With each stride away from the rink, I grapple with the chaos of emotions swirling within me. I don’t know how we’ll face the fallout from this—but beneath the fear lies a flicker of somethingmore intoxicating: a thrill at the risk, and an uncharted territory just waiting to unfold.
Chapter 2
Leo
The locker room is a cacophony of laughter and playful jabs, a whirlwind of motion and sound that barely masks the tension still crackling from earlier. I lean against my locker, still feeling the ghost of my confrontation with Nash lingering in the air.
My agent had warned me not to get into trouble on this new team.
I had planned to make a quiet transition. But when I saw Nash, something in me shifted. His jet black hair, stormy dark eyes, and kind smile struck me.
I wanted to be near him, but my playfulness only seemed to make him irate.
I like pushing limits. I like making people uncomfortable.
But with Nash, it backfired. He wasn’t tolerating my antics. And then, when I saw the media in the stands, ready to capture our first practice together, I took my shot and pushed Nash to the extreme.
Was it wrong?
Yes.
Was it fun?
Fuck yeah, it was.
I know I will get my ass chewed out for this later, but right now, I don’t care.
“Nash, maybe you should keep your fists to yourself next time,” Sean jokes, his laughter ringing off the metal lockers.
Nash shoots him a half-hearted glare.
“Come on, Nash,” another player urges, nudging his shoulder playfully, “who knew you could pack a punch? Next time, just make sure you’re aiming for pucks, not teammates.”
Nash glares at me.
“Maybe we didn’t need a new hotshot with a temper added to our team,” Nash grunts out.
“Did someone say something about punching?” I quip. I try on my new jersey and look over my new number— 7.
“Maybe you should take notes from Nash here, Leo,” someone jested, waving their hands dramatically. “He’s a real heavyweight now. Just make sure not to hit the ice face-first next time.” The group laughs, but I can tell this shit I pulled today wasn’t welcomed.
“You guys are hilarious,” Nash retorts, his tone sharp. “But I don’t need pointers from anyone whose best defense is a fistfight.”
The look he gives me is electric, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every lingering glance from my teammates, the buzz of uncertainty thrumming in the air as if we’re on the edge of another altercation.But just as quickly as the tension rises, some of the guys jump in, sensing the storm brewing.
“Let’s cool it, gentlemen,” one of them warns, waving his hands. “Before you guys start throwing punches again. I’m not keen on spending my night at the rink watching my teammates scrap.”
Nash heads toward the showers, while I begin removing my gear. I smile to myself, knowing I got under his skin.
“Leo, you have an appointment with the team trainer,” Marcus says, passing by.
Sighing, I leave the locker room and make my way down the hall to the training facility. This is another part of being traded that sucks. Joining a new team means having to meet up with all of the team staff. When I enter the training facility, I spot a thin guy in his late twenties waiting for me.
“Hello, you must be Leo,” he greets me.
He’s good looking in that boy-next-door way. I walk over to his desk and nod.
“Yes,” I say.
