holding himself down. I want to pry those hands loose, see what they do when they’re on me instead.
I lean closer, my mouth just inches from his ear. “Tell me, Alaric… what’s it like to be perfect all the time? Cold,untouchable, Daddy’s money keeping you shiny and clean. Must be exhausting. No wonder you cracked.”
“Fuck you.” The words are hissed, but his voice betrays him—low, strained, not steady.
I laugh, sharp and rough. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He jerks up, spins the chair, and suddenly he’s on his feet, towering over me with that icy fury burning in his eyes. He shoves me back, hard, until my spine hits the glass wall. My flask clatters to the floor.
For a moment, we just breathe. His chest heaves against mine, close enough I can feel the heat of him, smell the clean sweat and faint cologne clinging to his skin.
I grin up at him, hungry. “There it is. The fire under all that ice.”
His hands fist in my shirt. He should push me away. He should storm out, leave me standing here drunk and cocky.
He just stands there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with sharp, measured breaths. His stormy eyes blaze with fury, but I see it—restraint, the leash he refuses to drop.
I grin. “That’s it? One shove? Thought you had more in you, Hale.”
He exhales slow, steady. “I’m not doing this with you.” His voice is even, but tight, like he’s strangling every word on the way out. He steps back, just far enough to give himself room. “You’re drunk. Go bother someone else.”
